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.”
“When you get back?” Carson echoed.
Teece nodded. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow for Radium Springs to file my preliminary report. Communication links to the outside world are practically nonexistent here. Besides, I need to consult with my colleagues. That’s why I’ve spoken to you. You are the person closest to Hurt’s work. I’ll be needing your ful
l cooperation in the days to come. Somehow, I think Burt is the key to all this. We need to make a decision soon.”
“What decision is that?”
“On whether or not to allow this project to continue.”
Carson was silent. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Scopes allowing the project to be terminated. Teece was getting up, wrapping his towel tighter.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Carson said.
“Advise what?”
“Leaving tomorrow. There’s a big dust storm coming up.”
“I didn’t hear anything about it on the radio,” Teece frowned.
“They don’t broadcast the weather for the Jornada del Muerto desert on the radio, Mr. Teece. Didn’t you notice the peculiar orange pall in the southern sky when we came out of the Fever Tank this evening? I’ve seen that before and it means trouble.”
“Dr. Singer’s lending me a Hummer. Those things are built like articulated lorries.”
For the first time, Carson thought he saw a look of uncertainty in Teece’s face. He shrugged. “I’m not going to stop you. But if I were you, I’d wait.”
Teece shook his head. “What I’ve got to do can’t wait.”
The front had gathered its energy in the Gulf of Mexico, then moved northwestward, striking the Mexican coastline of Tamaulipas State. Once over land, the front was forced to rise above the Sierra Madre Oriental, where the moist air of the higher altitudes condensed in great thunderheads over the mountains. Vast quantities of rain fell as the front moved westward. By the time it descended on the Chihuahua desert, all moisture had been wrung from it. The front veered northward, moving laterally through the basin and range provinces of northern Mexico. At six o’clock in the morning it entered the Jornada del Muerto desert.
The front was now bone dry. No clouds or rain marked its arrival. All that remained of the Gulf storm was an enormous energy differential between the hundred-degree air mass over the desert and the sixty-five-degree air mass of the front.
All this energy manifested itself in wind.
As it moved into the Jornada, the front became visible as a mile-high wall of orange dust. It bore down across the land with the speed of an express train, carrying shredded tumble-weeds, clay, dry silt, and powdered salt picked up from playas to the south. At a height of four feet above the ground, the wind also included twigs, coarse sand, pieces of dry cactus, and bark stripped from trees. At a height of six inches, the wind was full of cutting shards of gravel, small stones, and pieces of wood.
Such desert storms, though rare enough to occur only once every few years, had the power to sandblast a car windshield opaque, strip the paint off a curved surface, blow roofs off trailer homes, and run horses into barbed-wire fences.
The storm reached the middle Jornada desert and Mount Dragon at seven o’clock in the morning, fifty minutes after Gilbert Teece, senior OSHA investigator, had driven off in a Hummer with his fat briefcase, heading for Radium Springs.
Scopes sat at his pianoforte, fingers motionless on the black rosewood keys. He appeared to be in deep thought. Lying beside the hand-shaped lid prop was a tabloid newspaper, torn and mangled, as if angry hands had crumpled it, then smoothed it again. The paper was open to an article entitled “Harvard Doc Accuses Gene Firm of Horror Accident.”
Suddenly, Scopes stood up, walked into the circle of light, and flounced down on the couch. He pulled the keyboard onto his lap and typed a brief series of instructions, initiating a vidéoconférence call. Before him, the enormous screen winked into focus. A swirl of computer code ran up along one edge, then gave way to the huge, grainy image of a man’s face. His thick neck lapped over a collar at least two sizes too tight. He was staring into the camera with the bare-toothed grimace of a man unused to smiling.
“Guten tag,” said Scopes in halting German.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable speaking in English, Mr. Scopes?” the man on the screen asked, tilting his head ingratiatingly.
“Nein,” Scopes continued in bad German. “I want to practice the German. Speak slowly and clearly. Repeat twice.”
“Very good,” the man said.
“Twice.”
“Sehr gut, sehr gut,” the man said.
“Now, Herr Saltzmann, our friend tells me you have clear access to the old Nazi files at Leipzig.”
“Das ist richtig. Das ist richtig.”
“This is where the Lodz Ghetto files currently reside, is it not?”
“Ja. Ja.”
“Excellent. I have a small problem, an—how does one say it?—an archival problem. The kind of problem you specialize in. I pay very well, Herr Saltzmann. One hundred thousand Deutschmarks.“
The smile broadened.
Scopes continued to talk in pidgin German, outlining his problem. The man on the screen listened intently, the smile slowly fading from his face.
Later, when the screen was blank once again, a soft chime, almost inaudible, sounded from one of the devices on the end table.
Scopes, who was still sitting on the decrepit sofa, keyboard in lap, leaned toward the end table and pressed a button. “Yes?”
“Your lunch is ready.”
“Very well.”
Spencer Fairley entered, the foam slippers on his feet in ludicrous contrast to the somber gray suit. He made no noise as he crossed the carpet and set a pizza and a can of Coca-Cola on the far end table.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Fairley asked.
“Did you read the Herald this morning?”
Fairley shook his head. “I’m a Globe reader,” he said.
“Of course you are,” said Scopes. “You should try the Herald once in a while. It’s much more lively than the Globe.”
“No, thank you,” said Fairley.
“It’s over there,” Scopes said, pointing to the pianoforte.
Fairley went over and returned, holding the rumpled tabloid. “Unpleasant piece of journalism,” he said, scanning the page.
Scopes grinned. “Nah. It’s perfect. The crazy son of a bitch has put the knife to his own throat. All I need to do is give his arm a little nudge.”
He pulled a rumpled computer printout from his shirt pocket. “Here’s my charity list for the week. It’s short, only one item: a million to the Holocaust Memorial Fund.”
Fairley looked up. “Levine’s organization?”
“Of course. I want it done publicly, but in a quiet, dignified way.”
“May I ask ...?” Fairley raised an eyebrow.
“... Why?” Scopes finished the sentence. “Because, Spencer, you old Brahmin, it’s a worthy cause. And between you and me, they’re shortly going to lose their most effective fundraiser.”
Fairley nodded.
“Besides, if you thought about it, you would realize there are also strategic reasons to free Levine’s pet charity from excessive dependence on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Fairley, look, my jacket has a hole in the elbow. Would you like to go shopping with me again?”
A look of extreme distaste passed quickly across Fairley’s face, then disappeared again. “No, thank you, sir,” he said firmly.
Scopes waited until the door hissed shut. Then he laid the keyboard aside and lifted a slice of pizza from the box. It was almost cold, exactly the way he liked it. His eyes closed in enjoyment as his teeth met in the gooey interior of the pizza crust.
“Auf wiedersehen, Charles,” he mumbled.
Carson emerged from the administration building at five o’clock and stopped in amazement. All around him, the buildings of Mount Dragon stood in the dim aftermath of the dust storm, dark shapes emerging from an orange pall. The landscape was deathly still. Carson breathed in gingerly, testing the air. It was arid, like brick dust, and strangely cold. As he stepped forward, his boot sank an inch into powdery dirt.
He’d gone to work very early that morning, before sunup, eager to get the analysis of X-FLU II out of the way. He worked diligently, almost forgetting
the windstorm raging above che silent underground fastness of the Fever Tank. De Vaca arrived an hour later. She had beaten the storm, too, but just barely; her muttered curses, and the dirt-streaked face that scowled back at him through the visor, attested to that.
This must be what the surface of the moon looks like, he thought as he stood outside the administration building. Or the end of the world. He had seen plenty of storms on the ranch, but nothing like this. Dust lay everywhere, coating the white buildings, glazing the windows. Small drifts of sand had accumulated in long fins behind every post and vertical rise. It was an eerie, twilit, monochromatic world.
Carson started toward the residency compound, unable to see more than fifty feet ahead in the thick air. Then, hesitating a moment, he turned and headed instead for the horse corral. He wondered how Roscoe had fared. In a bad storm, he had known horses to go crazy in their stalls, sometimes breaking a leg.
The horses were safe, covered with dust and looking irritated but otherwise unhurt. Roscoe nickered a greeting and Carson stroked his neck, wishing he had brought a carrot or a sugar cube. He looked the animal over quickly, then stood back with relief.
A sound from outside the paddocks, muffled and deadened by the dust, reached his ears. Glancing up, he saw a shadow looming out of the pall of dust. Good God, he thought, there’s something alive out there, something very large. The shadow vanished, then reappeared. Carson heard the rattle of the perimeter gate. It was coming in.
He stared through the open door of the barn as the ghostly figure of a man on horseback materialized out of the dust. The man’s head hung low on his shoulders, and the horse shuffled on trembling legs, exhausted to the point of collapse.
It was Nye.
Carson withdrew into the dim spaces of the barn and ducked into an empty stall. The last thing he wanted was another unpleasant encounter.
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