The Delta Factor

by Thomas Locke

  It took a moment for Cliff to realize what he was talking about. “That subcommittee hearing seems a year ago.”

  “I wish it was,” Ralph said, his head still bent over his pad. He was drawing a series of lightning bolts smashing down on three building-shaped letters—FDA. “Congressman Larson is intending to use the echin drug application as an example of how the FDA is abusing its authority, wasting millions of taxpayer dollars, and withholding a vital new drug from the public. I think I’ve got his words down fairly accurately.”

  Cliff was stunned. “That’s crazy.”

  The director smiled humorlessly at his pad. “My exact response. Larson has been given a vast amount of clinical data, compiled in several European countries over more than twenty years, if my information is correct, which I think it is. The data indicates that the echin compounds are utterly without contraindications.”

  Cliff was out of his chair. “But Debs has changed the molecular structure!”

  “Sit down, son. I hate talking up to anyone except the President.” When Cliff was again seated, Summers went on, “Based on what I heard, the only alteration was to attach a marker molecule. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, according to my sources, Larson is going to point out that we have reams of data on the harmlessness of the antigens, since every monoclonal antibody utilizes them.”

  Cliff leaned back and ran frantic hands through his hair. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “It gets worse, I assure you.” Summers laid down his pen and looked up. “Your trip down granted them the opportunity to formally accuse the FDA of foot dragging—that’s what their little session with you was all about. This was one of Larson’s conditions in going public. He wanted to have everything above board.”

  “They didn’t say anything about all this,” Cliff protested.

  “They didn’t have to,” Summers said wearily. “All they needed was a chance to publicly rebuke us and give us what can later be called fair warning. Which they did. Thanks to you.”

  Cliff struggled to come to grips with the news. “And this new problem—”

  “Maybe your friend can convince her superiors to look into it,” Summers suggested. “But just stop for a moment and imagine what it would look like for the FDA to respond to this public enquiry by claiming that a drug which has been used by millions of Europeans for years suddenly is shown to turn roses and rapeweed into LSD. We’d be laughed out of Washington.” Summers shook his head. “It’s damage control time, son. You are hereby ordered to keep your head in the trenches. Which means no more trips down to Edenton.”

  “But Ralph—”

  “That’s it, Cliff. I’m sorry. Now get to work.”

  * * *

  Cliff returned to his office and immediately put a call in to Deborah. She heard him out in silence, then said, “They’re not getting back from Washington until late this afternoon. I’ve got a meeting scheduled for tomorrow at ten, the earliest slot they had free. You sit tight until you’ve heard from me.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I can.” Deborah’s voice was tight as a whip. “All the pieces are falling into place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Leave it until tomorrow, Junior. I’ll call you as soon as the meeting lets out.”

  * * *

  To his sleep-filled mind, the phone’s clamor sounded like Armageddon. Cliff fumbled on the side table, found the receiver only after knocking over his lamp and alarm clock. “This had better be good.”

  “Harvey Cofield is a worm in sheep’s clothing,” said a voice filled with recent tears.

  “Blair?” Cliff searched and found the clock, forced his eyes to focus. Two-thirty. “What’s the matter?”

  “I have been ordered by his royal pain in the neck never to see you again.”

  He shook his head, hoping for a little clarity. “Harvey Cofield told you not to see me?”

  “Upon pain of losing my job,” she sniffed. “As though working for the pompous jerk were such a source of joy in my life.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That he could keep his cotton-picking mitts out of my private life.”

  “That must have pleased him no end.”

  “I may be looking for new employment before long.” She came very close to breaking down as she said, “Oh, Cliff, I’m such a klutz when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

  “But such a beautiful klutz,” he said, his heart bounding joyfully.

  “Have I botched things up totally and beyond repair?”

  “I think they could be restored,” he replied. “Given the proper ingredient.”

  Another sniff. “What’s that?”

  Cliff said softly, “Love.”

  12

  “I’ve received a complete and total nix,” Deborah proclaimed by telephone the next morning.

  “That’s impossible,” Cliff replied.

  “No,” Deborah corrected. “That’s Pharmacon. The suits couldn’t care less about anything as ludicrous as our worries. That is the word Whitehurst used—ludicrous. He said I should restrict my activities to the lab and refrain from any more psychedelic accusations. He couldn’t have cared less about Tom, either.”

  “Tom?”

  “The old guy at the hospital, the one who was approached by the foreigner looking for industrial secrets.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “When I asked them about that, they looked smug and said it was all taken care of.” Deborah sounded very worried. “That about sums up their whole attitude right now. Smug. Better watch out, Junior. It looks like they’re getting ready to launch a broadside at the FDA.” She paused, then added, “And to top it all off, I’ve been forbidden to see you, upon pain of corporate dismemberment.”

  “You and Blair both.”

  “Oh, you spoke with her?”

  “Last night.”

  “Does this mean you two are back at being an item again?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, at least there’s a small ray of sunshine in this otherwise gloomy day.” Deborah sighed. “I’ve been racking my brains, Junior, but I’m coming up empty.”

  “What if we go to the press with all this?”

  “With all what? We don’t even have proof that there’s a tie-in between the field with our plants and the one with the rapeweed. All we’d do right now is send a few journalists into psychedelic orbit and maybe have a hippie festival closed down. Not to mention alerting the suits to our willingness to go public.”

  She was silent a moment, then mused aloud, “No, we’ve got to wait until we’ve got the goods, then hit them where it counts. Which is a problem, because if I start any new study here, it’s bound to get back to the Tombs.”

  “Hang on, I’ve got an idea.” Cliff searched through his drawer and came up with the card handed to him at the subcommittee hearing. “Have you ever heard of a Dr. Wendell Cooper?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “You’d remember him. He looks like a six-foot rooster. He’s president of something called the Health and Medicine Advisory Council.”

  “Never heard of that, either.”

  “They’ve got their own lab, Debs. He offered to do drug analyses for us. For free. And confidentially.”

  “Go to an outside group?” She thought it over. “I don’t like it. But again, I don’t see what choice we have.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “Let me call and talk to this guy, one scientist to another, and see what he has to offer.”

  “Good idea.” Cliff read off the number.

  “We’ll need to collect some more samples in secret and get them up to you.”

  He checked his calendar. “I’ve got an air pocket tomorrow. I’ll drive down after work today, take enough time to mend some fences with Blair, and give you a hand.”

  * * *

  Deborah was feeling a little on the frail side, as
she put it, so she left Cliff in Cochise’s capable hands. They drove and worked in silent accord. Cliff had no trouble with silence. It made for a welcome change from all the hot air filling the halls of federal bureaucracy.

  It was close to midnight by the time they turned down the farm road. They spent a long moment watching the bonfires and listening to the shrill festivities, then drove on to the Jones farm, checked the wind direction, grabbed shovels and flashlights, and set off across the fields.

  Digging up the echin plants was a time-consuming process. The big man carefully inspected each root in turn, trimmed off stalks and dirt, and handed them over for bagging. When they finally had enough, they walked back to Cochise’s truck, dropped off their load, and stopped just beyond the psychedelic festival.

  Deborah had been adamant about their preparations for the next stage. They did not know how the substance was ingested, she had told them, and could not afford taking any unnecessary risk. What if it could pass through membranes such as eyes or eardrums? What if it could enter through the skin? They had to go in prepared.

  First came the foul-weather gear, including hats—the closest thing to an isolation suit she could come up with without being noticed. Then the silicon swimmers’ earplugs. Then the insulated rubber gloves. Then tape around the openings at ankles, waists, necks, wrists—even taping the hats down around their heads. Then microfine masks covering mouth and mose. Vaseline over their faces. Goggles over the eyes. By the time they were done, Cliff was drenched in sweat. He followed Cochise across the stretch of scorched earth, his breath sounding like overworked bellows to his clogged ears.

  The revelers showed no interest whatsoever in their approach.

  They made their way within a dozen paces of one bonfire encircled by two dozen dancing, shouting, laughing, gyrating people. Young people in various stages of undress. Gray-haired hippies caught by an earlier era, still adorned with headbands and beads and floppy hats and tie-dyed T-shirts. A score of musicians seated beyond the circle, piping and strumming and tapping out music.

  Then a dark-haired girl danced over and grasped one of Cochise’s gloved hands.

  The big man turned and looked a silent question toward Cliff.

  The girl tugged harder, trying to lead him toward the bonfire. Several of the others gestured for him to come.

  Cochise gave a single shrug, walked over, and started a lumbering dance.

  If Cliff had not been sweating so fiercely, more than likely he would have found the scene hilarious.

  After two trips around the fire, Cochise broke loose from the girl’s grasp, backed off, waved goodbye to all the folks, and motioned for Cliff to come along.

  When they had filled several heavy-duty plastic refuse bags with the stalks, they returned to the truck, dumped the sacks into garbage containers, and taped the lids shut. Then they drove farther down the road, stopped again, and began a frantic sweaty stripping.

  Toweling off his face, Cliff said, “I hope you enjoyed your little jig back there.”

  Cochise gave an enormous grin. “Probably thought I was just another friendly alien.”

  Once they were under way, Cliff said, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “If I do,” Cochise replied, “you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “With all that build-up Debs gave you, I was just wondering. Why didn’t you ever go in for higher training?”

  Cochise was a while before replying, “My people come from down Wanchese way.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “It’s a small village near the coast. Just this side of the back of beyond.”

  “Brings to mind a sleepy land of marsh islands and anemic children,” Cliff offered.

  “Mosquitoes and snakes and not enough shade,” Cochise agreed. “You been there?”

  “Not yet. But I’d like to.”

  “Mostly made its living from clamming and fishing, until the sixties, anyway. By then the clambeds were giving out, and folks discovered there was a lot of money in drugs. Went into the importing business in a big way. I grew up chopping firewood for stills and hauling bales of marijuana dropped from low-flying planes. By the time I finished high school, most of my buddies were doing time. I got out the only way I knew how. I ran.”

  Cliff was silent for a time, then, “You’re saying that you’ve come a long way already. I can understand that.”

  “Yeah, Debs said you were a smart one.”

  “She’s a good lady.”

  “Debs is one of the finest people I know,” Cochise agreed. “She’s got a way of making sense out of a lot of stuff that before was just noise.”

  “You mean, like this religion thing?”

  Cochise released his grin once more. “She’s been after you too, has she?”

  “Some. But it’s like you say, somehow she does it without making me want to back off.”

  “Yeah, she’s got me listening and thinking, I’ll say that much. I ain’t there yet, but if she keeps pushing, it’s hard to say where I might wind up.”

  The sun was beginning to brush faint strokes on the horizon when they arrived back at Deborah’s place. There was a note pinned to the door that read, “I’ve had a serious attack of the sleepies. If I’m disturbed I’ll sic the cats on you, so be quiet. Blair called. She wants you both over for breakfast. She said anytime would be okay. I’ll call you later.”

  * * *

  When they arrived at Miss Sadie’s, Cliff stepped from the truck and looked out over the bay. The town was as quiet as the sunrise and as loud as creation. Doves cooed and flew in peaceful pairs upon wings that whistled up the gathering light. A car passed slowly, apologetically, aware that its presence was alien to the moment. The air was hot and heavy with country odors.

  He turned back to find Cochise watching him with fathomless dark eyes. Cliff said, “This is a million miles from what I’m used to, but somehow feels like home.”

  The big man nodded slowly, thoughtfully. The inspection continued a moment longer, then he asked, “This lady friend of yours much of a cook?”

  “One way to find out.”

  Blair covered her shock at Cochise’s size with a couple of rapid blinks. “I’m surprised I’ve missed seeing you up to now.”

  “I try to stay as far away from the suits as I can,” Cochise rumbled. “They make me break out in hives.”

  “Well, pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” She turned her attention to Cliff and her expression softened. “I’m certainly glad to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” He put everything he could into his look, his smile, his hug. Her body felt so good close to his it was hard to let go.

  But she eventually backed off, smiled once more especially for him, then turned and said, “Can I fix you some breakfast, Mr., ah, I’m sorry, I don’t recall—”

  “Cochise,” he replied, ducking to enter the back door. “Been hearing it so long I sorta got used to it myself.”

  “All right,” she said, trying not to be rattled by a man who loomed a full head and shoulders above her and outweighed her by at least two hundred pounds. “Why don’t you two have a seat over there at the table?” She winced as the chair groaned loudly, but the legs held. “Now then. What would you gentlemen care for breakfast? I was thinking of some eggs and bacon.”

  “I could eat a few eggs, sure,” Cochise rumbled. “Make for a change.”

  She paused with two eggs in one hand and the beater in the other. “A change?”

  “From normal.”

  She turned full around. “And just what, may I ask, is your normal breakfast?”

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Same as every other meal with my people.”

  “Your people. I see. And what might that be?”

  “Sun-dried eel and corn fritters.” From his back pocket Cochise pulled the makings for a hand-rolled cigarette. “Do you mind?”

  Blair sort of shook herself. “Of course not. Use that saucer there for an ashtray. Did I
hear you say eel?”

  He nodded. “Deep-fried bloodworms and grits will do in a pinch.”

  She turned to Cliff and demanded, “Is that man making fun of me in my own kitchen?”

  Cliff studied the big man, found himself understanding Cochise’s need to flavor meeting this beautiful woman with his own brand of humor. “I’d always heard the tribes down east were partial to roadkill.”

  “Yeah,” Cochise agreed, then licked and rolled the cigarette shut. “But only if they’re ripe enough for us to find them by smell.”

  “Wait just one minute,” Blair demanded.

  “And bird-dropping soup, I heard that somewhere too,” Cliff said.

  Cochise grinned, showing far too much whitework to fit in one person’s mouth. “Special occasions only.”

  “There are two men who in just about five seconds are going to be wearing their breakfast instead of eating it,” Blair snapped.

  “Sorry,” Cliff said, and let his own grin break through. He asked Cochise, “You think she’d hit like a man?”

  Cochise gave her a frank inspection, said, “Naw, more like a truck, I figure.”

  “People who make fun of me in my kitchen tend not to get invited back,” she said.

  A scuffling in the hallway announced the arrival of someone else. “Blair? Do you have company in there?”

  “Not for long,” she said.

  Miss Sadie came through the doorway, caught sight of Cochise, and stopped cold. “Good gracious sakes alive. How did you fit through the door?”

  “Miss Sadie, this is Cochise,” Cliff said. “Don’t stand up, man, there hardly isn’t room for us all in here as it is.”

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. You can let out that lungful of smoke now. Your face is turning positively green. Don’t worry, I’ve smelled a cigarette before.” She inspected him more closely. “Are you an Indian?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And with manners. Well, that’s nice. Where is your family from?”