“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 ot
her 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 afra
id 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.
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