Mount Dragon

PART TWO

The horse barn stood at the edge of the perimeter fence, a modest metal building with six stalls. Four of the stalls held horses. It was an hour before dawn, and Venus, the morning star, shone brightly on the eastern horizon.

Inside the barn, Carson watched the horses drowsing in their stalls, heads drooping. He whistled softly and the heads jerked upward, ears perked.

“Which one of you ugly old cayuses wants to go for a ride?” he whispered. One horse nickered in return.

He looked them over. They were a motley lot, obviously locally purchased, ranch rejects. A goose-rumped Appaloosa, two old quarterhorses, and one grade horse of indeterminate breeding. Muerto, Nye’s magnificent Medicine Hat paint gelding, was gone, apparently taken out by the Englishman on one of his mysterious rides even earlier that morning. Guess he’s had enough of the place, too, Carson thought. Though it seemed a strange time for the security director to be leaving the grounds. Carson, at least, had an excuse: the Level-5 facility was still closed, and would remain so until an OSHA inspector arrived the following day. Carson couldn’t work if he wanted to.

But even if the Fever Tank had been open for business, there was no way Carson was working this day. He grimaced in the dark, overripe air of the stable. Just when he’d decided it was irrational to blame himself for Brandon-Smith’s accident, she’d died of exposure to X-FLU. Then Czerny had been removed in an ambulance, virus-free but incoherent. The entire Fever Tank had been decontaminated, then sealed. Now there was nothing to do but wait, and Carson had grown tired of waiting in the hushed, funereal atmosphere of the residency compound. He needed time to think about the X-FLU problem, to figure out what went wrong, and—perhaps most important—to recover his equilibrium. He knew no better tonic than a long ride on horseback.

The grade horse caught Carson’s eye. He was a liver-colored bay with a head the size of a coffin. But he was young and tough-looking. He eyed Carson through a straggly lock of mane.

Carson stepped inside the stall and ran his hand along the horse’s flank. The fur was tight and coarse, the skin tough as tripe. The horse didn’t jerk or tremble; he merely turned his head and smelled Carson’s shoulder. He had a calm, alert gleam in his eye that Carson liked.

He picked up the front leg. The hooves were good although the shoeing job was abysmal. The horse stood calmly while Carson cleaned the hoof with a penknife. He dropped the leg and patted the horse on the neck.

“You’re a damn fine horse,” Carson said, “but you sure are one ugly son of a bitch.”

The horse nickered his appreciation.

Carson eased a halter over the animal’s head and led him to a hitching post outside. It had been two years since he’d ridden, but already the old instincts were coming back. He went into the tack room and looked over Mount Dragon’s saddle collection. It was obvious that most of the other residents were uninterested in riding. One of the saddles had a broken tree; another was just a screwed-together affair that would probably disintegrate the moment the horse broke into a trot. There was one old Abiquiu saddle with a high cantle that might do. Carson picked it up, grabbed a blanket and pad, and carried everything out to the hitching post. He buckled on his old spurs, noting that during the years of disuse one of the rowels had broken.

“What’s your name?” he murmured softly while brushing out the horse’s coat.

The horse stood there in the gathering light, saying nothing.

“Well then, I’m going to call you Roscoe.” He folded the blanket, placed it on the horse’s back, then added the pad and saddle. He looped the latigo through the rigging and tightened it, feeling the horse swell his belly with air in an attempt to trick Carson into leaving the cinch too loose.

“You’re a rascal,” said Carson. He hitched the breast collar and loosely buckled the flank cinch. When the horse wasn’t paying attention he jabbed his knee in its belly and jerked the latigo tight. The horse flattened his ears.

“Gotcha,” said Carson.

The light was now brighter in the east, and Venus had grown pale, almost invisible. Carson tied on the saddlebags containing his lunch, looped a gallon canteen over the horn, and swung up into the saddle.

No guard was on duty at the rear gate in the perimeter fence. Approaching the keypad, Carson leaned over and punched in the code, and the gate swung open.

He trotted out into the desert and took a deep breath. After almost three weeks of incarceration inside the lab, he was finally free. Free of the claustrophobic Fever Tank, free of the horror of the last few days. Tomorrow, the OSHA inspector would arrive and the grind would begin again. Carson was determined to make this day count.

Roscoe had a rough, fast trot. Carson turned the horse southward and rode toward the old Indian ruin that poked above the horizon, a few wrecked walls amid piles of rubble. He’d been a little curious since he’d first seen it from Singer’s window.

He rode past at a distance. Most of the ruin was covered with windblown sand, but here and there he could make out the low outlines of collapsed walls and small room blocks. It looked like many of the old ruins that had dotted the landscape of his youth. Soon, it was nothing but a diminishing point behind him.

When he was several miles from the lab, Carson dropped the horse into a walk and looked around. Mount Dragon had shrunk to a white cluster to the north. The vegetation of the Jornada desert had changed subtly, and he found himself surrounded by creosotebush that marched toward the horizon with almost mathematical precision.

He continued south again, enjoying the familiar rocking of the horse. A pronghorn antelope paused on a rise and looked in his direction. It was joined by another. Suddenly, as if on cue, they wheeled about and fled; they had caught his scent. He rode through a curious stand of soapweed yucca, looking uncannily like a crowd of bowing people, and he remembered a story passed down in his family about how Kit Carson and a wagon train had circled and fired at a group of hostiles for fifteen minutes before realizing they were shooting at just such a yucca grove.

By noon, Carson reckoned he was about fifteen miles from Mount Dragon. He could just make out the cinder cone itself, a dark triangle on the northern horizon, but the laboratory had long sunk out of view. A low range of hills had appeared in the west, and he turned his horse toward them, eager to explore.

He came to the edge of a vast lava flow, black jagged rubble piled on the desert floor, covered with blooming ocotillo. This, Carson knew, was part of the vast lava formation known as El Malpaís, the Bad Country, which covered hundreds of square miles of the Jornada desert. The western hills were closer now, and Carson could see that, much like Mount Dragon, they were a chain of dead cinder cones.

Carson rode along the edge of the lava, winding in and out, following the irregular pattern of the flow. The lava had spread amoebalike across the desert, leaving a complicated maze of coves, islands, and lava caves.

As Carson rode, he watched a summer thunderstorm rapidly build over the hills. A great thunderhead began to rear against the tropopause, its bottom as flat and dark as an anvil. He smelled a change in the air, a freshening of the breeze, bringing with it the smell of ozone. The spreading cloud covered the sun, and a cathedral-like hush fell on the landscape. In a few minutes the cloud was dropping a column of rain the color of blued steel. Carson urged Roscoe into a trot, scanning the edge of the lava, figuring he could weather the coming storm in one of the caves that were usually found at the edges of the flows.

The column of rain thickened, and the wind began to push skeins of dust along the ground. Lightning flickered inside the cloud, the rumbling of thunder rolling across the desert like the sound of a distant battle. As the storm approached, a low moaning filled the air and the smell of wet sand and electricity became stronger.

Carson rounded a point of lava and saw a promising-looking cave among the mounds of twisted basalt. He dismounted, removed his saddlebags, and tied Roscoe to a rock by his lead rope. He climbed over the lava to the cave entrance.

The mouth was dark and cool, with a soft floor of windblown sand. He stepped inside just as the first heavy drops of rain slapped the ground. He could see Roscoe, on the long lead rope, turn his butt to the wind and hunker down. The saddle would get soaked. He should have brought it into the cave with him, but such a saddle didn’t deserve special treatment. He would oil it when he got back.

The desert was suddenly engulfed in sheets of rain. The hills disappeared and the line of black lava faded into the gray torrent. Carson lay on his back in the dimness of the cave. His thoughts turned inevitably to Mount Dragon. Even here, he could not escape it. It still seemed unreal to him, this laboratory lost in the desert. And yet the death of Brandon-Smith was real enough. Once again, he tortured himself with the thought that if his genetic splicing had succeeded, she would be alive. In one sense, his overconfidence had killed her. Part of him realized this train of thought was irrational, and yet it kept returning to haunt him, again and again. He had done his best, he knew; Fillson’s and Brandon-Smith’s own inattention were responsible. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to listen to the rain and wind. Finally, he sat up and stared out the cave opening. Roscoe stood silently, unafraid. He had seen it all before. Although Carson felt sorry for him, he knew it had been the lot of horses since time immemorial to stand in the rain while their masters took refuge in caves.

He eased back and absentmindedly ran his hands through the sand on the cave floor, waiting for the storm to pass. His fingers closed over something cool and hard, and he pulled it from the sand. It was a spearpoint, made from gray chert, as light and balanced as a leaf. He remembered finding a similar arrowhead once, out riding the range. When he brought it home his great-uncle Charley had become very excited by the find, saying that it was a powerful sign of protection and that he should carry it always. His great-uncle had made him a buckskin medicine bag for the spearpoint; then he had chanted and sprinkled pollen over it. His father had been disgusted by the whole proceeding. Later, Carson had thrown away the bag and told his great-uncle he had lost it.

He slid the spearpoint into his pocket, stood up, and walked to the cave entrance. Somehow, the find made him feel better. He would get through this; he would succeed in neutralizing X-FLU, if only to ensure that Brandon-Smith’s death had not been in vain.

The storm eased, and Carson stepped out of the lava tube. Looking around, he saw a great double rainbow arching over the hills to the south. The sun began to break through the clouds. He collected Roscoe’s lead rope, patted him and apologized, then wiped the seat dry and remounted.

Roscoe’s hooves sank into the wet sand as Carson nosed the horse once again in the direction of the hills. In minutes the heat returned, the desert began steaming, and he felt thirsty. Not wanting to exhaust his water supply, he dug into his pocket for a stick of gum.

Topping a rise, he froze, the gum halfway to his mouth. Tracks crossed the sand directly before him: a mounted horse, showing evidence of the same poor shoeing job as Roscoe. The tracks were fresh, made after the rain.

Popping the gum into his mouth, Carson followed. At the top of a second rise he saw, in the distance, the horse and rider posting between two cinder cones. He immediately recognized the absurd safari hat and dark suit. There was nothing absurd, however, about the way the man handled his horse. Pulling Roscoe below the rise, Carson dismounted and peered over the top.

Nye was trotting at right angles to Carson, riding English. Suddenly he reined his horse to a stop and fished a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. He flattened it on the pommel and took out a sighting compass, orienting it on the paper and taking a bearing directly at the sun. He turned his horse ninety degrees, nudged him back into a trot, and soon disappeared behind the hills.

Carson remounted, curious. Confident in his own tracking skills, he let Nye gain some distance before easing his horse forward.

Nye was leaving a very peculiar trail. He rode in a straight line for a half mile, made another abrupt ninety-degree turn, rode another half mile, then continued the process, zigzagging across the desert in a checkerboard pattern. At each turn Carson could see, from the hoofprints in the sand, that Nye halted for a moment before continuing.

Carson continued tracking, fascinated by the puzzle. What the hell was Nye doing? This was no pleasure ride. It was getting late; clearly, the man was planning to spend the night out here, in these godforsaken volcanic hills twenty miles from Mount Dragon.

He dismounted again to examine the track. Nye was moving faster now, riding at a slow lope. He was riding a good horse, in better physical condition than Roscoe, and Carson realized he would not be able to follow indefinitely without exhausting his own horse. With a little exercise, Roscoe might be the equal of Nye’s mount, but he was “barn sour” and they were still many miles from the lab. Even if Carson turned back, he would not get back before midnight. It was time to give up the chase.

He was preparing to mount when he heard a sharp voice behind him. Turning, he saw Nye approaching.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” the Englishman said.

“Out for a ride, same as you,” Carson replied, hoping his voice didn’t betray his surprise. Nye had obviously noticed he was being followed and doubled back in a classic move, tracking the tracker.

“You lying git, you were stalking me.”

“I was curious—” Carson began.

Nye moved his horse closer and with invisible knee pressure turned him expertly on the forehand, at the same time laying his right hand on the butt of a rifle sheathed beside the saddle.

“A lie,” he hissed. “I know what you’re up to, Carson, don’t play stupid with me. If I ever catch you following me again I’ll kill you, you hear me? I’ll bury you out here, and no one will ever know what happened to your stinking pishogue of a carcass.”

Carson quickly swung up on his horse. “Nobody talks to me that way,” he said.

“I’ll talk to you any bloody way I like.” Nye began to slide the rifle out of its scabbard.

Carson jabbed his horse in the flank and surged forward. Nye, taken off guard, jerked the rifle free and tried to swing it around. Roscoe slammed into Muerto and threw the security director sideways in the saddle; at the same instant, Carson dropped his reins and grabbed the barrel of the rifle with both hands, yanking it out of Nye’s grasp with a sharp downward tug.

Keeping an eye on Nye, Carson opened the breech and removed the magazine, tossing it into the sand. Then he extracted the wad of gum from his mouth and jammed it deep into the chamber. He snapped the breech shut and winged the gun far down the hill.

“Don’t ever unship a rifle in front of me again,” he said quietly.

Nye sat on his horse, breathing hard, his face red. He moved toward the rifle but Carson spun his horse, blocking him.

“For an Englishman, you’re a rude son of a bitch,” Carson said.

“That’s a three-thousand-dollar rifle,” Nye replied.

“All the more reason not to wave it in people’s faces.” Carson nodded down the hill, “If you try to use that gun now, it’ll misfire and blow off your little ponytail. By the time you’ve cleaned it, I’ll be gone.”

There was a long silence. The late-afternoon sun refracted through Nye’s eyes, giving them a strange dark gold color. Looking into those eyes, Carson saw that the fiery tints were not completely a trick of the sun; the man’s eyes had a reddish cast, like the inward flames of a secret obsession.

Without another word Carson turned his horse and headed north at a brisk trot. After several minutes he stopped, looking back. Nye remained motionless on his mount, silhouetted against the rise, gazing after him.

“Watch your back, Carson!” came the distant voice. And Carson thought he heard a strange laugh drift toward him across the desert, before being whisked away by the wind.

The portable CD player sat on an outspread Wall Street Journal on a white table in the control room, exploded into twenty or thirty pieces. A figure wearing a dirty T-shirt was bent over it, the picture of concentration. The T-shirt’s legend, VISIT BEAUTIFUL SOVIET GEORGIA, was proudly emblazoned over a picture of a grim, fortresslike government structure, the epitome of Stalinesque architecture.

De Vaca stood to one side of the immaculate control room, wondering if the T-shirt was a joke. “You said you’ve never fixed a CD player before,” she said nervously.

“Da,” the figure muttered without looking up.

“Well, then how do you ...?” She let the sentence hang.

The figure muttered again, then popped a chip out of a circuit board, holding it up with a pair of plastic-coated tweezers. “Hmmmph,” he said, and tossed it carelessly on the newspaper. Working the tweezers again, he popped out a second chip.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” said de Vaca.

The figure eyed her over a pair of reading glasses fallen halfway down his nose. “But is not fixed yet,” he protested.

De Vaca shrugged, sorry she had ever brought the CD player to Pavel Vladimirovic. Though she’d been told he was some kind of mechanical genius, she’d seen no evidence of it so far. And the man had even admitted he had never even seen a CD player before, let alone fixed one.

Vladimirovic sighed heavily, dropped the second chip, and sat down heavily, pushing the glasses back up his nose.

“Is broke” he announced.

“I know,” said de Vaca. “That’s why I brought it to you.”

He nodded and indicated with his palm for her to sit in a chair.

“Can you fix it or not?” de Vaca said, still standing.

He nodded. “Da, don’t worry! I can fix. Is problem with chip that controls laser diode.”

De Vaca took a seat. “Do you have a replacement?” she asked.

Vladimirovic nodded and rubbed his sweaty neck. Then he stood up, moved to a cabinet, and returned with a small box, green circuit boards peeping from its open top. “I put back together now,” he nodded

De Vaca watched while, in a burst of activity, he cannibalized parts from the box full of circuit boards. In less than five minutes he had assembled the player. He plugged it in, inserted the CD that de Vaca had brought, and waited. The sound of the B-52s came roaring out of the speakers.

“Aiee!” he cried, turning it off. “Nekulturny. What is that noise! Must still be broke.” He roared with laughter at his own joke.

“Thank you,” de Vaca said, real delight in her voice. “I use this just about every evening. I was afraid I’d have to spend the rest of my time here without music. How’d you do it?”

“Here, many extra pieces from the fail-safe mechanism,” Vladimirovic said. “I use one of those. Is nothing, very simple little machine. Not like this!” he gestured proudly at the rows of control panels, CRT screens and consoles.

“What do they all do?” de Vaca asked.

“Many things!” he cried, lumbering over to a wall of electronics. “Here, is control for laminar airflow. Air intake here, furnace is controlled by all these.” He waved his hand vaguely. “And then all these control cooldown.”

“Cooldown?”

“Da. You wouldn’t want one-thousand-degree air going back in! Has to be cooled, the air.”

“Why not just suck in fresh air?”

“If suck in fresh air, must vent old air. No good. This is closed system. We are only laboratory in world with such system. Goes back to fail-safe mechanism of military days, shunt hot air to Level-5.”

“You mentioned that fail-safe system before,” de Vaca asked. “I don’t remember hearing about it.”

“For stage-zero alert.”

“There is no stage-zero alert. Stage one is the worst-case-scenario.”

“Back then, was stage-zero alert.” He shrugged. “Maybe terrorists in Level-5, maybe accident with total contamination. Inject one-thousand-degree air into Level-5, make complete sterilization. Not only sterilization. Blow place up real kharasho! Boom!”

“I see,” said de Vaca, a little uncertainly. “It can’t go off by accident, this state-zero alert, can it?”

Pavel chuckled. “Impossible. When civilians took over, system was deactivated.” He waved his hand at a nearby computer terminal. “Only work if put back on line.”

“Good,” said de Vaca, relieved. “I wouldn’t want to be fried alive because someone tripped over the wrong switch up here.”

“True,” Pavel rumbled. “It’s hot enough outside without making more heat, nyet? Zharka!” He shook his head, eyes staring absently at the newspaper. Then he stiffened. He picked up the rump end of the Journal and stabbed his finger at it.

“You see this?” he asked.

“No,” said de Vaca. She glanced over at the columns of tiny numbers, thinking that he must have stolen the paper from the Mount Dragon library, which had subscriptions to a dozen or so newspapers and periodicals that were not available on-line. They were the only printed materials allowed on the site.

“GeneDyne stock down half point again! You know what this mean?”

De Vaca shook her head.

“We losing money!”

“Losing money?” de Vaca asked.

“Da! You own stock, I own stock, and this stock go down half point! I lose three hundred fifty dollars! What I could have done with that money!”

He buried his head in his hands.

“But isn’t that to be expected?” de Vaca asked.

“Shto?”

“Doesn’t the stock go up and down every day?”

“Da, every day! Last Monday I made six hundred dollars.”

“So what does it matter?”

“Makes even worse! Last Monday, six hundred dollars richer I was. Now it’s all gone! Poof!” He spread his hands in despair.

De Vaca tried to keep from laughing. The man must watch the movement of the stock every day, feeling elated on the days it went up—thinking how he was going to spend the money—and horrified on the days it went down. It was the price of employee ownership: giving stock to people who had never invested before. And yet, she was sure overall he must have made a large profit on his employee plan. She hadn’t checked since arriving at Mount Dragon, but she knew the GeneDyne stock had been soaring in recent months, and that they all were getting richer.

Vladimirovic shook his head again. “And in last few days, worse, much worse. Down many points!”

De Vaca frowned. “I didn’t know that.”

“You not heard talk in canteen! It’s that Boston professor, Levine. Always, he talking bad about GeneDyne, about Brent Scopes. Now he say something worse, I don’t know what, and stock go down.” He muttered under his breath. “KGB would know what to do with such a man.”

He sighed deeply, then handed her the CD player.

“After hearing decadent counterrevolutionary music, I’m sorry I fixed it,” he said.

De Vaca laughed and said good-bye. She decided the T-shirt had to be a joke. After all, the man must have had top secret clearance to work at Mount Dragon in the old days. She’d have to search him out in the canteen some evening and get the whole story, she decided.

The first heat of summer lay like a sodden blanket over Harvard Yard. The leaves hung limply on the great oaks and chestnut trees, and cicadas droned in the shadows. As he walked, Levine slipped out of his threadbare jacket and slung it over his shoulder, inhaling the smell of freshly cut grass, the thick humidity in the air.

In the outer office, Ray was at his desk, idly picking at his teeth with a paper clip. He grunted at Le vine’s approach.

“You got visitors,” he said.

Levine stopped, frowned. “You mean, inside?” He nodded toward his closed office door.

“Didn’t like the company out here,” Ray explained.

As Levine opened the door, Erwin Landsberg, the president of the university,’ turned toward him with a smile. He held out his hand.

“Charles, it’s been a long time,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Much too long.” He indicated a second man in a gray suit. “This is Leonard Stafford, our new dean of faculty.”

Levine shook the limp hand that was offered, stealing a furtive glance around the office. He wondered how long the two had been there. His eyes landed on the laptop, open on one corner of the desk, telephone cord dangling from its side. Stupid, leaving it out like that. The call was due in just five minutes.

“It’s warm in here,” said the president. “Charles, you should order an air conditioner from Central Services.”

“Air conditioners give me head colds. I like the heat.” Levine took a seat at his desk. “Now, what’s this about?”

The two visitors sat down, the dean glancing around at the disorderly piles with distaste. “Well, Charles,” the president began. “We’ve come about the lawsuit.”

“Which one?”

The president looked pained. “We take these matters very seriously.” When Levine said nothing, he continued. “The GeneDyne suit, of course.”

“It’s pure harassment,” Levine said. “It’ll be dismissed.”

The dean of faculty leaned forward. “Dr. Levine, I’m afraid we don’t share that view. This is not a frivolous suit. GeneDyne is alleging theft of trade secrets, electronic trespass, defamation and libel, and quite a bit else.”

The president nodded. “GeneDyne has made some serious accusations. Not so much about the foundation, but about your methods. That’s what concerns me most.”

“What about my methods?”

“There’s no need to get excited.” The president adjusted his cuffs. “You’ve been in hot water before, and we’ve always stuck by you. It hasn’t always been easy, Charles. There are several trustees—very powerful trustees—who would much prefer if we’d left you outside for the vigilantes. But now, with the ethics of your methods being called into question ... well, we have to protect the university. You know what’s legal, and what isn’t. Stay within those bounds. I know you understand.” The smile faded slightly. “And that’s why I’m not going to warn you again.”

“Dr. Landsberg, I don’t think you even begin to appreciate the situation. This is not some academic tiff. We’re talking about the future of the human race.” Levine glanced at his watch. Two minutes. Shit.

Landsberg raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The future of the human race?”

“We’re at war here. GeneDyne is altering the germ cells of human beings, committing a sacrilege against human life itself. ‘Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.’ Remember? When they came to clear the ghettos, it was no time for worrying about ethics and the law. Now they’re messing with the human genome itself. I have the proof.”

“Your comparison is offensive,” Landsberg said. “This is not Nazi Germany, and GeneDyne, whatever you think of it, is not the SS. You undermine the good work you’ve done in the name of the Holocaust by making such trivial comparisons.”

“No? Tell me the difference, then, between Hitler’s eugenics and what GeneDyne is doing at Mount Dragon.”

Landsberg sat back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. “If you can’t see the difference, Charles, you’ve got a warped moral view. I suspect this has more to do with your personal feud against Brent Scopes than with some high-flown worry about the human race. I don’t know what happened between you two twenty years ago to start this thing, and I don’t care. We’re here to tell you to leave GeneDyne alone.”

“This has nothing to do with a feud—”

The dean waved his hand impatiently. “Dr. Levine, you’ve got to understand the university’s position. We can’t have you running around like a loose cannon, involved in shady activities, while we’re litigating a two-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit.”

“I consider this to be interference with the autonomy of the foundation,” Levine said. “Scopes is putting pressure on you, isn’t he?”

Landsberg frowned. “If you call a two-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit ‘pressure,’ then, hell, yes!”

A telephone rang, then a hiss sounded as a remote computer connected to Levine’s laptop. His screen winked on, and an image came into view: a figure, balancing the world on its fingertip.

Levine leaned back casually in his chair, obscuring their view of his computer screen. “I’ve got work to do,” he said.

“Charles, I get the feeling that this isn’t sinking in,” the president said. “We can pull the foundation’s charter any time we like. And we will, Charles, if you press us.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Levine said. “The press would hammer you like a nail. Besides, I have tenure.”

President Landsberg abruptly stood up and turned to leave, his face livid. The dean rose more slowly, smoothing a hand over his suit front. He leaned toward Levine. “Ever heard the phrase ‘moral turpitude’? It’s in your tenure contract.” He moved toward the door, then stopped, looking back speculatively.

The miniature globe on the screen began to rotate faster, and the figure balancing the earth began to scowl impatiently.

“It’s been nice chatting with you,” Levine said. “Please shut the door on your way out.”

When Carson entered the Mount Dragon conference room, the cool white space was already packed with people. The nervous buzz of whispered conversations filled the air. Today, the banks of electronics were hidden behind panels, and the teleconferencing screen was dark. Urns of coffee and pastries were arrayed along one wall, knots of scientists gathered around them.

Carson spotted Andrew Vanderwagon and George Harper standing in one corner. Harper waved him over. “Town meeting’s about to start,” he said. “You ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“Hell if I know,” Harper said, ruffling a hand through his thinning brown hair. “Ready for the third degree, I suppose. They say if he doesn’t like what he finds here he might just shut the place down.”

Carson shook his head. “They’d never do that over a freak accident.”

Harper grunted. “I also heard that this guy has subpoena power and can even bring criminal charges.”

“I doubt it,” said Carson. “Where’d you hear these things?”

“The Mount Dragon rumor mill, of course: the canteen. Didn’t see you there yesterday. Until they reopen Level-5 there’s nothing else to do, unless you want to sit in the library or play tennis in the hundred-degree heat.”

“I went for a ride,” Carson said.

“A ride? You mean, on that hot young assistant of yours?” Harper cackled.

Carson rolled his eyes. Harper could be irritating. He had already decided not to mention meeting Nye to anyone. It would just create more problems.

Harper turned to Vanderwagon, who was chewing his lip and staring expressionlessly into the crowd. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see you in the canteen, either. Spend the day in your room again, Andrew?”

Carson frowned. It was obvious that Vanderwagon was still upset about what had happened in the Fever Tank, and about his dressing down by Scopes. By the look of his bloodshot eyes, he hadn’t had much sleep. Sometimes Harper had the tact of a hand grenade.

Vanderwagon turned and eyed Harper as a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Four people had entered the room: Singer, Nye, Mike Marr, and a slight, stooped man in a brown suit. The stranger carried an oversized briefcase that bumped against his legs as he walked. His sandy hair was graying at the temples, and he wore black-rimmed glasses that made his pale skin look sallow. He radiated ill health.

“That must be the OSHA man,“ whispered Harper. “He doesn’t look like much of a terror to me.”

“More like a junior accountant,” Carson replied. “He’s going to get a nasty burn with that skin.”

Singer went to the lectern, tapped the microphone, and held up his hand. His normally pleasant, ruddy face looked bone-tired. “As you all know,” he said, “tragic accidents such as the one that occurred last week must be reported to the proper authorities. Mr. Teece here is a senior investigator from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. He’ll be spending a little time with us at Mount Dragon, looking into the cause of the accident and reviewing our safety procedures.”

Nye stood next to Singer, silent, his eyes traveling over the assembled scientists. A knot in his jaw was working away, his powerful frame rigid in the tailored suit. Marr stood next to him, nodding his closely cropped head and smiling broadly beneath a hat brim so low it hid his eyes. Carson knew that in some ways, as director of security, Nye was ultimately responsible for the accident. He was obviously all too aware of it. The security director’s gaze met Carson’s for a moment before it moved on. Perhaps that explains his paranoia out in the desert, Carson thought. But what the hell was he up to? Whatever it was must have been damn important, keeping him out overnight before a meeting like this.

“Because industrial secrets of GeneDyne are involved, the specifics of our research will remain secret regardless of the outcome of the investigation. None of this will be reported to the press.” Singer shifted at the podium. “I want to emphasize one thing: everyone at Mount Dragon will be expected to cooperate fully with Mr. Teece. This is an order that comes directly from Brent Scopes. I assume that’s sufficiently clear.”

There was a silence in the room. Singer nodded.

“Good. I think Mr. Teece would like to say a few words.”

The frail-looking man walked up to the microphone, still carrying his briefcase.

“Hello,” he said, his thin lips forming a fleeting smile. “I’m Gilbert Teece—please call me Gil. I expect to be here for the next week or so, poking and prying about.” He laughed; a brief, dry chuckle. “This is standard procedure in a case such as this. I will be speaking to most of you individually, and of course I’ll need your help understanding exactly what happened. I know this is very painful for all concerned.”

There was a silence, and it seemed that Teece had already run out of things to say. “Any questions?” he finally asked.

There were none. Teece shuffled back.

Singer stepped back up to the lectern. “Now that Mr. Teece has arrived and decontamination is complete, we’ve agreed to reopen Level-5 without delay. As difficult as it will be, I expect to see everyone back at work tomorrow morning. We’ve lost a lot of time, and we need to make it up.” He drew a hand across his forehead. “That’s all. Thank you.”

Teece suddenly stood up, his finger in the air. “Dr. Singer? May I have another word—?”

Singer nodded, and Teece stepped up to the podium again. “The reopening of Level-5 was not my idea,” he said, “but perhaps it will aid the investigation, after all. I must say I’m a little surprised that we were not joined today by Mr. Scopes. It was my understanding he likes to be present—in an electronic sense, at least—at meetings of this sort.” He paused expectantly, but neither Singer or Nye said a word.

“That being the case,” Teece continued, “there’s one question I’ll offer up generally. Perhaps you’ll offer me your thoughts on it when we do meet individually.”

He paused.

“I’m curious to know why Brandon-Smith’s autopsy was conducted in secrecy and her remains cremated with such unseemly haste.”

There was another silence. Teece, still gripping his briefcase, gave another quick, thin-lipped smile and followed Singer out the door.

Although Carson took his time arriving at the ready room the following morning, he was not surprised to find most of the bluesuits still on their racks. Nobody was anxious to go back into the Fever Tank.

As he dressed, he felt a knot tighten slowly in his stomach. It had been almost a week since the accident. As much as he’d been haunted by it—those gashes in Brandon-Smith’s suit, the red blood welling up through the rents in her scrubs—he’d blocked the Fever Tank itself from his mind.

Now it came back to him in a rush: the cramped spaces, the stale air of the suit, the constant sense of danger. He closed his eyes a moment, forcing fear and panic from his mind.

As he was about to duck his head into his helmet, the outer door hissed open and de Vaca entered through the air lock. She looked at Carson.

“You’re not looking particularly chipper,” she said.

Carson shrugged.

“Me neither, I suppose,” she said.

There was an awkward silence. They had not spoken much since Brandon-Smith’s death. Carson suspected that de Vaca, sensing his guilt and frustration, had given him a wide berth.

“At least the guard survived,” said de Vaca.

Carson nodded. The last thing he wanted to do now was discuss the accident. The stainless-steel door with its oversized biohazard label loomed at the far end of the room. It reminded Carson of what he imagined a gas chamber to look like.

De Vaca began suiting up. Carson hung back, waiting for her, eager to get past the initial ordeal but somehow unable to go through the door.

“I went riding the other day,” he said. “Once you get out of sight of Mount Dragon, it’s actually very nice out there.”

De Vaca nodded. “I’ve always loved the desert,” she said. “People say it’s ugly, but I think it can be the most beautiful place in the world. Which horse did you take?”

“The liver-colored gelding. He turned out to be a pretty good horse. One of my spurs was broken, but it turned out I didn’t even need to use them. Good luck getting a spur rowel fixed around here.”

De Vaca laughed, slinging her hair. “You know that old Russian-guy, Pavel Vladimiro-something? He’s the mechanical engineer, runs the sterilizing furnace and laminar-flow system. He can fix anything. I had a broken CD player that he opened up and fixed, just like that. He claimed he’d never seen one before.”

“Hell,” said Carson, “if he can fix a CD player, he could fix a rowel. Maybe I should go see him.”

“Any idea when that investigator’s going to get around to us?” de Vaca asked.

“Nope,” said Carson. “Probably won’t take him long, considering ...” He stopped. Considering I was instrumental to the cause of death.

“Yamashito, the video technician, said the investigator was planning to spend the day watching security tapes,” she said, twisting into the arms of her suit.

They donned their helmets, checked each other’s suits, and went through the air lock. Inside decontam, Carson took a big swallow of air and fought down the nausea that inevitably rose as the poisonous yellow liquid cascaded down his faceplate.

Carson had hoped the elaborate decontamination procedures after the accident would have rearranged the interior spaces of the Fever Tank, made them look somehow different. But the lab seemed just as Carson had left it the minute Brandon-Smith walked in to announce the chimp’s death. His seat was pulled away from the desk at the same angle, and his PowerBook was still open, plugged into the WAN socket and ready for use. He moved toward it mechanically and logged on to the GeneDyne network. The log-in messages scrolled past; then the word processor came up, displaying the procedure write-up he’d been finishing. The cursor came into focus at the end of an unfinished line, blinking, waiting with cruel detachment for him to continue. Carson slumped in his chair.

Suddenly, the screen went blank. Carson waited a moment, then hit a few keys. Getting no response, he swore under his breath. Maybe the battery had gone dead. He glanced over to the wall plug and noticed that the laptop was plugged in. Strange.

Something began to materialize on the screen. Must be Scopes, Carson thought. The GeneDyne CEO was known to play with other people’s computers. Probably a prepared pep talk, some way to ease the transition back into the Fever Tank.

A small picture came into focus: the image of a mime, balancing the Earth on his finger. The Earth was slowly revolving. Mystified, Carson punched the Escape key without success.

The small figure suddenly dissolved into typed words.

Guy Carson?

Here, Carson typed back.

Am I speaking with Guy Carson?

This is Guy Carson, who else?

Well, looky here, Guy! It’s about time you logged in. I’ve been waiting for you, partner. But first, I need you to identify yourself. Please enter your mother’s birthday.

June 2, 1936. Who is this?

Thank you. This is Mime speaking. I have an important message from an old homeboy of yours.

Mime? Is that you, Harper?

No, it is not Harper. I would suggest that you clear your immediate area so that no one inadvertently sees the message I am about to transmit. Let me know when you’re ready.

Carson glanced over at de Vaca, who was busy on the other side of the lab.

Who the hell is this? he typed angrily.

My, my! You had best not dis the Mime, or I might dis you back. And you wouldn’t like that. Not one bit.

Listen, I don’t like—

Do you want the message or not?

No.

I didn’t think so. Before I send it, I want you to know that this is an absolutely secure channel, and that I, Mime, and none other, have hacked into the GeneDyne net. No one at GeneDyne knows about this or could possibly intercept our conversation. I have done this to protect you, cowboy. If anyone should happen by while you are reading the following message, press the command key and a fake screen of genetic code will pop up, hiding the message. Actually, it won’t be genetic code, it will be the lyrics to Professor Longhair’s “Ball the Wall,” but the patterns will be correct. Press the command key again to return to the message. Whoopie-ki-yi-yo, and all that sort of thing. Now sit tight.

Carson again glanced in de Vaca’s direction. Perhaps this was one of Scopes’s jokes. The man had an odd sense of humor. On the other hand, Scopes hadn’t sent a single message to the laptop in Carson’s quarters since the accident. Perhaps Scopes was pissed off at him, and was testing his loyalty with some kind of game. Carson looked uneasily back at the laptop.

The screen went black for a moment, then a message appeared:

Dear Guy,

This is Charles Levine, your old professor. Biochem 162, remember? I’ll get right to the point, because I know you must feel compromised at the moment.

Jesus, thought Carson. Understatement of the year. Dr. Levine, penetrating the GeneDyne network? It didn’t seem possible. But if it was Levine, and if Scopes found out ... Carson’s finger moved quickly to the Escape key again, punching it several times without result.

Guy, I’ve heard rumors from a source in the regulatory agency. Rumors of an accident at Mount Dragon. The lid’s been shut down tight, though, and all I’ve been able to learn is that someone was accidentally infected with a virus. Apparently it’s quite a deadly virus, one that people are scared to death of.

Guy, listen to me. I need your help. I need to know what’s going on out there at Mount Dragon. What is this virus? What are you trying to do with it? Is it really as dangerous as the rumors imply? The people of this country have a right to know. If it’s true—if you really are out in the middle of nowhere, messing with something far more dangerous than an atomic bomb—then none of us are safe.

I remember you well from your days here, Guy. You were a truly independent thinker. A skeptic. You never accepted what I told you as given; you had to prove it for yourself. That is a rare quality, and I pray you haven’t lost it. I would beg you now to turn that natural skepticism on your work at Mount Dragon. Don’t accept everything they tell you. Deep inside, you know that nothing is infallible, that no safety procedure can ensure one hundred percent protection. If the rumors are true, you’ve learned this firsthand. Please ask yourself: Is it worth it?

I will be in contact with you again through Mime, who is an expert in matters of network security. Next time, perhaps we can talk on line: Mime wasn’t willing to risk a live conversation initially.

Think about what I’ve said, Guy. Please.

Best regards,

Charles Levine

The screen went blank. Carson felt his heart pounding as he fumbled with the power switch. He should have turned the thing off immediately. Could it really have been Levine? His instincts told him that it was. The man must be insane to contact him like this, endangering his career. As Carson thought about it, anger began to take the place of shock. How the hell could Levine be so sure the channel was secure?

Carson remembered Levine well: stomping across the lectern, speaking impassionedly, suit lapels flapping, chalk screeching on the blackboard. Once he had been so engrossed in writing a long chemical formula that he shuffled off the edge of the lectern and fell to the floor. In many ways, he had been an outstanding professor: iconoclastic, visionary; but, Carson remembered, also excitable, angry, and full of hyperbole. And this was going too far. The man had obviously become a zealot.

He switched the PowerBook back on and logged in a second time. If he heard from Levine again, he’d tell him exactly what he thought of his methods. Then he’d turn the machine off before Levine had a chance to reply.

He turned back to the screen and his heart stopped.

Brent Scopes is paging.

Press the command key to chat.

Fighting back dread, Carson began typing. Had Scopes picked up the message?

Ciao, Guy.

Hello, Brent.

I just wanted to welcome you back. You know what T.H. Huxley said: ‘The great tragedy of science is the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact.’ That is what has happened here. It was a beautiful idea, Guy. Too bad it didn’t work out. Now, you’ve got to move on. Every day we go without results costs GeneDyne almost a million dollars. Everyone is waiting for the neutralization of the virus. We cannot continue until that step has been accomplished. Everyone’s depending on you.

I know, Carson wrote. I promise I’ll do my best.

That’s a start, Guy. Doing you best is a start. But we need results. We’ve had one failure, but failure is an integral part of silence, and I know you can come through. I’m counting on you to come through. You’ve had almost a week to think about it. I hope you have some new ideas.

We’re going to repeat the test, see if by chance we overlooked something. We’re also going to remap the gene, just in case.

Very well, but do it quickly. I also want you to try something else. You see, we learned something crucial from this failure. I’ve got the autopsy results on Brandon-Smith in front of me. Dr. Grady did an excellent job. For some reason the strain you designed was even more virulent than the usual X-FLU strain. And more contagious, if our pathology tests are correct. It killed her so fast that antibodies to the virus had only been in her bloodstream a few hours when she died. I want to know why. We had the strain cultured from Brandon-Smith’s brain matter prior to cremation, and I’m having it sent down to you. We’re calling this new strain X-FLU II. I want you to dissect that virus. I want to know how it ticks. In trying to neutralize the virus, you fortuitously stumbled on a way to enhance its deadliness instead.

Fortuitously? I’m not sure I understand—

Jesus Christ, Guy, if you figure out what made it more deadly, maybe you can figure out how to make it LESS deadly. I’m a little surprised you didn’t think of this yourself. Now get to work.

The communications window on the screen winked shut. Carson sat back, exhaling slowly. Clinically, it made sense, but the thought of working with a virus cultured from Brandon-Smith’s brain chilled his blood.

As if on cue, a lab assistant stepped through the entranceway, carrying a stainless-steel tray loaded with clear plastic bioboxes. Each biobox was marked with a biohazard symbol and a simple label: X-FLU II.

“Present for Guy Carson,” he said with a macabre chuckle.

The late-afternoon sun, streaming in the west-facing windows, covered Singer’s office in a mantle of golden light. Nye sat on the sofa, staring silently into the kiva fireplace, while the director stood behind his workstation, back turned, looking out at the vast desert.

A slight figure with an oversized briefcase appeared in the doorway and coughed politely.

“Come in,” Singer said. Gilbert Teece stepped forward, nodding to them both. His thinning wheat-colored hair imperfectly covered a scalp that gleamed a painful red, and his burnt nose was already peeling. He smiled bashfully, as if aware of his own inadequacy to the hostile environment.

“Sit down anywhere.” Singer waved his hand vaguely over the office furniture.

Despite the empty wing chairs, Teece moved immediately toward Nye’s sofa and sat down with a sigh of contentment. The security director stiffened and shifted, moving himself away.

“Shall we get started?” said Singer, sitting down. “I hate to be late for my evening cocktail.” Teece, busy with his briefcase latch, looked up and flashed a quick smile. Then he slipped his hand inside the case and removed a microcassette player, which he laid carefully on the table in front of him.

“I’ll keep this as short as possible,” he said.

At the same time, Nye brandished his own recorder, laying it next to Teece’s.

“Very good,” said Teece. “Always a good idea to get things down on tape, don’t you think, Mr. Nye?”

“Yes,” came the clipped reply.

“Ah!” said Teece, as surprised as if he had not heard Nye speak before. “English?”

Nye slowly turned to look at him. “Originally.”

“Myself as well,” said Teece. “My father was Sir Wilberforce Teece, Baronet, of Teecewood Hall in the Pennines. My older brother got the title and the money and I got a ticket to America. Do you know it? Teecewood Hall, I mean.”

“No,” Nye said.

“Indeed?” Teece arched his eyebrows. “Beautiful part of the country. The Hall’s in Hamsterley Forest, but Cumbria’s so near by, you know. Lovely, especially this time of year. Grasmere, Troutbeck ... Windermere Lake.”

The atmosphere in the office grew suddenly electric. Nye turned toward Teece and focused his eyes on the man’s smiling face. “I suggest, Mr. Teece, that we cut out the civilities and proceed with the interview.”

“But, Mr. Nye,” Teece cried, “the interview has started! As I understand it, you were once chief of safety operations at the Windermere Nuclear Complex. Late seventies, I believe. Then there was that dreadful accident.” He shook his head at the memory. “I keep forgetting whether there were sixteen or sixty casualties. Anyway, before joining GeneDyne UK, you couldn’t find work in your chosen field for nearly ten years. Am I right? Instead, you were employed by an oil company in a remote portion of the Middle East. The details of your job description there are, unfortunately, rather vague.” He scratched the tip of his peeling nose.

“This has nothing whatsoever to do with your assignment,” said Nye slowly.

“But it has a lot to do with the strength of your loyalty to Brent Scopes,” Teece said. “And that loyalty, in turn, may have a bearing on this investigation.”

“This is a farce,” Nye snapped. “I intend to report your conduct to your superiors.”

“What conduct?” Teece said with a faint smile. And then without waiting for an answer, he added, “And what superiors?”

Nye leaned toward him and spoke very softly. “Stop playing coy. You know perfectly well what happened at Windermere. You don’t need to ask these questions, and you’ll learn bugger-all from me about it.”

“Now, wait a moment,” Singer said with false heartiness. “Mr. Nye, we shouldn’t—”

Teece held up his hand. “I’m sorry. Mr. Nye is right. I do know everything about Windermere. I just like to verify my facts. These reports”—he patted his massive briefcase—“are so often inaccurate. Government workers write them, and you never know what some witless bureaucrat might say about you, now do you, Mr. Nye? I thought you might appreciate the chance to set the record straight, erase any existing calumnies, that kind of thing.”

Nye sat in rigid silence.

Teece shrugged, pulled a manila envelope out of his briefcase. “Very well, Mr. Nye. Let’s proceed. Could you tell me, in your words, what happened on the morning of the accident?”

Nye cleared his throat. “At nine-fifty, I received word of a stage-two alert from the Level-5 facility.”

“Lots of numbers. What do they all mean?”

“That an integrity breach had occurred. Someone’s bio-hazard suit had been compromised.”

“And who made this report?”

“Carson. Dr. Guy Carson. He reported it over the global emergency channel.”

“I see,” Teece nodded. “Proceed.”

“I went immediately to the security station, assessed the situation, then assumed command of the facility for the duration of the stage-two alert.”

“Did you, now? Before informing Dr. Singer?” Teece looked toward the director.

“That is the protocol,” said Nye flatly.

“And Dr. Singer, when you heard that Mr. Nye had put himself in charge you cheerfully agreed, naturally?”

“Naturally.”

“Dr. Singer,” said Teece a little more sharply. “I spent this afternoon reviewing videotapes of the accident. I’ve listened to most of the communications that took place. Now, would you care to answer the question again?”

There was a silence. “Well,” Singer said at last, “the truth is, I wasn’t too happy about it, no. But I went along.”

“And Mr. Nye,” Teece continued, “you say that assuming temporary command was company protocol. But according to my information, you’re only supposed to do so if, in your judgment, the director is unable to appropriately discharge his duties.”

“That is correct,” said Nye.

“Therefore, I can only conclude that you had prior reason to think the director was not discharging his duties properly.”

There was another long pause. “That is correct,” Nye repeated.

“That’s absurd!” Singer cried out. “There was no need for it. I had complete control of the situation.”

Nye sat rigidly, his face a stone mask.

“So what was it,” Teece continued placidly, “that led you to think Dr. Singer here wouldn’t have been able to handle the emergency?”

This time, Nye didn’t hesitate. “I felt Dr. Singer had allowed himself to become too close to the people he was supposed to be supervising. He is a scientist, but he is overly emotional and poor at handling stress. If the emergency had been left in his hands, the outcome might have been quite different.”

Singer jumped to his feet. “What’s wrong with being a little friendly?” he snapped. “Mr. Teece, it should be obvious even on such short acquaintance what kind of man you’re talking to here. He’s a megalomaniac. Nobody likes him. He disappears into the desert practically every weekend. Why Scopes keeps him on is a mystery to everyone.”

“Ah! I see.” Teece cheerfully consulted his folder, letting the uncomfortable silence lengthen. Singer returned to his original position at the window, his back to Nye. Teece took a pen from his pocket and made a few notations. Then he waggled it in front of Nye. “I understand these things are streng verboten around here. Good thing I’m exempt. I hate computers.” He replaced the pen carefully.

“Now, Dr. Singer,” he continued, “let’s proceed to this virus you’re working on, X-FLU. The documents I’ve been given are rather uninformative. What, exactly, makes it so deadly?”

“Once we’re learned that,” Singer said, “we’ll be able to do something about it.”

“Do something about it?”

“Make it safe, of course.”

“Why are you working with such a terrifying pathogen to begin with?”

Singer turned to face him. “It wasn’t our intention, believe me. The virulence of X-FLU is an unexpected side effect of our gene-therapy technique. The virus is in transition. Once the product is stabilized, this will no longer be a concern.” He paused. “The tragedy is that Rosalind was exposed to the virus at this early stage.”

“Rosalind Brandon-Smith.” Teece repeated the name slowly. “We’re not entirely happy with the way her autopsy was conducted, as you know.”

“We followed all the standard guidelines,” Nye interjected. “The autopsy was conducted within the Level-5 facility, in security suits, and was followed by incineration of the corpse and decontamination of all laboratories within the secure perimeter.”

“It’s the brevity of the pathologist’s report that concerns me, Mr. Nye,” Teece said. “And brief as it is, there are several things that puzzle me. For example, as best as I can fathom, Brandon-Smith’s brain essentially exploded. And yet at the time of death she was locked in the quarantine chamber, far from any medical help.”

“We didn’t know that she had contracted the disease,” said Singer.

“How can that be? She was scratched by an infected chimpanzee. Surely she would have shown antibodies in her bloodstream.”

“No. From the time the antibodies appear until time of death—well, it can obviously be very short.”

Teece frowned. “Disturbingly short, it appears.”

“You’ve got to remember, this is the first time a human being has been exposed to the X-FLU virus. And hopefully the last. We didn’t know what to expect. And the X-FLU strain was particularly virulent. By the time the blood tests came back positive, she was dead.”

“The blood. That’s another strange thing in this report. Apparently, there was significant internal bleeding before death.” Teece looked in his folder, and caressed the paragraph with his finger. “Look here. Her organs were practically awash in blood. Leakage from the blood vessels, it says.”

“No doubt a symptom of the X-FLU infection,” said Singer. “Not unheard of. The Ebola virus does the same thing.”

“But the pathology reports I have on the X-FLU chimpanzees don’t show any such symptom.”

“Obviously the disease affects humans differently from chimps. Nothing remarkable about that.”

“Perhaps not.” Teece flipped pages. “But there are other curious things about this report. For example, her brain shows high levels of certain neurotransmitters. Dopamine and serotonin, to be exact.”

Singer spread his hands. “Another symptom of X-FLU, I’d expect.”

Teece closed the folder. “Again, the infected chimps show no such elevated levels.”

Singer sighed. “Mr. Teece, what’s your point? We’ve all too aware of the dangerousness of this virus. Our efforts have been directed toward neutralizing it. We have a scientist, Guy Carson, devoted to nothing else.”

“Carson. Yes. The one who replaced Franklin Burt. Poor Dr. Burt, currently residing in Featherwood Park sanatorium.” Teece leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Now, that’s another really odd thing, Doctor. I talked to a David Fossey, Franklin Burt’s attending physician. Burt also has leaky blood vessels. And his levels of dopamine and serotonin are wildly elevated.”

There was a shocked silence in the room.

“Jesus,” said Singer. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if he was calculating something.

Teece held up a finger. “But! Burt exhibits no X-FLU antibodies, and it’s been weeks since he was at Mount Dragon. So he can’t have the disease.”

There was a noticeable decrease of tension. “A coincidence, then,” Nye said, sitting back in the sofa.

“Unlikely. Are you working on any other deadly pathogens here?”

Singer shook his head. “We have the usual stuff on ice—Marburg, Ebola Zaire, Lassa—but none of those would cause insanity.”

“Quite right,” said Teece. “Nothing else?”

“Absolutely not.”

Teece turned toward the security director. “What exactly did happen to Dr. Burt?”

“Dr. Singer recommended his removal,” Nye said simply.

“Dr. Singer?” Teece prompted.

“He was becoming confused, agitated.” Singer hesitated. “We were friends. He was an unusually sensitive person, very kind and concerned. Though he didn’t talk about it much, I think he missed his wife a great deal. The stress here is remarkable. ... You need a certain kind of toughness, which he didn’t have. It did him in. When I began to notice signs of incipient paranoia, I recommended he be taken to Albuquerque General for observation.”

“The stress did him in,” Teece murmured. “Forgive my saying so, Doctor, but what you describe doesn’t sound like a garden-variety nervous breakdown to me.” He glanced down at his open briefcase. “I believe Dr. Burt got his M.D./Ph.D. degree from Johns Hopkins in five years—half the time it normally takes.”

“Yes,” said Singer. “He was ... is ... a brilliant man.”

“Then, according to the background sheet I was given, Dr. Burt did one of his medical rotations in the emergency room at the Harlem Meer Hospital, 944 East 155th Street. Ever seen that neighborhood?”

“No,” said Singer.

“The police call people who live around there Dixie Cups. A macabre reference to the disposability of life in that neck of the woods. Dr. Burt’s rotation was what interns call a thirty-six special. He was on call in the emergency room thirty-six hours straight, off for twelve, then back on for another thirty-six. Day after day, for three months.”

“I didn’t know that,” Singer said. “He never talked much about his past.”

“Then, during his first two years of residency, Dr. Burt managed to write a four-hundred-page monograph, Metastization. A superb piece of work. At the time he was also involved in a bitter divorce with his first wife.”

Teece paused again, then spoke loudly. “And you’re telling me this man couldn’t handle stress?” He barked a laugh, but his face had lost its expression of mirth even before the sound of his laughter died.

Nobody spoke. After a moment, the inspector stood. “Well, gentlemen, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time for the present.” He stuffed the cassette recorder and folder into his briefcase. “No doubt we’ll have more to talk about once I’ve met with your staff.” He scratched his peeling nose and grinned sheepishly.

“Some people tan, some burn,” he said. “I guess I’m a burner myself.”

Night had fallen on the white clapboard house that stood at the corner of Church Street and Sycamore Terrace in the Cleveland suburb of River Pointe. A soft May breeze rustled the leaves, and the distant barking of a dog and a lonely train whistle added a sense of mystery to the quiet neighborhood.

The light emanating from the gabled second-story window was not the warm yellow light found in the windows of other houses along the street. It was a subdued blue, similar to the glow of a television but unwavering in color or intensity. A passerby, stopping beneath the open window, could have heard a soft beeping sound, along with the faint slow clicking of computer keys. But no pedestrians were strolling along the quiet lane.

Inside the room sat a small figure. Behind the figure was a bare wall, into which a plain wooden door was set; the other walls were crowded with metal racks. Within the racks, rows of electronic circuit boards rose toward the ceiling with aching regularity. Among the circuit boards could be seen monitors, RAID fixed-disk systems, and equipment that numerous small governments would have liked to acquire: network sniffers, fax interception devices, units for the remote seizure of computer screen images, dedicated password breakers, cellular telephone scanner-interceptors. The room smelled faintly of hot metal and ozone. Thick bundles of cables hung drooping between the racks like jungle snakes.

The figure shifted, causing the wheelchair in which it sat to creak in protest. A withered limb rose toward the custom-made keyboard set along one arm of the wheelchair. A single crooked finger flexed itself in the blue light, then began pressing the soft-touch pads of the keyboard. There was the faint rapid tone of high-speed dialing. In one of the metal racks, a CRT sprang to life. A burst of computer code scrolled across the screen, followed by a small corporate logo.

The finger moved up to a row of oversized, color-coded keys and selected one.

Silent seconds stretched into minutes. The figure in the wheelchair did not believe in breaking into computer systems by methods as crude as brute-force attacks or algorithm reversals. Instead, his program inserted itself at the point where the external Internet traffic entered the corporation’s private network, piggybacking onto the header packets entering at the gate machine and circumventing the password routines completely. Suddenly the screen flashed and a torrent of code began scrolling by. The withered arm raised itself again and began typing first slowly, and then somewhat more rapidly, tapping out chunks of hexadecimal computer code, pausing every so often to wait for a response. The screen turned red, and the words “GeneDyne Online Systems—Maintenance Subsection” appeared, followed by a short list of options.

Once again, he had penetrated the GeneDyne firewall.

The undeveloped arm raised a third time, initiating two programs that would work symbiotically. The first would place a temporary patch on one of the operating system files, masking the movements of the second by making it look like a harmless network maintenance agent. The second, meanwhile, would create a secure channel through the network backbone to the Mount Dragon facility.

The figure in the wheelchair waited patiently as the programs bypassed the network bridges and pipelines. At last came a low beep, then a series of routing messages scrolled across the screen.

The arm reached out to the keyboard again, and the hissing shriek of a modem filled the room. A second screen popped to life and a sentence, rapidly typed by an unseen hand, appeared on it.

You said you’d call an hour ago! It’s not easy, keeping my schedule clear while I wait to hear from you.

The shriveled finger pressed out a response on the padded keyboard: I love it when you get all righteous on me, professor-man. Testify! Write that funky formula for me one time!

It’s too late, he must have left the lab by now.

The finger tapped another message.

O ye of little faith! No doubt Dr. Carson has another computer in his room. We should be able to gain his undivided attention there. Now remember the ground rules.

Right. Let’s go.

The finger pressed a button, and another waiting subroutine began executing, sending an anonymous page across the Mount Dragon WAN to Guy Carson. Based on the previous encounter, Mime decided-to dispense with his standard greeting card; Carson might turn off his-computer if he saw Mime’s introductory logo again. A moment passed; then a response appeared, out of the New Mexico desert:

Guy here. Who’s this?

The finger pressed a single color-coded key, sending a pre-typed message across the network.

What it is! Let me introduce myself again: I am Mime, bearer of tidings. I give you Professor Levine. With the push of another key, the finger patched Levine into the secure channel.

Forget it, came Carson’s response. Get off the system now.

Guy, please, this is Charles Levine. Wait a minute. Let me talk.

No way. I’m rebooting.

Mime pressed another button, and another message flashed on the screen.

Just a dern minute, pardner! This is Mime you’re dealing with. We control the vertical, we control the horizontal. I’ve put a little snare on your network node, and if you cut our connection now you’ll trigger the internal alarms. Then you’d have some fast talking to do to your dear Mr. Scopes. I’m afraid the only way to get rid of the Mime is to hear the good professor out. Now listen, cowboy. At the professor-man’s request, I have set up a means by which you can call him. Should you ever wish to reach him, simply send a chat request to yourself. That’s correct: to yourself. This will initiate a communications daemon I’ve hidden inside the net. The daemon will dial out and connect you with the good professor, as long as his trusty laptop is on-line. I now yield the floor to Professor Levine.

If you think this is the way to persuade me, Levine, you’re mistaken. You’re jeopardizing my whole career. I don’t want anything to do with you and your crusade, whatever it is.

I have no choice, Guy. The virus is a killer.

We have the best safety precautions of any lab in the world—

Apparently not good enough,

That was a freak accident.

Most accidents are.

We’re working on a medical product that will produce incalculable good, that will save millions of lives every year. Don’t tell me what we’re doing is wrong.

Guy, I believe you. Then why mess around with a deadly virus like this?

Look, that’s the whole problem, we’re trying to neutralize the virus, make it harmless. Now get off the net.

Not yet. What’s this medical miracle you mentioned?

I can’t talk about it.

Answer this: does this virus alter the DNA in human germ cells, or just in somatic cells?

Germ cells.

I knew it. Guy, do you really think you have the moral right to alter the human genome?

For a beneficial alteration, why not? If we can rid the human race of a terrible disease forever, Where’s the immorality?

What disease?

None of your business.

I get it. You’re using the virus to make the genetic alteration. This virus, is it a doomsday virus? Could it destroy the human race? Answer that question and I’ll get off.

I don’t know. Its epidemiology in humans is mostly unknown, but it’s been 100% lethal in chimpanzees. We’re taking all precautions. Especially now.

Is it an airborne contagion?

Yes.

Incubation period?

One day to two weeks, depending on the strain.

Time between first symptoms and mortality?

Impossible to predict with any certainty. Several minutes to several hours.

Several minutes? Dear God. Mode of lethality?

I’ve answered enough questions. Get off. Mode of lethality?

Massive increase in CSF, causing edema and hemorrhaging of the brain tissue.

That sure sounds like a doomsday virus to me. What’s its name?

That’s it, Levine. No more questions. Get the hell off the system and don’t call again.

Back at the little house on the corner of Church and Sycamore, the arm gently pressed a few keys. One CRT screen showed the daemon program cutting communications and sneaking back out of the GeneDyne net. The other screen showed Levine’s frantic message:

Damn! We were cut off. Mime, I need more time!

The finger pressed out a response:

Chill, professor. Your zeal will do you in. Now, on to other business. Ready your computer, I’m going to be sending you an interesting little file. As you’ll see, I was able to obtain the information you requested. Naturally. It posed a rather unique challenge, and you’d be astonished at the phone charges I rang up in the process. A certain Mrs. Harriet Smythe of Northfield, Minnesota, is going to be rather upset when she gets her long-distance bill next month, I’m afraid.

The finger pressed a few more keys and waited while the file was downloaded. Then both screens zapped to black. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft whine of the CPU fans, and, through the open window, a single cricket chirruping in the warm night. And then there came a low laugh, a rising wheeze of mirth that racked and rattled the wasted, shrunken body in the wheelchair.

The chef at Mount Dragon—an Italian named Ricciolini— always served the main course himself, in order to bask in the expected compliments, and as a result dinner service was execrably slow. Carson sat at a center table with Harper and Vanderwagon, battling a stubborn headache without success. Despite the pressure from Scopes, he’d been able to accomplish almost nothing that day, his mind full of Levine’s message. He wondered how in hell Levine was able to get inside the GeneDyne net, and why Levine had picked him to contact. At least, he thought, nobody noticed. As far as he could tell.

The little chef laid the plates with a flourish at Carson’s table and stepped back expectantly. Carson looked suspiciously at his serving. The menu called them sweetbreads but what arrived did not look like bread at all, but the mysterious inner part of some animal.

“Wonderful!” cried Harper, taking the cue. “A masterpiece!”

The Italian gave a quick half bow, his face a mask of delight.

Vanderwagon sat silently, polishing his silverware with a napkin.

“What is it, exactly?” inquired Carson.

“Animella con marsala e funghi!” the chef cried. “Sweetbreads with wine and mushrooms.”

“Sweet bread?” Carson asked.

A puzzled expression came over the man’s face. “Is not English? Sweetbreads?”

“What I mean is, exactly what part of the cow—?”

Harper clapped him on the back. “ ’Tis better not to inquire too closely into some things, my friend.”

The Italian gave a puzzled smile and returned to the kitchen.

“They should clean these dishes better,” Vanderwagon muttered, wiping his wineglass, holding it up to the light, and wiping again.

Harper shot a look across the room, where Teece was eating at a table by himself. His fastidious manners were almost a caricature of perfection.

“Has he talked to you yet?” Harper whispered to Carson.

“No. You?”

“He buttonholed me this morning.”

Vanderwagon turned. “What did he ask?”

“Just a lot of sly questions about the accident. Don’t be deceived by his looks. That guy is no fool.”

“Sly questions,” Vanderwagon repeated, picking up his knife a second time and wiping it carefully. Then he laid it down and carefully squared it with his fork.

“Why the hell can’t we have a nice steak once in a while?” Carson complained. “I never know what I’m eating.”

“Think of it as experiencing international cuisine,” said Harper, slicing open the sweetbreads and stuffing a jiggling piece into his mouth. “Excellent,” he said, his mouth full.

Carson took a tentative bite. “Hey, these aren’t bad,” he said. “Not very sweet, though. So much for truth in advertising.”

“Pancreas,” said Harper.

Carson laid down his fork with a clatter. “Thanks a lot.”

“What kind of sly questions?” Vanderwagon asked.

“I’m not supposed to say.” Harper winked at Carson.

Vanderwagon turned sideways and gave Harper a penetrating stare. “About me.”

“No, not about you, Andrew. Well, maybe a few, you know. You were, shall we say, in the thick of things.”

Vanderwagon slid his uneaten plate away and said nothing.

Carson leaned over. “This is from the pancreas of a cow?”

Harper shoveled another mouthful in. “Who cares? That Ricciolini can cook anything. Anyway, Guy, you grew up eating Rocky Mountain oysters, right?”

“Never touched ’em,” Carson said. “That was just something we served to the dudes as a joke.”

“If thy right eye offends thee,” Vanderwagon said.

The others turned to look at him.

“Getting religion?” Harper asked.

“Yes. Pluck it out,” Vanderwagon said.

There was an uneasy silence.

“You all right, Andrew?” Carson asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Vanderwagon.

“Remember Biology 101?” Harper asked. “The Islets of Langerhans?“

“Shut up,” Carson warned.

“Islets of Langerhans,“ Harper continued. “Those clusters of cells in the pancreas that secrete hormones. I wonder if you can see them with the naked eye?”

Vanderwagon stared at his plate, then slowly brought his knife up and sliced neatly through the sweetbreads. He picked up the piece of organ with his fingers, looked carefully at the incision he’d made, then dropped the morsel again, sending sauce and pieces of mushroom flying onto the white tablecloth. He poured some water into his napkin, folded it, and carefully wiped his hands. “No,” he said.

“No what?”

“They’re not visible.”

Harper snickered. “If Ricciolini saw us playing with our food like this, he’d poison us.”

“What?” Vanderwagon said loudly.

“I was just kidding. Calm down.”

“Not you,” Vanderwagon said. “I was talking to him.”

There was another silence.

“Yes sir, I will!” Vanderwagon shouted. He came to attention suddenly, knocking his chair over as he stood up. His hands were straight at his sides, fork in one and knife in the other. Slowly, he raised the fork, then swiveled it toward his face. Each movement was calculated, almost reverent. He looked as if he was about to take a bite from the empty fork.

“Andrew, what are you up to now?” Harper said, chuckling nervously. “Look at this guy, will you?”

Vanderwagon raised the fork several inches.

“For Chrissakes, sit down,” Harper said.

The fork inched closer, the tines trembling slightly in Vanderwagon’s hand.

Carson realized what the scientist was about to do the instant before it happened. Vanderwagon never blinked as he placed the tines of the fork against the cornea of one eye. Then he pressed his fist forward with slow, deliberate pressure. For a second, Carson could see, with horrifying clarity, the ocular membrane yielding under the tines of the fork; then there was the sound of a grape being stepped on and clear liquid sprayed across the table in a viscous jet. Carson lunged for the arm, jerking it back. The fork came out of the eye and clattered to the floor as Vanderwagon began to make a high, keening noise.

Harper leaped forward to help but Vanderwagon slashed with his knife and the scientist fell backward into his chair. Harper looked down in disbelief at the red stripe spreading across his chest. Vanderwagon lunged again and Carson moved in, bringing a fist up toward his gut. Vanderwagon anticipated the blow, jerked sideways, and Carson’s hand glanced harmlessly off Vanderwagon’s hipbone. A moment later, Carson felt a stunning blow to the side of his skull. He stumbled backward, shaking his head, cursing himself for underestimating the man. As his vision cleared he saw Vanderwagon bearing down on him and he swung with his right, connecting with the scientist’s temple. Vanderwagon’s head snapped sideways and he crashed to the floor. Grabbing the wrist that held the knife, Carson slammed it to the floor until the knife came free. Vanderwagon arched forward, screaming incoherently, fluid streaming from his ruined eye. Carson gave him a short, measured blow to the chin and he rolled sideways and lay still, his flanks heaving.

Carson eased back carefully, hearing for the first time the tremendous hubbub of voices around him. His hand began to throb in time with the beat of his heart. The rest of the diners had come forward, forming a circle around the table. “Medical’s on the way,” a voice said. Carson looked up at Harper, who nodded back. “I’m okay,” he gasped, pressing a bloodied napkin against his chest.

Then there was a hand on Carson’s shoulder and Teece’s thin, peeling face passed his field of vision. The inspector knelt beside Vanderwagon.

“Andrew?”

Vanderwagon’s good eye slid around and located Teece.

“Why did you do that?” Teece asked sympathetically.

“Do what?”

Teece pursed his lips. “Never mind,” he said quietly.

“Always talking ...”

“I understand,” Teece said.

“Pluck out ...”

“Who told you to pluck it out?”

“Get me out of here!” Vanderwagon suddenly screamed.

“We’re going to do just that,” said Mike Marr as he made his way through the circle of diners, pushing Teece aside. Two medical workers lifted Vanderwagon onto a stretcher. The investigator followed the group toward the door, leaning over the stretcher, crooning: “Who? Tell me who?”

But the medic had already sunk a needle in Vanderwagon’s arm and the scientist’s one good eye rolled up into his head as the powerful narcotic took effect.

The studio’s Green Room wasn’t green at all, but a pale yellow. A sofa and several overstuffed chairs were lined up against the walls, and in the center a scratched Bauhaus coffee table was piled high with copies of People, Newsweek, and The Economist. On a table in the far corner sat a pot of well-cooked coffee, a pile of Styrofoam cups, some elderly looking cream, and an untidy heap of sweetener packages.

Levine decided not to chance the coffee. He shifted on the sofa, glancing around again. Besides himself and Toni Wheeler, the foundation’s media consultant, there was only one other person in the room, a sallow-faced man in a glen plaid suit. Feeling Levine’s eyes on him, the man glanced up, then looked away, dabbing his sweaty forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was clutching a book: The Courage to Be Different, by Barrold Leighton.

Toni Wheeler was whispering into his ear, and Levine made an effort to listen.

“—a mistake,” she was saying. “We shouldn’t be here, and you know it. This isn’t the kind of forum you should be seen in.”

Levine sighed. “We’ve already been through this,” he whispered back. “Mr. Sanchez is interested in our cause.”

“Sanchez is only interested in one thing: controversy. Look, what’s the point of paying me if you never take my advice? We need to be shoring up your image, making you look dignified, patrician. A statesman in the crusade against dangerous science. This show is exactly what you don’t need.”

“What I need is more exposure,” Levine replied. “People know I speak the truth. And I’ve been making real progress in recent weeks. When they hear about this”—he patted his breast pocket—“they’ll learn what ‘dangerous science’ really is.”

Ms. Wheeler shook her head. “Our focus group research shows you’re beginning to be perceived as eccentric. The recent lawsuits, and especially this thing with GeneDyne, are throwing your credibility into question.”

“My credibility? Impossible.” The perspiring man caught his eye again. “I’ll bet that’s Barrold Leighton himself,” Levine whispered. “Here to promote his book, no doubt. Must be his first time on television. The Courage to Be Different, indeed. He’s a poor choice to be hawking courage to the world.”

“Don’t change the subject. Your credibility is compromised. The Harvard chair, your work with the Holocaust Fund, just isn’t enough anymore. We need to regroup, do damage control, alter your public perception. Charles, I’m asking you again. Don’t do this.”

A woman poked her head in the door. “Levine, please,” she said in a flat voice.

Levine stood up, smiled and waved at his publicist, then followed the woman through the door and into Makeup. Damage control, indeed, Levine thought as a cosmetician placed him in a barber chair and began working his jawline with a crayon. Toni Wheeler sounded more like a submarine captain than a media consultant. She was clever and savvy, but she was a spin doctor at heart. She still didn’t understand that it wasn’t his nature to back down in the face of a struggle. Besides, he’d decided he needed a vehicle like this. The press had barely touched his account of the Novo-Druzhina accident. They thought it was too long ago and far away. “Sammy Sanchez at Seven” was based in Boston, but its broadcast feed was picked up by a string of independent stations across the country. Not “Geraldo,” perhaps, but good enough. He felt inside his suit jacket for the two envelopes. He was confident, even buoyant. This was going to be very, very good.

Studio C was typical: a faux Victorian oasis of dark wallpaper and mahogany chairs surrounded by dangling lights, television cameras, and a hundred snaking cables. Levine knew the other two panelists well: Finley Squires, the pit-bull-in-a-suit of the pharmaceutical industry, and consumer activist Theresa Court. They’d already had the first segment of the show to themselves, but Levine relished the disadvantage. He stepped across the concrete floor, picking his way carefully over the cables. Sammy Sanchez himself sat in a swivel chair at the far side of the round table, his lean predatory face gazing at Levine. He motioned him to a seat as the countdown to the second segment began.

As the live feed started, Sanchez briefly introduced Levine to the other panelists and the estimated two million viewers, then turned the discussion over to Squires. From the monitor in the makeup room, Levine had seen Squires holding forth on the benefits of genetic engineering. Levine couldn’t wait: he felt like a boxer in top shape, advancing into the ring.

“Do you have a baby with Tay-Sachs disease?” Squires was saying, “Or sickle-cell anemia? Or hemophilia?”

He gazed into the camera, his face full of concern. Then he gestured at Levine without looking at him. “Dr. Levine here would deny you the legal right to cure your child. If he has his way, millions of sick people, who could be cured of these genetic diseases, will be forced to suffer.”

He paused, voice dropping.

“Dr. Levine calls his organization the Foundation for Genetic Policy. Don’t be fooled. This is no foundation. This is a lobbying organization, which is trying to keep the miraculous cures offered by genetic engineering from you. Denying your right to choose. Making your children suffer.”

Sammy Sanchez swiveled in his chair, raising one eyebrow in Levine’s direction. “Dr. Levine? Is it true? Would you deny my child the right to such a cure?”

“Absolutely not,” Levine said, smiling calmly. “I’m a geneticist by training. After all, as I recently made public, I was one of the developers of the X-RUST variety of corn, though I have refrained from profiting by it. Dr. Squires is grossly distorting my position.”

“A geneticist by training, perhaps, but not by practice,” Squires continued. “Genetic engineering offers hope. Dr. Levine offers despair. What he terms a ‘cautious, conservative approach’ is really nothing more than a suspicion of modern science so deep it’s practically medieval.”

Theresa Court began to say something, then stopped. Levine glanced at her without concern; he knew she’d side with the winner whichever way things shook out.

“I think that what Dr. Levine is advocating is greater responsibility on the part of the companies engaged in genetic research,” Sanchez said. “Am I right, Doctor?”

“That’s part of the solution,” Levine replied, content for the time being to press his usual message home. “But we also need greater governmental oversight. Currently, corporations are seemingly free to tinker with human genes, animal and plant genes, viral genes, with little or no supervision. Pathogens of unimaginable virulence are being created in labs today. All it takes is one accident to cause a catastrophe with potentially worldwide implications.”

At last, Squires turned his scornful gaze toward Levine. “More government oversight. More regulation. More bureaucracy. More stifling of free enterprise. That is precisely what this country does not need. Dr. Levine is a scientist. He should know better. Yet he persists in fostering these untruths, frightening people with lies about genetic engineering.”

It was time. “Dr. Squires is attempting to portray me as deceitful,” Levine said. He reached a hand inside his jacket, feeling for the inner pocket. “Let me show you something.”

He slipped out a bright red envelope, holding it up to the cameras. “As a professor of microbiology, Dr. Squires is beholden to no one. He’s only interested in the truth.”

Levine shook the sealed envelope slightly, hoping that Toni Wheeler was watching from the Green Room. The red color had been a stroke of genius. He knew the cameras had focused on the envelope, and that countless viewers were now waiting for it to be opened.

“And yet, what if I told you that, in this envelope, I have proof that Dr. Squires has been paid a quarter of a million dollars by the GeneDyne Corporation? One of the world’s leading genetic engineering firms? And that he has kept this employment secret, even from his own university? Would that, perhaps, call his motives into question?”

He laid the envelope in front of Squires.

“Open it, please,” he said, “and show the contents to the camera.”

Squires looked at the envelope, not quite comprehending the trap that was being set. “This is preposterous,” he said at last, brushing the envelope to the floor.

Levine could hardly believe his luck. He turned to the camera with a triumphant smile. “You see? He knows exactly what’s inside.”

“This is grossly unprofessional,” snapped Squires.

“Go ahead,” Levine goaded. “Open it.”

The envelope was now on the floor, and Squires would have to stoop to pick it up. In any case, Levine thought, it was too late for Finley Squires. If he had opened it immediately he might have maintained his credibility.

Sanchez was looking from one scientist to the other. It began to dawn on Squires what was happening. “This is the lowest form of attack I have ever witnessed,” he said. “Dr. Levine, you ought to be ashamed, of yourself.”

Squires was on the ropes but still combative. Levine removed the second envelope from his pocket.

“And in this envelope, Dr. Squires, I have some information about recent developments at GeneDyne’s secret genetic-engineering lab, the one known as Mount Dragon. These developments are extremely disturbing, and of interest to any scientist who has the greater interests of humanity at heart.”

He laid the second envelope in front of Squires. “If you won’t open the other, at least open this. Be the one to expose GeneDyne’s dangerous activities. Prove that you have no interest in the company.”

Squires sat very stiffly. “I will not be intimidated by intellectual terrorism.”

Levine felt his heart racing. It was almost too good to be true: the man was still putting his foot into every trap.

“I can’t open it myself,” Levine said. “GeneDyne has sued my foundation for two hundred million dollars in an effort to silence me. Someone else must do it.”

The envelope sat on the table, cameras focused upon it. Sanchez swiveled in his chair, gazing back and forth between the panelists.

Court reached over and snatched it up. “If no one else has the courage to open it, I will.”

Good old Theresa, thought Levine; he knew she could not resist the opportunity to play a role in the drama.

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of white paper, containing a message in a simple, sober-looking typeface.

NAME OF VIRUS:

Unknown.

INCUBATION PERIOD:

One week.

TIME BETWEEN FIRST SYMPTOMS

AND DEATH:

Five minutes to two hours.

MODE OF DEATH:

Aggravated cerebral edema.

INFECTIOUSNESS:

Spreads more easily than the common cold.

MORTALITY RATE:

100%—all victims die.

DANGER FACTOR:

A “doomsday virus”: if released, accidentally or intentionally, it could destroy the human race.

CREATOR:

GeneDyne, Inc.

PURPOSE:

Unknown. It is a corporate secret protected by the privacy laws of the United States. Work on this virus is continuing, with minimal government oversight.

HISTORY:

Within the last 2 weeks, this virus infected an unidentified scientist or technician at a remote GeneDyne testing facility. The technician was apparently isolated before additional exposures could take place. The technician was dead within three days. Had quarantine procedures been, ineffective, the virus could have escaped to the populace at large. We might all be dead.

Court read the document aloud, stopping several times to look incredulously at Levine. As she finished, Sanchez swiveled his chair toward Finley Squires.

“Any comment?” he asked.

“Why would I comment?” Squires said irritably. “I have nothing whatsoever to do with GeneDyne.”

“Shall we open the first envelope?” Sanchez said, a faint but wicked smile appearing on his cadaverous face.

“Be my guest,” said Squires. “Whatever’s inside will undoubtedly be a forgery.”

Sanchez picked up the envelope. “Theresa, you seem to be the one with the guts around here,” he said, handing it to her.

She ripped it open. Inside was a computer printout indicating that the sum of $265,000 had been wired from GeneDyne Hong Kong to a numbered account at the Rigel Bancorp, Netherlands Antilles.

“There’s no name on this account,” said Sanchez, looking closer.

“Hold the second page up to the cameras,” said Levine.

The second page was fuzzy but readable. It was a screen print, covertly seized from a live image on a computer terminal by an expensive and prohibited device. The screen contained wiring instructions from Finley Squires regarding an account at the Rigel Bancorp, Netherland Antilles. The account had the same number.

There was a chill silence, and Sanchez wrapped the segment, thanking the participants and asking the audience at home to stay tuned for Barrold Leighton.

The moment the cameras shut off, Squires stood up. “This charade will be met with massive legal reply,” he said tersely, and strode off the set.

Sanchez swiveled toward Levine, his lips pursed appraisingly. “Cute act,” he said. “I hope for your sake you can back it up.”

Levine merely smiled.

Returning to his lab after retrieving some test results from Pathology, Carson moved awkwardly through the narrow crawl spaces of the Fever Tank. It was after six, and the facility was almost empty. De Vaca had left hours earlier to run some enzyme tests in the computer lab; it was time to close up shop and make the long slow trek toward the surface. But much as he hated the tight spaces of the Fever Tank, Carson found himself in no hurry to leave. He’d lost his dinner partners: Vanderwagon was gone, of course, and Harper would be in the infirmary for another day.

At the lab hatchway, he stopped short. A strange blue-suit was in his lab, poking around his worktable, turning over objects. Carson punched the intercom button on the sleeve of his suit. “Looking for something?” he asked.

The suit straightened up and swiveled toward him, and the painfully sunburnt face of Gilbert Teece came into view through the faceplate.

“Dr. Carson! How nice to make your acquaintance. I wonder if I could have a few words with you.” The figure extended its hand.

“Why not,” Carson said, feeling foolish as he shook the inspector’s hand through several layers of rubber. “Have a seat.”

The figure looked around. “I still haven’t figured out how to do that while wearing this bloody suit.”

“I guess you’ll have to stand, then,” said Carson, moving forward and taking a seat at the worktable.

“Just so,” said Teece. “It’s quite an honor, you know, speaking to the descendant of Kit Carson.”

“Nobody else seems to think so,” Carson said.

“You have your own modesty to thank for that,” Teece said. “I don’t think many people around here know. It’s in your personnel file, of course. Mr. Scopes seemed very taken with the historical irony of it.” Teece paused. “Quite a fascinating character, your Mr. Scopes.”

“He’s brilliant.” Carson looked appraisingly at the investigator. “Why did you ask that question about Brandon-Smith’s autopsy back in the conference room?”

There was a brief silence. Then Carson heard Teece’s laughter crackling over the speaker in his headset. “You practically grew up among the Apache Indians, right? Then you may know one of their ancient sayings: ‘Some questions are longer than others.’ That question I asked in the conference room was very long.” He smiled. “But you’re a relatively recent arrival, and it was not aimed at you. I’d rather we talked about Mr. Vanderwagon for a moment.” He caught Carson’s grimace. “Yes, I know. Terrible doings. Did you know him well?”

“After I arrived here, we became fairly good friends.”

“What was he like?”

“He was from Connecticut. Very preppie, but I liked him. Underneath that serious exterior he had a wicked sense of humor.”

“Did you notice anything unusual prior to the incident in the dining room? Any strange behavior? Personality changes?”

Carson shrugged. “This last week, he seemed preoccupied, withdrawn. You’d speak to him and he wouldn’t answer. I didn’t think much about it, really, because we were all in shock after what happened. Besides, people often act a little strange around this place. The level of tension is unbelievable. Everyone calls it Mount Dragon fever. Like cabin fever, only worse.”

Teece chuckled. “I’m feeling a bit of that myself.”

“After what happened, Andrew was publicly reprimanded by Brent. I think he took it pretty hard.”

Teece nodded. “If thy right eye offends thee,” he murmured. “According to the tapes I watched, Scopes quoted that to Vanderwagon during his dressing-down in the conference room. Still, poking one’s eye out is a rather extreme reaction to stress, in my book. What did Cornwall say in King Lear: ‘Out, vile jelly. Where is thy lustre now?’ ”

Carson was silent.

“Do you know anything about Vanderwagon’s past history at GeneDyne?” Teece asked.

“I know he was brilliant, very highly thought of. This was his second tour here. University of Chicago grad. But you must know all this.”

“Did he speak to you about any troubles? Any worries?”

“None. Except the usual complaints about the isolation. He was a great skier, and there obviously isn’t any skiing around here, so he used to complain about that. He was pretty liberal, and he and Harper used to argue politics a lot.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

Carson thought a moment. “He did mention someone. Lucy, I think. She lives in Vermont.” He shifted in the chair. “Look, where have they taken him, anyway? Have you learned anything yet?”

“He’s undergoing tests. So far, we know very little. It’s very difficult here, with no open phones to the outside. But already there are some perplexing developments, which I’d ask you to keep to yourself for the time being.”

Carson nodded.

“Preliminary tests show Vanderwagon suffering from unusual medical problems: overly permeable capillaries and elevated levels of dopamine and serotonin in the brain.”

“Permeable capillaries?”

“Leaky blood vessels. Somehow, a small percentage of his blood cells have disintegrated, releasing hemoglobin. This hemoglobin has leaked out of his capillaries and into various parts of his body. Naked hemoglobin, as you may know, is poisonous to human tissues.”

“Did that contribute to his breakdown?”

“It’s too early to say,” Teece replied. “The elevated levels of dopamine, however, are very significant. What do you know about dopamine? Serotonin?”

“Not much. They’re neurotransmitters.”

“Correct. At normal levels, there’s no problem. However, too much of either in the brain would dramatically affect human behavior. Paranoid schizophrenics have elevated levels of dopamine. LSD trips are caused by a temporary increase in the same neurotransmitter.”

“What are you saying?” Carson asked. “That Andrew has elevated levels of these neurotransmitters in his brain because he’s crazy?”

“Perhaps,” Teece replied. “Or vice versa. But there really isn’t any point in speculating until we know more. Let’s move on to my original purpose here, and talk about this X-FLU strain you’re working on. Perhaps you can tell me how, while you thought you were neutralizing the virus, you instead managed to make it more deadly.”

“God, if I could answer that question ...” Carson paused. “We don’t really understand yet how X-FLU does its dirty work. When you recombine genes, you never really know what will happen. Suites of genes work together in complicated ways, and removing one or putting a new one into the mix often causes unexpected effects. In some ways, it’s like an incredibly complex computer program that nobody fully understands. You never know what might happen if you plug in strange data or change a line of code. Nothing might happen. Or it might work better. Or the whole program might crash.” He had the vague realization that he was being more frank with this OSHA investigator than Brent Scopes might like. But Teece was sharp; there was no point dissembling.

“Why not use a less dangerous virus as a vehicle for the X-FLU gene?” asked Teece.

“That’s difficult to explain. You must know that the body is composed of two types of cells: somatic cells and germ cells. In order for X-FLU to be a permanent cure—one that would be passed on to descendants—we have to insert the DNA into germ-line cells. Somatic cells won’t do. The X-FLU host virus is uniquely capable of infecting human germ cells.”

“What about the ethics of altering germ cells? Of introducing new genes into the human species? Has there been any discussion of that at Mount Dragon?”

Carson wondered why this subject kept coming up. “Look,” he said, “we’re making the tiniest change imaginable: inserting a gene only a few hundred base pairs long. It will make human beings immune to the flu. There’s nothing immoral in that.”

“But didn’t you just say that making a small change in one gene can have unexpected results?”

Carson stood up impatiently. “Of course! But that’s what phased testing is all about—looking for unexpected side effects. This gene therapy will have to go through a whole gamut of expensive tests, costing GeneDyne millions of dollars.”

“Testing on human beings?”

“Of course. You start with in vitro and animal tests. In the alpha phase you use a small group of human volunteers. The beta phase is larger. The tests will be done using an out-group monitored by GeneDyne. Everything is done with excruciating care. You know all this as well as I do.”

Teece nodded. “Forgive me for dwelling on the subject, Dr. Carson. But if there are ‘unexpected side effects,’ wouldn’t you be perpetuating these side effects in the human race if you introduce the X-FLU gene into the germ cells of even a few people? Creating, perhaps, a new genetic disease? Or a race of people different from the rest of humanity? Remember, it took just a single mutation in one person—one person—to introduce the hemophilia gene into the race. Now, there are countless thousands of hemophiliacs across the world.”

“GeneDyne would never have spent almost half a billion dollars without working out the details,” Carson snapped, uncertain why he was feeling so defensive. “You’re not dealing with a start-up company here.” He walked around the side of his worktable to face the investigator. “My job is to neutralize the virus. And believe me, that’s more than enough. What they do with it once it’s neutralized is not my concern. There are suffocating government regulations covering every inch of this problem. You, of all people, should know that. You probably wrote half the damn regulations yourself.”

Three tones chimed in his headset. “We’ve got to leave,” Carson said. “They’re doing an early decontamination sweep tonight.”

“Right,” Teece replied. “Would you mind leading the way? I’m afraid I’d be lost within fifty feet.”

* * *

Outside, Carson stood silently for a moment, shutting his eyes and letting the warm evening wind blow over him. He could almost feel the accumulated tension and dread dissipating on the desert breeze. He blinked his eyes open, noticed the unusual color of the sunset, and frowned. Then he turned to Teece.

“Sorry if I was a bit brusque back there,” he said. “That place wears on me, especially by the end of the day.”

“Perfectly understandable.” The investigator stretched, scratched his peeling nose, and glanced around at the white buildings, thrown into dramatic relief by the sunset. “It’s not so bad here, once that bloody great sun goes down.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to catch dinner.”

“I guess.” Carson’s tone betrayed his reluctance.

Teece turned to look at him. “You sound about as eager as I feel.”

Carson shrugged. “I’ll be all right by tomorrow. I just don’t feel all that hungry.”

“Me neither.” The investigator paused. “So let’s go have a sauna.”

Carson turned his head in disbelief. “A what?”

“A sauna. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

“Are you crazy? That’s the last thing I—” Carson stopped when he caught the expression on Teece’s face. Realizing it was an order, not an invitation, he narrowed his eyes.

“Fifteen minutes, then,” he said, and headed for his room without another word.

When the plans for Mount Dragon were drawn up, the designers, realizing that the occupants would be virtually imprisoned by the vast desert around them, went to great lengths to add as many distractions and creature comforts as possible. The recreation facility, a long low structure next to the residency compound, was better equipped than most professional health spas, boasting a quarter-mile track, squash and racquetball courts, swimming pool, and weight room. What the designers hadn’t realized was that most of the scientists at Mount Dragon were obsessed with their work, and avoided physical exertion whenever possible. Practically the only residents who made use of the recreation center were Carson, who liked to run in the evenings, and Mike Marr, who spent hours working with the free weights.

Perhaps the most unlikely feature of the recreation center was the sauna: a fully equipped Swedish model with cedar walls and benches. The sauna was popular during the cold high-desert winters at Mount Dragon, but it was shunned by everyone in the summer.

As he approached the sauna from the men’s locker room, Carson saw by the external thermometer that Teece was already inside. He pulled the door open, turning involuntarily from the blast of hot air that emerged. Stepping in, he saw through smarting eyes the pallid form of Teece, sitting near the bank of coals at the far end of the chamber, a white towel wrapped around his skinny loins. His pasty white complexion was in hilarious contrast to his burnt face. Sweat was pouring from his forehead and collecting at the end of his sun-abused nose.

Carson took a seat as far from the inspector as he could, gingerly settling the backs of his thighs against the hot wood. He breathed the fiery air in shallow gulps.

“All right, Mr. Teece,” he said angrily. “What is this about?”

Teece looked at him with a wry smile. “You should see yourself, Dr. Carson,” he panted. “All drawn up with righteous manly indignation. But don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ve asked you here for a very good reason.”

“I’m waiting to hear it.” Carson could already feel a sheen of sweat coating his skin. Teece must have this thing cranked to a hundred and sixty, he thought.

“There’s something else I want to discuss with you,” Teece said. “Mind if I add some steam?”

At some point, a Mount Dragon wag had replaced the usual wooden water dipper with a retort full of distilled water. Before Carson could protest, the investigator had picked up the retort and poured a pint of water onto the glowing coals. Clouds of steam rose immediately, filling the room with a scorching vapor.

“Why the hell did we have to come in here?” Carson croaked, head reeling.

“Mr. Carson, I don’t mind sharing most of my discussions,” came the disembodied voice through the steam. “In fact, more often than not it has served my own purposes. As with our talk in your lab this afternoon. But right now, what I want is privacy.”

Comprehension came slowly to Carson’s brain. It was commonly believed around Mount Dragon that any conversation taking place in the bluesuits was monitored. Obviously, Teece didn’t want anybody else overhearing what he was about to say. But why not meet in the cafeteria, or the residency compound? Carson answered his own question: The canteen rumor mill suspected Nye of bugging the entire facility. Teece, apparently, believed the rumors. That left the sauna—with its corrosive heat and steam—as the only place where they could talk.

Or did it? “Why couldn’t we have just taken a walk along the perimeter fence?” Carson gasped.

Teece suddenly materialized through the vapor. He took a seat next to Carson, shaking his head as he did so. “I have a horror of scorpions,” he said. “Now, listen to me a moment. You’re wondering why I asked you here, of all people. There are two reasons. First, I’ve watched your response to the Brandon-Smith emergency several times on tape. You were the one scientist who was intimately involved with the project, and with the tragedy, who behaved rationally. I may need that kind of impartiality in the days ahead. That’s why I spoke with you last.”

“You’ve talked to everyone?” Teece had been on-site only a few days.

“It’s a small place. I’ve learned a great deal. And there is much else that I suspect, but do not yet know for certain.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. “The second and most important reason involves your predecessor.”

“You mean Franklin Burt? What about him?”

“In your lab, I mentioned that Andrew Vanderwagon was suffering from leaky blood vessels and overdrives of dopamine and serotonin. What I didn’t tell you was that Franklin Burt is suffering from the same symptoms. And, according to the autopsy report, so to a lesser degree was Rosalind Brandon-Smith. Now, why would that be, do you suppose?”

Carson thought for a moment. It made no sense at all. Unless ... Despite the heat of the sauna, a sudden thought chilled him.

“Could they be infected with something? A virus?” My God, he thought, could it be some long-gestating strain of X-FLU? Dread coursed through him.

Teece wiped his hands on his towel, grinning. “What’s happened to your unswerving faith in safety procedures? Relax. You aren’t the first to jump to that conclusion. But neither Burt nor Vanderwagon show any X-FLU antibodies. They’re clean. Brandon-Smith, on the other hand, was riddled with them. So there’s no commonality.”

“Then I can’t explain it,” Carson said, expelling a pent-up breath. “Very strange.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Teece murmured.

He added more water to the coals. Carson waited.

“I assume you studied Dr. Burt’s work in detail when you first arrived,” Teece went on.

Carson nodded.

“So you must have read his electronic notebook?”

“I have,” said Carson.

“Many times, I imagine.”

“I can recite it in my sleep.”

“Where do you think the rest of it is?” asked Teece.

There was a short silence.

“What do you mean?” Carson asked.

“As I read the on-line files, something in them struck me as funny, like a melody that was missing some notes. So I did a statistical analysis of the entries, and I found that over the course of the last month the average daily entry dropped from over two thousand words to a few hundred. That led me to the conclusion that Burt, for whatever personal or paranoid reasons of his own, had started to keep a private notebook. Something Scopes and the others couldn’t see.”

“Hard copy is forbidden at Mount Dragon,” Carson said, knowing he was merely stating the obvious.

“I doubt if rules meant much to Dr. Burt at that point. Anyway, as I understand it, Mr. Scopes likes to roam GeneDyne cyberspace all night long, poking and prying into everyone’s business. A hidden journal is a logical response to that. I’m sure Burt wasn’t the only one. There are probably several completely sane people here who keep private logs.”

Carson nodded, his mind working fast. “That means—” he began.

“Yes?” Teece prompted, suddenly eager.

“Well, Burt mentioned a ‘key factor’ several times in his last on-line entries. If this secret journal exists, it might contain that key, whatever it is. I was thinking it might be the missing piece to solving the riddle of rendering X-FLU harmless.”

“Perhaps,” Teece said. Then he paused. “Burt worked on other projects before X-FLU, correct?”

“Yes. He invented the GEF process, GeneDyne’s proprietary filtration technique. And he perfected PurBlood.”

“Ah, yes. PurBlood.” Teece pursed his lips distastefully. “Nasty idea, that.”

“What do you mean?” Carson asked, mystified. “Blood substitutes can save countless lives. They eliminate shortages, the need for blood typing, protect against transfusions of tainted blood—”

“Perhaps,” Teece interrupted. “Just the same, the thought of injecting pints of it into my veins isn’t pleasant. I understand it’s produced by a vat of genetically engineered bacteria that have had the human hemoglobin gene inserted into them. It’s the same bacteria that exists by the trillions in ...” His voice trailed off, and he added the word “dirt” almost soundlessly.

Carson laughed. “It’s called streptococcus. Yes, it’s the bacterium found in soil. The fact is, we at GeneDyne know more about streptococcus than any other form of life. It’s the only organism other than E. coli whose gene we have completely mapped from beginning to end. So it’s a perfect host organism, just because it lives in dirt doesn’t make it disgusting or dangerous.”

“Call me old-fashioned, then,” said Teece. “But I’m straying from our subject here. The doctor who’s treating Burt tells me that he repeats an apparently nonsensical phrase over and over again: ‘Poor alpha.’ Do you have any idea what that might mean? Could it be the beginning of some longer sentence? Or perhaps his nickname for somebody?”

Carson thought a moment, then shook his head. “I doubt if it’s anybody here.”

Teece frowned. “Another mystery. Perhaps the notebook will shed light on this, as well. In any case, I have some ideas on how to go about searching for it. I plan to follow them up when I get back.”