by Larry Baxter
"That sounds like a spectacular tool. Why was it dropped?"
"Not dropped," said Teppin. "Just moved to the back burner while we found funding. Cash shortage, we needed to prioritize short-term payoff over long-term research projects. And the charge microscope would have to be considered a very long-term, low-probability project. But we'll see if we can get it back on the front burner."
On the monitor the same woman ran into the office, this time without the medical bag, talking on a cell phone and gesturing to Spender.
"Thanks," said Spender. "I have a fire to put out. Stay in touch if you make any progress. Or if you think about any other possibilities. We need all the help we can get."
Teppin touched his keypad again. "Let's take a look at this one. I was looking at this outbreak yesterday, but it seemed as if it was under control."
On the monitor, Spender's face was replaced by the ProMED website. Robert and Teppin leaned close, reading the new postings on the virus' progress.
"Texas is a pretty strange place for a virus outbreak," said Robert. "Don't they usually come from Africa or some rain forest? Why Texas?"
"The first people infected were University of Texas undergraduates from Austin."
"Any common factor in the first infections?" asked Robert.
"Yes. A party of a dozen undergrads and a professor had just made some important discoveries in a Maya site in the Yucatan. They landed in Austin with the first symptoms. They are all dead now."
"All dead? Jesus. How long ago was this?"
"They got back in early August with the symptoms of a severe flu, and they all died within a week. The hospital was caught by surprise and the virus was not contained. There is a picture here of the first one to die, apparently a football player." He pushed keys and the picture appeared.
Robert looked at the close-up of the agonized face against the white linen, black hair, dark complexion, brown eyes open and staring, and a hugely distorted black tongue protruding from the mouth like a swollen serpent. A ripple of emotion washed through him and his fist clenched the paper, his fingernails ripping through the material and into his palm. He closed his eyes for a moment. Finally he asked, "What's the fatality rate?"
"One hundred percent, so far, twenty-five fatalities."
"Jesus," said Robert, "How does it spread? Do they know the vector?"
"They are not sure yet. About all they know is that it does not go through walls. Isolation seems to work."
"My ex and my daughter live in Houston. You don't think they're in any danger?"
"How far is Houston from Austin?"
"About a hundred miles."
"They are either safe or they will have lots of warning. Unless the virus is ten times more dangerous than Ebola, it will never get out of Austin. But, it has not been identified yet. Can you see how your microscope could be used to help the effort?"
"Of course. If it can be made to work, it will give us a very accurate view of the binding of virus molecules. It seems as if it could be a year out, though. Should I drop my work for Merck and get back on the charge microscope?"
"How is the Merck project coming?"
"Poorly. It's not working either."
Teppin nodded and thought for a minute. "Robert, you are, as you probably have figured out for yourself, an eclectic sort of person, a Renaissance man, a dreamer, a pretzel bender. I would accuse you of being rather decent at everything you try without excelling in any one thing, except perhaps for swimming. Olympic trials, wasn't it?"
"Well, yes, but not good enough to make the team. The competition was all on split workouts, five hours a day. I couldn't get that excited about winning at any price." Robert stood and paced back and forth as he spoke.
"You had other interests, also. Rock climbing. High-energy particle physics, cosmology, things like that. Are you perhaps spreading yourself a little thin?"
Robert thought of his father, a committed, responsible member of the community, concentrating on his banking and doing an excellent single-minded job at it. His father would grip his arms painfully, push his face so close that Robert would choke on English Leather aftershave, and bellow, "Focus! Focus! Focus! Choose a path through life and do not waver!"
This was his fifth job in the twelve years since he had graduated from college and his third profession. But he liked biology and genetics, and Dr. Teppin was great to work for—intelligent, interested, and supportive. And a legend in academia, his advice and counsel were in great demand. He had made his handicap into an asset, turning his wheelchair into a mobile communications center that kept him continuously in touch with his variety of interests.
Teppin touched a control and the wheelchair moved him more directly in front of Robert. "Robert? Join me? Spreading yourself too thin?"
"Probably. What do you think?"
"Hmmm, well, it is a good way to become a generalist. Most of the important advances in nearly every field have been made by generalists. They can see forests, not trees. You're set up in perfect position, like a hawk, with the ten thousand foot high view. Now all you need to do is make an important advance." Teppin smiled. "The charge microscope would be good."
Robert grinned, starting to relax a little. "By next Thursday OK?"
"Oh, any time before the end of the month would be fine."
"Back when we killed the charge microscope project it seemed like a pretty unpopular concept. And we couldn't get funding for it."
"Yes," said Teppin. "I think your microscope comes across as pseudoscience. Extraterrestrials, crystals, auras, extrasensory perception…. I am not sure, but it sets people's teeth on edge somehow. But your current project is dead in the water, and Spender needs help."
So what now? Robert wondered. This was obviously a fork in the road. Then again, he'd already shot himself in the foot so often that his shoes looked like Swiss cheese, so why not? "OK, I'll give it a try. But where does the funding come from?"
"I will get the funding from somewhere. If the school will not do it, I will use personal funds. But if you cannot show us some results in a month, we will need to find you something else."
"Is there a culture I can take a look at?"
"I believe so," said Teppin, punching keys again. "Yes, here, they grew cultures this morning. I will call Dr. Spender and see if he can get a few grams. What else will you need?"
"Maybe some help in producing a crystal form of the virus, that could be the tricky part. But let me see if the microscope works first."
"Yes. You have not completed the mathematical analysis, as I understand."
"The hell with the analysis, I'll just build the thing. I think I understand the basic concepts well enough. It's worth a shot, anyway."
"Very unprofessional, but go ahead. Any new tool for antiviral research could save many lives. If you can prove the principle, we will get you the virus cultures. You will have to move to at least a Biohazard Level Two facility, of course. Randall's lab probably can handle it. You can follow the progress in Austin on the ProMED site, that will link you to the CDC effort and to local video."
Robert, newly energized, walked quickly to his closet-sized office, took off his outer clothes and hung them in his glovebox-sized closet. He changed into T-shirt and cutoff gray sweatpants for the run home—three and a half miles away in Brighton, down the southern shore of the Charles River—and laced up his Reeboks. He dug the tape machine out of the desk, slipped on the headphones, and tuned to WGBH for some Mozart.
He ran down the Esplanade on the wide asphalt path that bordered the river, sharing the path with several hundred other alternative commuters on bicycles, rollerblades, and on foot. For the first mile, his body felt like a motor without oil as it always did when he was running a lot, then the endorphins and the lubrication of the exercise took over and the near-hypnotic trance set in, breathe out two steps, breathe in two steps.
A purple sunset hung over the Charles River, and a faint scent of illegal leaf burning could be detected. The weather was c
old enough for the women in the street to retreat behind winter coats, but on the Esplanade everyone was in T-shirts and shorts, except a few cop-outs in designer sweats. Robert checked the women to see if any of them were eyeing him appraisingly. None of them seemed to be, but maybe they were just sneaky enough so he couldn't catch them at it.
On the other side of the river Harvard University came into view, with its ivy-covered three story brick and stone buildings. Harvard's eighteenth-century boathouse was near the far end of Eliot Bridge, one of the several graceful arched bridges. The boathouse contents, four- and eight-oared racing shells, were now being rowed briskly down the center of the river, staffed with muscular undergraduates and marking their passage with neat parallel columns of swirls in the calm water.
The track took a sharp corner at Soldier's Field Road. Robert kicked the final six blocks, lengthening his stride, getting more air, and feeling his leg muscles at maximum stretch.
In front of the skating club he stopped and stretched out his hamstrings until his breathing slowed. Then he bent forward, planted his palms flat on the asphalt, and levered his body back through his arms and slowly up into a handstand. He held it until his triceps started trembling and he saw, upside down, two college girls jogging towards him, chatting amiably. He tilted over onto one foot and back upright, checking the girls out of the corner of his eye. Still chatting amiably. They ran on by, neither one of them throwing him a room key. Just as well, he had no time for anything except microscopes right now.
Robert let himself into his small third-floor apartment and kicked the laundry bag out of the way. Tomorrow for sure. Why was there never enough time? He washed out his last pair of underwear and socks as he showered. Then he shoved two Healthy Choice instant dinners into the microwave, picked up the phone and dialed his ex-wife in Houston. He had been married to Joyce for one year just after college. Despite her pregnancy they had divorced when they realized they were completely different people than they had been when they had married. There was no place in her orderly, upwardly mobile life for a disorderly, borderline lunatic scientist who walked like a caged tiger and had the table manners of a lemur. She had followed her dream, moving to Houston and remarrying Jordan Kenally, Houston Memorial Hospital's chief of surgery.
Robert's daughter Katie was now a gangly and charming twelve-year-old, seriously interested in horses and ice hockey. Her new father was certainly able to take care of her better than Robert ever could, and his consulting career took the family overseas several times a year. They always worked in a week of skiing in Zermatt or a little sun in Portofino.
Robert was looking forward to improving his economic situation so he could see Katie more often than their once or twice a year schedule, when the family landed in Boston or New York on their way to Europe or Asia. But for now they talked on the phone. Part of his economic problem was the child support, which Bishop had waved aside but Robert had insisted on. It seemed sometimes to be his only link with Katie.
"Hello, Bishop residence, how may we help?"
"Hi, Felicia. Is Joyce there?"
"Of course, hello, Robert. Momentito."
Joyce spoke. "Robert. I hope you are well?"
"Fine, thanks. Listen, Joyce, I'm worried about this virus outbreak in Austin. I think you should consider moving out of its path for a while until it's controlled."
"Jordan and myself were discussing the Austin virus just last night. He is not concerned, therefore I am not concerned."
"You wouldn't have any trips scheduled?"
"Not until mid-October in Budapest; Jordan is speaking at a convention."
Probably in Hungarian. Next to this guy, Robert thought he could give Bart Simpson a lesson in underachievement. "Joyce, please keep an eye on it. It could be very dangerous. Is Katie there?"
"Katie is at her French lesson. I will tell her you called. And, Robert—sincerely—thank you very much for your concern. Goodbye."
Great. If they had had any thought of moving, my call probably messed it up. But there should be no problem, a hundred miles was a long way for a virus to travel, and the CDC would be all over it by now.
He opened a Sam Adams and fired up his computer. If he had to demonstrate a working microscope in three weeks, he had only a few days to finish the design.
Chapter 6
* * *
Austin, October 12, present day
Dr. Gary Spender steered his Subaru up the curving streets in the hilly residential area west of the city. Here, old-growth trees shaded some of Austin's more luxurious living quarters. Spender drove by the English Tudors, framed in exposed dark wood beams, with tiny diamond windows tinted in rose and purple. He passed the low redwood contemporaries with carefully irrigated bright green grass. He thought it remarkable that the ultimate achievement of the landscape art was grass so perfect that it was indistinguishable from Astroturf.
As he approached the top of the hill the homes became more secretive, hiding at the end of twin curving driveways, one driveway guarded by a sturdy gate marked incongruously "Welcome," the other driveway marked "Service" or "Staff." These were the homes of his associates in the medical profession. Any doctor with a few connections and a little business sense could quadruple his $250,000 salary with a private clinic or two and a business arrangement with a few drugstores.
Spender crested the ridge and drove down the western flank, into the glare of the setting sun, to the modest neighborhood where he lived with his wife, Carla, and their youngest girl. When Spender found himself with a little free time, he would rather read the medical literature or attend to a pro bono patient than work on his income.
His home was a white two-bedroom cape fronted by a small scraggly grass plot, at the end of a street of ungated homes with single-car garages and no Service entrance. Carla met him at the door with a smile and a kiss and led him to the dining room.
"Home early this week," she said. "How's the battle? Did you get any sleep at all the last two days?"
"Maybe half an hour. I'm OK, though, I'm used to it. Maybe the body adapts. How's the kid?"
"She's just fine. She must not have heard you come in; she's been asking me to help with her algebra. Would you believe I've forgotten all my high school algebra? Or maybe they didn't teach it when I was in high school. She's probably got the headphones on again. We made sandwiches. I've got one for you."
"Not just yet. Let's just hang out on the couch and talk quietly. Everybody I've been working with has been screaming at each other and running around a lot. This is better."
"Are you making any progress?"
"We did confirm that it is a virus. That's about as far as we've gotten. The virus, on the other hand, is doing very well; I think you could safely say it's totally out of control. I can't get the thought out of my head that I should have been smarter, quicker, sealed it off." He exhaled in a long shuddering sigh.
Her brow creased in concern. "You can rest, now. It's not your fault. I'll put you to bed soon." She reached out to massage his neck. "Did you get anything to eat?"
"Just some junk from the vending machines, but I'm fine, I'm really not hungry."
"You need to eat, you look like a refugee from the death camps."
"That's the way I feel, too. Sometimes it seems like I'm cheating because I'm still alive."
"Don't think like that. You have to take better care of yourself."
"I'll try. We'll probably have to evacuate soon. You should start packing."
"Evacuate! You're kidding!"
"No, sorry. It's not anywhere near official yet, and I'm not the one to make the call, but that's the way it looks to me right now. No hurry, a day or two won't make much difference."
"My God, Gary, I feel like screaming and running around. Evacuate? Where to? How can that be?"
"We've done a good, careful job at sealing the virus off. We've made no mistakes. But the damn thing escaped, somehow. It's got some tricky mechanism, we don't know how it's vectored, we're not ready for it. I
'm sorry to dump this on you, but this one makes me nervous." Spender's eyes closed, and Carla rested her hand lightly on his face.
"I know it's totally unscientific, but remember the dream about the car crash just when your brother died in the accident? I had a dream last night that the world had night all the way around."
"I feel like there's a runaway locomotive heading right at me. Got any ideas?"
"Can you get more help?"
"The CDC guy, Theslie, will be bringing in the army, we don't have to worry about more help."
"What is there that says we can't have an unstoppable epidemic?"
Spender thought for a minute, then shook his head. "Nothing, I guess. We think we have such an awesome medical capability. We're light years ahead of where they were in the dark ages, with the black plague. We're quick, we're ruthless, we're globally organized, and we have an arsenal of weapons. But one lousy little strand of RNA might beat us."
Carla brushed tears away. "Please, Gary, you can't do it all yourself, get help from anybody you can think of."
"I made a call today to Edward Teppin. He's the gray eminence, the most respected man in biotech. His group may have a couple of ideas, we're going to stay in touch."
They were startled by a knock on the door. Spender reached the door in three long strides and opened it to a friend from down the hill, Juanita Mendez. Juanita's expression was like a deer caught in the headlights. Carla joined Spender at the doorway and slipped her arm around his waist.
"Gary," said Juanita, her voice strained. "Please, please, Gary. It's Manolo. I think he has the disease I heard about on the radio, and they said you were the leader. We were going to the clinic, but your car was there, and I thought—I'm sorry, I should not have bothered you, you must be busy—but he can't talk any more—"