World without Cats

by Bonham Richards

  “Sounds promising,” she said.

  “It just seems so obvious,” Noah remarked. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before.”

  “Will this really do the trick, Noah? We’re running out of time—or cats are, anyway.”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. If the envelope antigens don’t succeed, maybe one of the other labs will come up with something. The CDC people are still working on it. So are the Russians and a group with the special pathogens branch of the Pasteur Institute.”

  Noah phoned Angelo at the CDC. After Noah described his plan, Angelo replied with a hearty, “Marveloose! I will speak with Dr. Bronkowski about having some purified virus sent to you, and I will call you back in a little while. Will you stay by the phone please?”

  “You’ve got my cell phone number. I’ll have it with me.” This is great, he thought, Vera was right to get me involved with FHF. To think, I resisted.

  Angelo did, indeed, telephone back within the hour. “I am very sorry, Noah, Dr. Bronkowski will not allow the FHF-C virus to leave the laboratory. All work with it must be done in a BSL-4 lab. Your lab is not adequate. I am sorry. If you could come to Atlanta, we could have the work done here.”

  Noah’s euphoria vanished. “Oh, for God’s sake, Angelo, what’s the point of restricting FHF to BSL-4 conditions? There are so few cats left.”

  “Well, we are afraid that the virus could change again. What if it acquired the ability to infect humans? A virus related to feline leukemia is found endogenously in baboons, you know. And, don’t forget the Ebola part of FHF. We want to make sure that if the virus mutates into something even more dangerous, it doesn’t get out of the lab. I think the boss is being reasonable.”

  “But I have samples of the virus in my lab already!” Noah realized he was shouting into the phone. He lowered his voice. “We have a great many samples of infected tissue.”

  “Yes, but that is not purified virus,” replied Angelo in measured tones. “As you know, the purified virus is millions of times more concentrated than that in infected tissue. We cannot take any chances.”

  “Angelo, the techniques required to clone the genes are complicated and need all sorts of specialized equipment.”

  “So you think our labs are primitive? We have state-of-the-art facilities here, Noah. If there is some specialized equipment you need that we don’t have, you can bring it with you. You write up the detailed protocols and what materials and equipment you need, and we’ll work out the details by e-mail or telephone.”

  Noah felt sick to his stomach at the new complication. “All right, all right,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll get started on it.”

  In zoos across the USA, many species of felines were becoming ill with a FHF-like disease, but rarely did they succumb. The larger cats—pumas, leopards, lions, and the like—seemed to have a much greater resistance to the virus than domestic cats. There was no question that the bigger cats were, in fact, infected with FHF. The CDC had demonstrated that by isolating the virus from the animals.

  At the Toronto Zoo, a baboon named Tarzan showed symptoms of hemorrhagic fever. Aware of the possibility of Ebola, Ian Beswick, the primate-keeper, immediately quarantined the animal by placing it in a cage within a larger cage. He put up cautionary warnings to alert the other keepers that the primate should not be handled. When Tarzan died, the corpse was autopsied. The organs displayed evidence of severe hemorrhaging. Blood and tissue samples were tested for Ebola, but the results were equivocal. Beswick, who had been avidly following the news about FHF, sent samples to the CDC in the States to have them tested. The results were positive. It was now clear that primates could acquire FHF.

  It had been over three months since Angelo Kraakmo had described FHF to the public on Rita Kenyon’s talk show. At that time Scheherazade, Kenyon’s Persian, had been in good health. In the months that followed, Kenyon had taken pains to keep her feline friend indoors at all times. She made a ritual of washing her hands before preparing the cat’s meals and showered several times a day to wash away any of the virus she might have brought in. Kenyon also sent her clothes to the laundry much more frequently than she had before FHF. She was determined that Scheherazade was not going to become another victim.

  Kenyon no longer welcomed her many male friends to her apartment. Instead she either accompanied them to their homes, or they met in hotels. When she explained to them why, most accepted her reason—although a few thought she was a bit eccentric.

  One night, an obstreperous fellow named Jason, whom she had been dating for a few months, remarked, “You’re loony, Rita. It’s just a cat, for God’s sake.” Jason slept alone that night; Kenyon told him to take her home and never to call her again.

  All these precautions notwithstanding, it was evident to Kenyon that her beloved companion had now become quite ill. It started without warning; the once-beautiful white Persian had become disheveled. She was no longer grooming herself and had lost her appetite. Rita sat on a sofa, the cat on her lap, and gently stroked the animal. She was too smart to deceive herself, and she realized that she was about to lose her friend. Most who knew her thought her stone-hearted. Certainly, that was the image she projected on television. Now she cried openly. Would she have done so if others had been present? Who knows?

  Scheherazade died during the night. The next day Rita Kenyon drove to the studio as usual, assuming the persona that was expected of her.

  18

  September 2020

  322,600,000

  Noah finally allowed that the CDC labs were fully equipped to isolate RNA from the FHF virus; all he needed to bring to Atlanta were his notes. He meticulously worked out all the procedural details with Gary and arranged for a substitute biochem lecturer. By the time he was ready to depart, his e-tablet was loaded with over a hundred pages of detailed protocols for every step of the work.

  Angelo, smiling broadly, was waiting for him and they headed from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport to the CDC campus. Without delay, they proceeded to Bronkowski’s office. Noah beheld a large desk with papers and books scattered in seeming disorder, which reminded him of his own office. Behind the desk sat the director, coatless, with his sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows.

  After Angelo had introduced the two to each other, Bronkowski asked, “Would you like to see the Centers?”

  Noah was anxious to get started on the work, but he figured it was better to be diplomatic. “Um, yes, that would be nice,” he replied.

  As they walked toward the research buildings, Bronkowski remarked, “You know, we’ve been getting dozens of letters, e-mails, and even phone calls from people all over the country offering theories as to how or why FHF got started. Some of them are bizarre. One lady in Kansas believes the disease is God’s revenge on witches. I guess it’s the association of witches with cats. Several other people proposed religious or mythological origins.”

  Noah shook his head. “Maybe you can make them into a book someday.”

  Bronkowski nodded. “Not a bad idea.” Though heavyset, he was a fast walker, and Noah, despite the fact that he was several inches taller, had to double-step from time to time to keep up with the man. A moment later, Bronkowski said, “The lab building I want to show you is just ahead. We have seven BSL-4 buildings now,” he noted. “After 9/11 and the anthrax scare, the government spent millions of dollars upgrading our facilities, out of fear that terrorists might resort to biological weapons: anthrax, Ebola—who knows what. As a result, we now have the most hot-lab space of any facility in the world.”

  They visited three BSL-3 labs, including one in which several technicians were in the process of sequencing FHF virus proteins. Next, Bronkowski showed Noah the large library and the vivarium. Finally, they arrived at the door to the enormous building that housed the BSL-4 labs. The sign read “ADMITTANCE TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” Above it w
as displayed the single word “BIOHAZARD” with the bright orange-and-black circlet of the universal biohazard symbol.

  Bronkowski took a plastic card from his shirt pocket and slipped it into the slot. The sliding door opened with a high-pitched whine, and they went inside to an anteroom, where they encountered another door. Noah heard a hiss of flowing air as negative pressure was re-established. Bronkowski explained that the BSL-4 labs lay deep in the interior of the building, surrounded by a series of thick, concrete walls. To pass through each wall to the next inner level, one had to make one’s way through a double-air-lock chamber, such as the one they were now in.

  Bronkowski stepped up to a device that reminded Noah of a monocular microscope. With his left eye, Bronkowski peered into the lens. The scanner emitted a three-note chord. The director put his other eye to the ocular—another chord, several notes higher. “You guys don’t take chances,” Noah remarked.

  “Yes,” said Angelo, “each entry portal has one or more identification criteria. The one outside was the magnetic card. This one’s retina and fingerprint.” As he said that, a green light flashed on the scanner, and Bronkowski placed his hands flat over two windows. Noah saw a light go on inside the machine.

  In a moment, a second green light came on. They passed through another door, headed down a hall, and turned a corner to encounter a second air lock. Here were additional requirements, the main one being voice recognition. Bronkowski articulated, “Warren Bronkowski. The trees of Atlanta bloom in the spring.”

  Noah glanced at Angelo, a questioning look on his face.

  “That’s today’s password. This step employs both voice recognition and a password. Each day, the password is changed. Yesterday, it was, ‘There’s no business like show business.’”

  A dull rumble emanated from the powerful air-conditioning system. The entire building was constructed so that all airflow was directed inward and was HEPA-filtered at each level to remove bacteria, viruses, and even large molecules. The whole setup seemed to Noah like a huge, concrete maze. After the group had moved through two more airlock chambers, they arrived at an observation room containing several closed-circuit television monitors. Each monitor displayed a different laboratory; only one showed activity.

  Noah, who had often seen diagrams of hot labs but had never viewed one in person, observed a row of Class-III biological safety cabinets in one of them. These were larger and more substantial-looking than those with which Noah was familiar. Each cabinet was outfitted with sturdy gloves that extended into the box. At one end of the line of glove boxes he observed a large autoclave mounted in the wall, while a door to another one was visible at the other end of the lab. All exposed surfaces were either enameled or stainless steel, giving the BSL-4 lab a hard, cold, bright appearance. At the top of the video image, Noah noticed a complex system of ducts and pipes crisscrossing the ceiling within. Some of the ducts extended down to the safety cabinets.

  Two people were at work in the lab, but Noah was hard-pressed to determine the gender of either. Each wore a one-piece protective blue suit with gloves and a helmet. Flexible, yellow air hoses hung down from the ceiling and were attached to the helmets. Noah thought the workers looked more like astronauts than lab technicians. He could see from the forehead of one that he or she was dark-skinned. That person happened to look up and nod to the camera. Noah sensed that the person was smiling at him, though the mask concealed the mouth.

  “Who is that?” he asked.

  “Ah, that’s Nicky Brown,” Bronkowski replied. “He’s the technician who’s going to do your procedures.”

  Noah turned abruptly to face Bronkowski. “What? What procedures?”

  “Why, the experiments you came here for. The isolation of FHF RNA, the synthesis of cDNA, and so on.”

  Noah replied, “I’ll do my own work, if you don’t mind.” A knot formed in his gut. Noah trusted only one technician, Alicia Diaz. The reason was simple—he had trained her himself.

  “But, Dr. Chamberlin,” said Bronkowski, “we can’t let an untrained person use the BSL-4 lab. Each of our …”

  Noah felt helpless and deeply angry. “What do you think I am, a hack?”

  Angelo remained silent.

  “As I was saying,” continued Bronkowski, the warmth gone from his voice, “each of our technicians goes through months of training in the proper safety procedures for the hot lab. Nicky has years of experience in recombinant DNA technology as well.”

  At that moment, Nicky Brown pointed to the airlock door and gestured with his forefinger.

  “Looks like he’s coming out now,” observed Bronkowski. “It’ll take him about fifteen minutes.”

  “I suppose he has to take off that space suit and put on civilian clothes,” Noah remarked.

  “Yes,” said Bronkowski, “but first he has to pass through a Lysol shower. Then, after he rinses off the Lysol and removes the space suit, he takes a regular body shower. It’s all quite time-consuming, but necessary.”

  Back in Bronkowski’s office, Noah continued to voice objections to a technician doing the lab work. “I’ll have to train him from scratch; that could take weeks.”

  “I doubt that,” Bronkowski countered. “Perhaps a day or two. Believe me, you are underestimating him. You’ll see.” The men were silent a moment, each appraising the other. The chief rubbed his brow and said, “You know Noah, you really are naive. I am surprised you even entertained the thought that you would be allowed to work inside a level-four lab without training. You know, don’t you, that even experienced technicians have occasionally allowed dangerous viruses to escape hot labs?”

  Noah raised his eyebrows. “That’s right,” said Bronkowski. “In 1978, for example, foot-and-mouth virus got out of the BSL-4 lab at the Plum Island Agricultural Station and infected a herd of cattle on the island. It could have spread from there to Long Island and then to the whole Eastern Seaboard. Fortunately, it didn’t. As it is, they had to slaughter all the cattle on Plum Island to prevent any spread of the virus. We don’t know how that virus escaped the lab, but you must understand that I am obliged to enforce the regulations here.”

  “But FHF is already all over the country. All over the world, in fact. What’s the point of trying to keep it contained?”

  Angelo responded, “I can answer that. You and Nicky will be performing genetic manipulations on the viral genome. You’ll be cloning and copying into cDNA. It is possible during these manipulations that you could change the virus in such a way that it might expand its host range. That would be scandaloose.”

  Bronkowski nodded. “That’s it in a nutshell. You know, Dr. Chamberlin, we’re fortunate to be starting on this project at all.”

  “Why’s that,” asked Noah.

  “Two days ago, I received an emergency call from the head of the OMB. He told me not to start any new projects. The budget crisis is worsening, and even previously approved research is being halted. I managed to convince the guy that saving a species warranted breaking a rule.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t heard this. But …” Noah tried to think of an argument that would allow him to work in the BSL-4 lab, but he could not. At last, the intercom buzzed, and the secretary reported that Nickerson Brown was at the door.

  Bronkowski made the introductions. Noah rose and shook the hand of the technician, but said nothing. He was distracted by the man’s appearance. From one earlobe hung a small golden earring. His hair fell in dreadlocks that, to Noah, seemed unkempt. The fellow was lean and appeared taller than he actually was. He wore a loose-fitting, starchy-white shirt, which contrasted sharply with his shiny ebony skin. He was smiling, his eyes more so than his mouth.

  “Pleased to meet you, mon,” said Nicky Brown with a noticeable Caribbean lilt.

  “Nicky is from Kingston,” said Angelo. “He’s been in this country about ten years now. He has a BS from the University of Florida and a master’s
from CUNY Stony Brook.”

  Noah nodded. “How do you do?” he said, his voice strained. Nickerson Brown’s smile vanished.

  Angelo had invited Noah to stay with him and Dorothy. Noah could see at once that she was a very happy woman. He couldn’t help but recall her melancholy when he’d met her shortly after she’d lost all her cats. The harpsichord, moved across the country at no little expense, occupied a corner of the living room of the white clapboard house. A large, brick fireplace faced the instrument at the opposite end of the room.

  “How long have you lived here?” asked Noah as they sat down to eat.

  “Not quite a month,” answered Dorothy. “We haven’t even finished unpacking.”

  “So I see,” Noah said, eyeing several unopened cartons at the side of the dining room. “Did the harpsichord make the trip okay?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Dorothy, “but the humidity here makes it go out of tune too often, even with air conditioning. I have to tune it almost every day.”

  “Absolut,” replied Angelo. “Bach tuned his every day. So if Bach could do it, you can too.”

  Dorothy pursed her lips and gave Angelo a mock look of irritation. She turned to Noah. “How is Vera?”

  “Oh just fine. By the way, she asked me to tell you that the family that bought your home has two small dogs. She’s been out to the house once. They have fixed it up some, knocked out the wall between the dining room and the living room.”

  Dorothy became quiet, distracted. A tear formed at the corner of her eye.

  Later, after Dorothy, at Angelo’s request, played several melodies from Handel’s Water Music, Noah and Angelo sat in the living room, sipping cognac. Following a long silence, during which each man sat, absorbed in his own thoughts, Angelo regarded Noah and said, “You know, Aaron, Nicky Brown is one of the most competent and respected CDC technicians.”