by Thomas Hopp
“Had the Port Angeles patient been to Neah Bay?”
“We’ve got no history on him yet. He hasn’t even been identified. He was naked, so of course he had no ID. And he’s been incoherent the whole time. Pretty far gone.”
“A troubling development,” McKean murmured. “How are things with you?”
“Leon Curtis is resting peacefully. But he’s semi-comatose.”
“And Dr. Zimmer?”
Her expression grew bleak. She lifted her laptop computer and swung it to point at the isolation ward window. We could see another occupied bed beyond Curtis’s window-side berth. “He’s still in the dazed-and-confused stage,” she said. “We’re watching him closely.”
“Any other Seattle cases?”
“Not yet.”
“So at present,” McKean recapped, “we’ve got a total of twenty-six cases if you include Whitehall, Curtis, and Zimmer along with the twenty-two now in Port Angeles and the missing backwoodsman. It seems the virus is spreading at an accelerating rate.”
“Um-hmm,” Erwin agreed. “That’s very typical of epidemics, and it’s got me scared.”
“What news from Neah Bay?”
“We haven’t heard from our team since last night, so I don’t know how bad things are there. Telephone communications are down, both cell and land lines.”
“Sounds ominous,” McKean replied.
“There’s no use denying it anymore,” said Erwin. “We’ve got a very serious situation on our hands.”
“By the way,” McKean asked. “How are you feeling yourself, Kay?”
She shrugged. “Okay, so far.”
After goodbyes, McKean switched off the computer. I asked him, “If Leon Curtis has the virus, and Dr. Zimmer has it, and even one guy in Port Angeles has it, then why not us? We were exposed to both Pete Whitehall and Leon Curtis.”
“It’s a mystery,” McKean admitted. “The odds that we missed getting infected keep shrinking. And yet we’re still free of symptoms.”
“Gordon Steel predicted that, too,” I said. “We’re still healthy, and everyone around us is getting sick.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little overstated, Fin? Random chance might explain it.”
“We were in the crypt! We were as exposed as anyone! How can we still be healthy?”
“Not through any shamanistic intervention by Gordon Steel, I’m sure. A non-scientific mind like yours may be susceptible to metaphysical explanations, but I require hard proof.”
“All right then, maybe I do believe Gordon Steel can foretell the future somehow. Can’t you even allow the possibility something paranormal might be happening?”
“Answer: no.”
* * * * * * * * * *
We went out for espresso at a small cafe across Western Avenue from ImCo. I pressed my case for Gordon Steel’s prescience and McKean resisted with high-caliber intellectual arguments. While we sipped and debated, a white television van pulled up in front of ImCo and began deploying its boom and satellite dish. Soon a second van from a rival network pulled up, and then a third.
“What’s all this?” I asked McKean.
“Answer: unknown.”
When we finished our coffees, we walked back and found ImCo’s halls bustling with press people. The security guard explained that Dr. Holloman was about to make a major announcement regarding the vaccine. We went into ImCo’s first-floor auditorium, which was already crowded with press, staff, and executives of ImCo. Bright video camera lights glared above black cables strewn like loose spaghetti across the floor, attesting to the fact that they had been set up in a hurry. The members of the press were mostly local but included a few from national services. Other notables included the Mayor and Governor, as well as some men in black pinstriped suits that I guessed might represent a Washington D.C. contingent. Holloman stepped up to a podium with Immune Corporation’s logo on it. Behind him a large projection screen showed a banner slide reading, “Immune Corporation’s Holloman Vaccine: Protecting Washington And The World.” We found two seats together near the back.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Holloman said into the microphone, “let’s get right to the point of this gathering.” Without more words, he pulled off his gray pinstriped suit jacket and set it aside on a maroon-bunted table beside the podium. He pulled the short sleeve of his pink shirt up over his shoulder and then motioned for a female assistant in a white lab coat to approach. She carried a cotton swab and a syringe, with which she quickly gave him an injection. She disposed of the used syringe in a small biological waste container sitting on the table and then left the stage. Photographers snapped shots and video cameras whirred. The audience sat in rapt silence, except for McKean, who stood just as the dose was administered. He raised a hand and opened his mouth as if he were about to intervene, but he sat down again and muttered to me under his breath, “Damn fool.”
Holloman picked up his suit coat from where he had draped it over the podium, put it on and addressed the microphone. “Within two days of my taking this dose to prove the safety and efficacy of the Holloman vaccine, Immune Corporation will roll out the first large batch of the product. That batch should provide enough doses to immunize the entire population of the Olympic Peninsula. A second batch will follow within days to begin immunizing Seattle and the Puget Sound area. The U.S. Government is working in cooperation with us.” He held out a hand in recognition of the pinstriped fellows. “They’ll beef up our capacity to produce vaccine, using their facility in Bethesda. And then they’ll distribute it quickly throughout the nation. We expect the combined scaleup to produce enough vaccine for the entire country within weeks.”
Holloman paused and smiled smugly after his rapid-fire dissertation. “Now then,” he said after a moment, “I’ll be happy to answer a few questions.”
“I have one,” called out Arran Fisk, who was seated down front. He moved to a microphone that stood in the center aisle. “How can you make a vaccine so quickly? Don’t vaccines normally take months or years to produce?”
“A very good question.” Holloman grew even more smug. “As you know, ImCo is notorious for rapid vaccine responses. This isn’t the first time we’ve been challenged to produce a vaccine quickly, and we’re using techniques pioneered right here at ImCo during the jihad virus crisis. Our subunit vaccine is easy to produce in large quantities - the Neah virus has been remarkably cooperative in that regard.”
“Too cooperative,” McKean muttered. A person in the row ahead of us turned and shushed him.
“And our manufacturing pipeline is well established,” Holloman went on. “Our people are experienced and our facilities are first-rate. The Holloman vaccine is produced in a yeast broth much like beer, and can be processed almost overnight. We’re already far down the road to scaled-up production in stainless steel industrial fermentation vats. And this won’t be any microbrew, ladies and gentlemen. Mass production is just days away. In that regard, I would like to acknowledge Dr. David Curman, who gets credit for taking this project and running with it.”
He indicated Curman, sitting in the front row. “Stand up, David. Take a bow.” Curman stood, feigning modesty while the audience applauded. The expression on his boyish face seemed like a dog enjoying a pat on the head.
“Dr. Curman,” Holloman went on, “deserves the lion’s share of credit for this one.” He spotted McKean in the back and eyed him warily as he spoke, obviously nervous that my tall friend might not agree.
Arran Fisk had stayed at the microphone. “Let me ask Dr. Curman my next question, then. If this vaccine has been produced virtually overnight, just how much safety testing have you done on it?”
“Good question!” McKean murmured under his breath.
Arran went on, “Have you had time to prove it’s safe in animal studies?”
Curman made as if to speak, but Holloman preempted him with a wave of a hand. Curman sat. “Yes, we have carried out animal studies, haven’t we, Dave?” Curman nodded his concurrence.
>
Holloman paused to wipe perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “You see,” he explained, “subunit vaccines are not dangerous at all compared to live or killed viral vaccines. They are notorious for lack of side effects, so we required only some very basic toxicity tests, all of which were negative.”
“Not so fast,” McKean challenged, standing up again, and wearing a look of contempt for the proceedings that he couldn’t disguise. He paused while the audience turned to get a good look at the tall, gangly dissenter sprouting up in their midst. Murmurs rippled through the crowd while McKean and Holloman hesitated like two gunfighters about to draw.
Holloman opened his mouth but McKean spoke faster. “The tests done so far are entirely inadequate,” McKean said with the force of conviction.
“That’s preposterous!” Holloman sputtered. “We’ve had no indication - “
“You have had almost no testing, that’s the truth. An adverse reaction to a vaccine might take days, weeks, or months to appear. You know that very well. The Swine Flu fiasco of 1976 taught us not to rush into vaccine production. People died when a hurriedly produced vaccine turned out to have some unexpected contamination.”
“You’re referring to Guillain-Barre syndrome associated with contaminated swine flu vaccines,” Holloman said. “But our methods are much more modern.” He turned to Curman and half-implored, half-demanded, “Haven’t you taken every measure to avoid contamination?”
“Of course,” Curman replied derisively, turning to glare at McKean.
There was a hubbub among the reporters. The video camera crews swung their lights this way and that, getting footage of Holloman and McKean staring each other down. McKean spoke again. “It’s wrong to make the State of Washington a testing ground for an unproven vaccine. We need much more time and many more controlled studies before we conclude the Holloman vaccine is safe. And I’m afraid you’ll find just the opposite.”
Holloman regained enough composure to bluster, “But all our tests show it producing antiviral antibodies in vaccinated animals with no bad reactions.”
“No bad reactions yet,” McKean said flatly. “But animals are not humans. The vaccine contains two subunits, G1 and G2. No lab on earth has determined the gene sequence of G1, although my staff is on the brink of that result. And I suspect something unwanted is concealed in that unknown sequence. The case of Pete Whitehall showed that a strong response to G1 may carry the undesired consequence of - ” He paused for effect and the room became silent save for the whir of camera gear. ” - Death!” The word drew gasps from the crowd.
“That’s outrageous!” Holloman cried, slamming a fist on the podium. Veins stood out on his neck. He went red to the top of his bald head.
McKean remained cool. “Given that the G1 protein represents the larger component of your two-component vaccine, it’s prudent to worry that Pete Whitehall’s immune response to G1 may have worked against him rather than for him.”
“Preposterous!” Holloman roared. He scowled blackly at McKean as a buzz of concerned conversation spread around the room. “G proteins are present in every rabies vaccine ever made.”
“Not this G protein. It’s an unusual member of its family. There is something peculiar about it.”
“So what?” Holloman cried. “If it’s different, then that’s all the more material to become immune to. I’d say that’s a benefit, not a detraction.”
“See it as you will,” McKean replied. “I see it as an unknown and therefore a risk.”
Holloman was silent a moment. Then he drew a slow, deep breath and leaned near the microphone. Speaking in a deliberate, overpowering tone that silenced the side discussions, he said, “If you will return your attention to the front, ladies and gentlemen, I think I can lay some of Dr. McKean’s concerns to rest. We have perfectly good data that rats and mice have become immune to G1 without ill effects. Dr. Curman has already looked into this issue exhaustively, and he assures me that the Holloman vaccine poses no danger. Right Dave?”
Curman glanced dismissively at McKean and then turned to Holloman. “That’s right.”
McKean sat down and mumbled to me, “Curman’s lying. His animals haven’t had time for a full response yet.”
Holloman pushed on. “So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen of the press, a genuine scientific debate, right before your eyes. But I’m going to have to ask Doctors Curman and McKean to please save it for another time.” Taking a more conciliatory tone, he said, “I understand, Peyton, that you have some lingering doubts about G1. However, I am satisfied that there is no danger, if the head of our Holloman Vaccine Program says so. In fact, to prove his confidence in his data, I’m going to ask Dr. Curman to join me on the podium and take a dose, like I just did. Come on, Dave, roll up a sleeve.”
Curman hesitated for just a moment. Then he rose and went to the podium. While the assistant began preparing a second syringe, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve. Holloman smiled. “That’s it Dave. For the good of science.”
The assistant pinched a tent of skin on Curman’s shoulder and plunged the needle into it, pressing the plunger to inject the dose. As she did so, a worried wrinkle appeared on Curman’s brow and then faded. As the assistant swabbed the injection site, he grew pale. As she put the syringe into the biohazard container, Curman rolled down his sleeve and put his coat back on and returned to his seat. By the time he sat down, he looked positively ashen.
“With that vote of confidence,” Holloman said, leaning into the podium microphone, “I’d like to ask your indulgence for a moment before we continue.” A chorus of questions burst from virtually every pressman or woman in the room but Holloman ignored them. Instead, he stalked off the stage and came along a side aisle to the back of the room. Scowling vilely at McKean, he hooked a pudgy finger and said just loudly enough for McKean to hear, “Step outside please.”
McKean rose and followed him out the auditorium door. After a discreet moment, I followed them into the corridor. There, Holloman wheeled and came at McKean like an attack dog. “You are so goddamn fired!” he snapped, purple-faced with rage. His meet-the-press congeniality was gone. He shook a fat fist under McKean’s chin. “I oughta - I’m gonna - ” His voice broke off in a fit of emotion. “Go to your office immediately and pack your personal things. I don’t ever want to see your face around here again.”
“You will regret this - ” McKean began but Holloman cut him off.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what I’ll regret,” he hissed. He pointed to the elevator. “Now go upstairs, get your stuff, and get out of here. And don’t come back. Do it right now or I’ll call the guard and have him come here and mace you.”
McKean looked thunderstruck. Despite his capacity for calculation, it apparently had not occurred to him that things might escalate to this point. He turned and went for the elevator and I followed. Meanwhile, Holloman spun on a heel and hurried back into the auditorium. He returned to the podium and turned to the press people.
“All right,” he said. “Just a little internal matter. And I see by my watch that we have no time left for questions. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.”
The elevator came while Holloman deflected a barrage of questions. The doors closed and the car went up as he said, “You will all be mailed some additional information - “
* * * * * * * * * *
I followed McKean back to his office. We sank into our chairs, both struck silent by what had just gone down. After a moment I said, “I’ll help you pack.” I glanced around the room. Although it was a small space, the task of packing suddenly took on the dimensions of a major project. There were three large black metal file cabinets, no doubt stuffed with file upon file of photocopied scientific journal articles, each with its own heavy overlay of yellow highlighter marks. There were more file drawers in his small desk and a deep pile of photocopies across its surface. There were bookshelves crowded with scientific symposium volumes, textbooks
, technical manuals, and tomes with obscure titles like Lactoferrin, Pterosaurs, and Ethnobotany Of Western Washington. There were pictures on the walls, one of Mount Rainier, one of a wide Puget Sound seascape, and one shot by a Mars rover. There were two laptop computers, one on his messy desk and one on his side desk. There were diplomas and awards in frames, a photo of McKean’s wife and son, and a rectangular Lucite block with the words “ImCo Founders Award For Excellence” printed on it in lime green.
“I’ll leave it all here,” McKean murmured after a moment. “I’ll call and have someone deliver it to my house.”
We sat morosely silent until Beryl Shum came across the hall from the lab. “How was the meeting?” she asked with her daughter-of-immigrants, lightly East-Asian inflection. She was obviously unaware of McKean’s new status as an outcast.
“Just fine,” he said in an even voice. She sat at the computer desk and keyed in a few commands. Her long black hair was primly held back with a clip, her white coat was clean and her personal bearing was impeccable.
“You’ve got some results?” McKean asked.
“I sure do,” she said pleasantly, instilling calm where McKean and I had felt agitation a moment before. “I’ve got the entire sequence of G1 now. Here it is.” She gestured at the computer screen, which showed the inevitable long horizontal lines of A, T, C, and G code letters. Above and below the sequence lines were brackets that marked off different sections labeled, “Regulatory Segment,” “Protein-Coding Segment,” and “Termination Segment.” Within the protein coding segment were further brackets labeled “G1-N,” “Inserted Sequence,” and “G1-C.” McKean leaned near the computer and studied the sequence information carefully. He murmured, “So the extra DNA is confined to a single insertion.”
“Yes,” Beryl said. “The G1-N and G1-C segments add together to make one normal G protein sequence, and the inserted sequence is spliced right in the middle of it.”