The Delta Factor

by Thomas Locke

  “Sorry. I’ve grown accustomed to talking with people who would just as soon keep their heads in the sand when it comes to things like this. Not that I can blame them. Anyway, they detected scar tissue on the brain, and that was that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and could only feel the futility in his words. “I’m sorry for everything. Most of all, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

  “You’re here now, and that’s what matters most,” she replied. “I need you, you see. If you had not forced me to look at myself like this, by being absent, I would have probably kept my own head in the sand for another couple of years. As it is, I have really grown a lot.”

  “I can see that,” he said, and he did.

  “Yes, and it’s all thanks to you, in a way.” She took his arm. “But we’ll have time for that later. You must be tired.”

  He allowed himself to be led up the sidewalk. “I’m okay. How about you?”

  “There are good days and not-so-good days, and then every once in a while a really bad day,” she said crisply. “Today started off bad, but now it is a good day.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Yes, so am I. There is also a major storm blowing up at work, but I’ll tell you about that later, too. If it’s okay, we’ll check you in, then rush back and let the bean counters make a fuss over you before they take off for wherever bean counters go on weekends. Is that all right?”

  “Sure, Debs. Whatever.”

  She grinned. “I may just have a surprise for you this weekend, too.”

  “You know I’ve never been much for surprises.”

  “This one you’ll like, I promise. Sort of a welcome-home present.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Cliff settled his long frame into her Cherokee, winced at the sight of the wheelchair in the backseat, and said, “How old is this vehicle? Five years, maybe six?”

  “Don’t start,” she warned. “I happen to be very attached to this rolling junk heap.”

  “I thought all successful researchers with the biggies drove late-model cars that most of us peons have never even heard of.”

  “Not this researcher.”

  “How come?”

  “Long story.” She returned the wave of two men crossing the street. “So how is the young lady you wrote me about in your first letter? What was her name?”

  “Andrea Davenport,” Cliff answered. “Andrea and I are no longer an item, as they say.”

  “Should I be sorry?”

  “According to my friends, yes. According to my heart, no.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  Cliff sighed. “Andrea was pretty in a willowy sort of way. She was also rich and well connected. Her daddy owned Davenport Motors, the largest Chevrolet dealership in the Richmond area. That’s how we met—her dad is a bigger nut for old Jags than I am. She had a great smile, she could make polite conversation with a wall, and she would have been great for my career.”

  “That was your friends talking,” Deborah said. “Now let’s hear from Cliff.”

  “Andrea was a William and Mary graduate in art history,” Cliff replied. “She minored in the Southern dress code. She alone has kept the Izod knit shirt company from going bust. Everything she owned was either green or pink. She loved long pleated shorts and wore them with one of her sixteen alligator belts, all bearing gold buckles.”

  “Nothing the matter with liking clothes,” Deborah said.

  “I swear she must use a dozen clips in her hair,” Cliff persisted, “all of them tortoiseshell. I think she looks forward to growing old and needing glasses so she can have matching frames and hang them around her neck by a gold chain.”

  “Let’s get to the nitty-gritty,” Deborah directed.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Cliff said. “There wasn’t any. She was about as substantial as cotton candy. Andrea lived to shop and spend her daddy’s money. Period. She wouldn’t know an original thought if it reached up and grabbed her by her gold Rolex.”

  The road leading out of town was a bright green tunnel. Ancient trees rose up on either side, their lofty branches forming a solid cover overhead. The houses lining the street were clearly very old, their porches and roofs trimmed with fussy Victorian woodwork. Most had been carefully restored, and many still possessed original touches such as wavy lead-paned windows.

  “These places look great,” Cliff decided. “Which one is yours?”

  “None of them,” she replied. “I’ll show you around town tomorrow before it gets too hot, then take you out to my place.” She was quiet for a time, then said quietly, “I’ve come to really love living here.”

  “I can understand it,” Cliff said. “What I’ve seen is really beautiful.”

  “It’s a small town, and small towns are best seen on foot. But I think it is beautiful too.” She smiled at him. “I do believe I’m putting down roots.”

  “Everybody needs roots, Debs.”

  “Even you, right?”

  “That’s what I thought when I met Andrea. But you’ve spoiled me. I need somebody I can talk with. Somebody who’s got something to say. Sure would be nice to find somebody who could be a friend as well as a girlfriend.” He turned and said, “Now it’s my turn.”

  She nodded. “Fire away.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  Deborah did not need to ask what he was speaking of. “Don’t worry, I will. But not all at once. Experience has taught me that some things are better taken in small bites. It keeps you from being overwhelmed.”

  “I already am.”

  She patted his knee. “For most people who have MS, myself included, the worst part of the disease was not knowing what it was. Once the diagnosis was confirmed, I was able to identify a symptom as just that, a symptom. And symptoms pass, Cliff, at least in this stage of the disease. And there is always hope that the disease will not grow any worse. For most people, it doesn’t. And for some, there is even hope of recovery.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Multiple sclerosis is a disease of the central nervous system,” she explained, her matter-of-fact tone belied by the tragic depths to her eyes and the weary lines that creased her face. “It hits the brain and spinal cord. The nerves there are surrounded by myelin, a sort of fatty insulation. With MS, this myelin sheath breaks down, a process called demyelination. The myelin is replaced by scar tissue, which is not such a good insulation, so the tiny electronic nerve pulses that control everything in the body can be impaired. Sort of a biological short-circuit.”

  His heart was so sore he reached one hand up to grip his chest. “It sounds awful.”

  “Don’t look so sad. My symptoms are not too bad, and believe me, some of the symptoms can be pretty horrid. Paresthesia, or pins-and-needles all over the body. Lhermitte’s sign, which is like lightning surges through limbs. Spasticity, a fancy name for rigidity and stiffness. Diplopia, eye muscle weakness. Ataxia, disturbances of balance and coordination. Dysarthria, slurring of speech. Myokymia—”

  “Stop,” he said quietly. “Please.”

  “What I personally feel most is tired,” she went on. “That’s the worst part for somebody as hyperactive as I’ve always been. And achy. Lots of little pains. I’ve had to watch it with the doctor on that. He would drug me to death if I let him. Prozac, Darvocet, Baclofen, Beta Seron, you name it. If I asked for it, he’d probably prescribe it.”

  “That sounds dangerous, Debs.”

  “I’ve learned to live with a certain amount of pain in my life. Now I sort of know my limits, and I know when it’s time to give in to the drugs. But the worst thing has been the fatigue.”

  “It’s there all the time?”

  “No. On the good days it’s sort of there but not there, like a dark cloud on the horizon. On the bad days it’s a dark hole as big as the universe, and I can’t help but fall inside.”

  “Is there any h
ope you might get better?”

  “A little. Myelin repairs itself, and given time it will replace the scar tissue. So if the disease can be checked, then there is a chance—a chance—for a complete recovery. They have also identified several retroviruses that might be either primary or secondary causes, most particularly one known as the human T-cell lymphotropic virus I, or the HTLV-I. A couple of new drugs have been effective in treating some cases. Not mine, unfortunately.” Deborah hesitated a moment, then said, “And now there is another drug. Or there might be.”

  Something in her tone caused him to sit upright. “What new drug?”

  Deborah kept her eyes on the road ahead. “We collated some new results on the echiniacin tests just this morning.”

  “And?”

  “They were promising, Cliff. Very, very promising.” She swung the jeep onto the bypass. “But I’d like to wait and lay everything out for you tomorrow at the lab, if that’s okay. It’s just too important, having you here and sharing this new work with you, to rush things. That’s one of the lessons I’ve had to learn. To pace myself.”

  He looked over at her, said, “It’s good to see you again. Very good.”

  She responded with a single nod. “I almost lost it the first few times the fatigue overwhelmed me. And you weren’t there to help me find my way out.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry—”

  “Don’t,” she said softly, her gaze remaining on the gathering dusk. “Strangely enough, there was a purpose to that as well. I learned to seek help where help was waiting to be found.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The day came when I couldn’t carry it by myself,” she said in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. “He was there, and he took it from me.”

  “Who, Debs?”

  She stopped at a light and turned to face him, showing the familiar strong gaze, the chopped-off hair, the determined set of her chin. “I might be healed some day, I might not,” she replied. “I ask for it, and I ask for guidance in my own experiments. But for now, and forever, I have been given peace. Even in the darkest moments, I have found peace.”

  * * *

  Their way took them several miles down the bypass, past picturesque farms and carefully tended fields. They drove in the comfort of friends who did not need to fill the air with words. That silence remained until Cliff broke it by leaning forward in his seat and asking, “What is that?”

  “That,” Deborah answered, “is my corporate home sweet home.”

  Cliff swiveled to keep his gaze fixed on the building as Deborah turned in and parked. “Promise it won’t take off while we’re inside?”

  “It’s pretty well fixed to the earth,” she assured him. “Come along, Junior, the suits are waiting.”

  The Pharmacon facility was a series of three enormous geodesic domes, each showing as many glittering facets as an insect’s eye. The mirror-glass glinted bronze and proud in the late afternoon sunlight. Translucent metal-and-glass tunnels connected the domes, and carefully sculpted gardens surrounded the entire structure.

  “They really tried to blend in with the area, didn’t they?” Cliff said.

  “This is what is known as making a statement,” Deborah replied.

  The doors were heavy polarized glass, a full inch thick and operated by a pneumatic suspension. They slid smoothly open, then locked behind them with a well-oiled click. Inside the air sighed softly through an unseen vent; otherwise there was no sound. A reception guard inspected them from behind bulletproof glass. His voice came over the intercom, “Afternoon, Doctor.”

  “Jim, this is Cliff Devon,” Deborah replied. “He’ll be needing a pass. Labs and all.”

  “Sure, I got him down on the list. How long?”

  “Three days should do it.”

  The guard said to Cliff, “Just put your right hand down on the stand, please.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.” Deborah pointed him to the waist-high metal column standing to one side of the reception booth. Cliff did as he was told. The column emitted a warm hum as his hand was scanned. The screen embedded in the wall at eye-level lit up to reveal a single sentence. The guard said, “Please read what it says, sir.”

  “My name is Cliff Devon,” Cliff complied. “My voice is my passport.”

  “Again, please.”

  Cliff repeated the sentence. This time a chime sounded. The guard watched a monitor on his side of the glass, then took a plastic card that emerged from a slot on his desk and passed it through. “You’ll show him the ropes, won’t you, Doc?”

  “Sure, Jim. Thanks.” Deborah handed over the featureless white plastic card and said in all seriousness, “Don’t you dare lose this.”

  “Right,” Cliff agreed, thoroughly cowed. He followed her through the second set of heavy glass doors and down a long, carpeted corridor. The hall was domed and soundless and so oppressive it felt hard to breathe. “Where are you taking me?”

  “The Tombs.”

  They took the elevator to the third floor, then walked down yet another hallway. The elevator bell sounded again behind them, and Cliff jumped involuntarily.

  “It’s gotten to you, has it?”

  “I feel like I’ve been vetted for Fort Knox.”

  Deborah shook her head as she led him into a wood-lined outer office. “Our security is much tighter.”

  * * *

  A vision.

  That was all Cliff could think of as he stared down at the woman behind the desk. She was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  Deborah grinned at his reaction, “Cliff, I’d like you to meet Blair Collins. Blair, this is the friend I’ve been telling you about.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Blair said, her tone flat, her eyes neutral. Giving nothing away. Clearly used to being stared at.

  “Likewise.” Cliff turned to Deborah’s smirk and said, “It’s great knowing I can entertain you.”

  “Sorry,” Deborah said. “I guess maybe I should have given fair warning.”

  “Yeah, maybe so.” Cliff turned back to Blair. “Do you get used to having guys stumble over their tongues?”

  “Long, long ago,” she replied, a glint of something else appearing in her eyes. Humor? “How did you like the entrance routine?”

  “If they had an X-ray machine and matched Dobermans, it might have been a little eerier. But that tunnel was perfect.”

  “You should try having to walk it every morning,” Blair said. “Sometimes I feel like stripping off my clothes and running up and down screaming my head off.”

  “If you ever decide to really do it,” Cliff replied, “be sure and let me know. I’ll make a special trip down for that.”

  Deborah interrupted with, “Are they ready for us?”

  “I’m supposed to make this big production of calling ahead, you know, give them time to huddle. But I guess we can dispense with the nonsense for once. Besides, it’s almost quitting time.”

  “Fine with me,” Deborah agreed, and said to Cliff, “Come along, Junior. It’s showtime.”

  As they pushed through the double doors, Cliff muttered, “Is she for real?”

  “That’s for you to decide,” Deborah whispered back.

  “Deborah, great to see you!” A silver fox in a gray suit rose from the conference table extending down from the massive desk. “And this must be Cliff Devon.”

  “Must be,” Cliff agreed, and barely avoided Deborah’s elbow.

  “I’m James Whitehurst. So very, very glad to meet you. You of course already know Dr. Harvey Cofield, head of our R&D section and currently acting as our FDA representative.”

  “Dr. Cofield,” Cliff said, accepting the hand.

  “Cliff, great to see you,” he exuded with complete falseness.

  “Right,” Cliff responded, deciding to give the circus ten minutes max.

  “Here, take this seat right here beside me,” Whitehurst said. “Deborah has told us so much about the young m
an who is responsible for the echin drug approval study.”

  “This trip is purely for pleasure,” Cliff replied.

  “Of course, of course.” Whitehurst beamed at all and sundry. “Still, we are just delighted to have the FDA coordinator down for a visit, official or not.”

  “I’ve prepared a complete dossier of our latest clinical trials,” Cofield informed him, hefting a massive notebook and extending it his way. “I thought you might like to take a look at it this weekend.”

  “Absolutely,” Cliff agreed. Four years in federal government had given him a lot of practice at keeping his face blank.

  “We were intending to put you up in the company cottage, give you the red-carpet treatment,” Whitehurst said around his smile. “But no, our Debs said that just wasn’t on.”

  “The department has a pretty strict policy on such things,” Cliff said.

  “Sure they do. But if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you won’t hesitate to call, now, will you?”

  “Not for an instant,” Cliff agreed.

  “We’re expecting a pretty strong reaction to the press conference we called today,” Dr. Cofield said.

  “You held a press conference today?” Cliff looked from him to Debs and back again. “About what?”

  “Remember the storm I was telling you about?” Deborah replied.

  “Rumors were getting out about the echin compound,” Cofield asserted. “We decided to go public with what we know.”

  “What you think,” Cliff said, struggling to keep a grip on his temper. “The clinical trials have just gotten started.”

  “Yes, but what we’ve seen so far has been incredible,” Cofield ground on. “Incredible enough for us to decide we’ll probably need to report the findings to our friends in Washington next week.”

  “My director will be delighted to hear this,” Cliff said, knowing Ralph Summers had about as much time for political pressure as he did. Cliff leaned forward and said with all the force he could muster, “And I expect your application for product approval to proceed exactly according to proper schedule.”