In the back of her mind Loretta noted the presence of more and more police in the zone that weren't from the neighborhood. There was something vaguely disconcerting about that.
The auburn-haired woman attended Alicia. Apparently Loretta's eldest daughter had gotten a pretty bad scratch on her arm during the scuffle. The woman in the suit dug into her pocket and took out something—another canister—and sprayed an aerosol on Alicia's wound.
Loretta quickly gathered her children together. All present and accounted for.
The woman finished with Alicia and turned to Gary. "That was brave," her speaker said.
Gary shrugged. Loretta noticed he was blushing.
"Thank you," said Loretta, grabbing one of the suit's arms.
"No problem," said the woman. She seemed uncomfortable with Loretta's hand on her suit so Loretta let go quickly.
Eight-year-old Yvonne asked the lady in the suit, "Are you a Martian? I mean, do you think we are?"
The woman looked at her. "As far as I can tell, sweetie, you're just a plain old earthling."
Loretta ushered the little ones back into the car. Things were under control and the attackers had been subdued. The car in front of Loretta's station wagon roared down the street.
Gary and Alicia were still talking to the woman in the suit. Loretta got in the wagon, started the engine, and waited impatiently for a moment, then finally called to her two oldest kids. Reluctantly Gary and Alicia waved goodbye to the woman and returned to the car.
With a final wave, Loretta and her family renewed their trip home. Alicia, sitting in the front seat, leaned back toward Gary, in the seat behind her. They whispered to each other and started laughing.
"Okay," said Loretta. "What's the joke?"
"That woman," said Gary, still smiling. "She's pretty cool."
"Gary likes her," said Alicia.
"It wasn't that, it was...." Gary blushed again, slight but noticeable.
"What?" persisted Loretta. She stopped at a red light and glanced back at her son.
"She said she worked for Micro, the same people that ordered the quarantine. We asked her about that guy, the director. You know, the one with the big white mustache."
"Yes, I know," said Loretta. "It's not polite to talk about those things."
Alicia giggled. "We told her it looked like Dad's old shaving brush. She told us what it looked like to her."
The light changed and Loretta pressed the accelerator. "What did she say?"
Alicia and Gary exchanged glances and started laughing again. Loretta began to get uneasy. "What did she say?"
Alicia said, "She told us the director's mustache looks the way it does because the hair...."
"Alicia," said Gary—he made the word into a warning.
"She told us the hair over his lip," continued Alicia, "looks like butt hair. Because he talks out his ass so much!"
* * *
An hour later Cecily Sunday switched from her external speaker to the comm. On her wrist pad she punched the number for Micro HQ in Bethesda.
A woman with a crisp, professional voice answered a moment later. "Office of Dr. Kraig Drennan. May I help you, Ms. Sunday?"
"Where's Kraig?"
The professional voice dropped a few decibels. "I think he nodded off and..."
"Okay, fine. Let him sleep. Let me talk to...no, forget it, let him work. Put me through to the labs."
As Cecily waited, muzak drifted through her suit from the communication system. She started to kill it, then decided to let it play.
Cecily noticed that Lisa Murdoch was staring at her; the glare in her eye and the sheen of her face showed up through the face shield, and it wasn't just due to sweat. If looks could kill, thought Cecily, I'd be having a massive myocardial infarction right about now.
Her young assistant was having a tough first assignment. Cecily recalled her own first case, years ago. It hadn't been pleasant either; she'd worked under an old fart who objected to just about everything under the sun, especially young women who wanted to learn Micro-Investigation techniques. But there'd been no fatalities in that case, no need for zones of containment, no need to wear agonizingly uncomfortable hazard suits. There had been only a small number of patients with bloody diarrhea. It turned out to be food poisoning by a new strain of bacteria, and Cecily never forgot the triumph of finding the solution. She wondered what would have happened if that first case of hers had turned out like this one. Would she have continued working in the field, or would she have run away like she expected Lisa to do?
Someone interrupted the muzak. "Ms. Sunday?"
It was a technician from the Micro labs at Bethesda. Cecily apologized for the interruption, then asked about the brainstem cells.
"We're doing it right now," was the answer.
"Great," said Cecily. She was glad and relieved that Sherlock had taken Gordon's suggestion seriously. She had a feeling that it would lead to somewhere. Her only fear was where it would go, and what it would mean.
She didn't want to waste any of the tech's time so she cut the connection quickly, then reconnected with Kraig's line. This time she opted to leave a message.
"Kraig, this is Cecily. More samples are on the way to increase our already burgeoning supply." She paused. "I know everyone's working as hard as they can, but we really need to step up to the plate and swing for the fence. We're starting to lose control of the zone."
18 April, Sunday
Bethesda, Maryland / 7:40 a.m.
Kraig danced around his office.
He was over forty and no kid any more, but the man was in good shape, and what he lacked in flexibility and vigor he more than made up for in enthusiasm. Hopping around the desk on alternating feet, pumping a fist in the air, then finally sending his knuckles crashing into the desk with surprising force, Kraig Drennan could certainly be said to have youthful exuberance.
Way to go, Sherlock!
Sitting back down behind his desk, Kraig caught his breath. His knuckles throbbed but a flood of optimism drowned out the pain.
Earlier that morning the tally had ticked up to fourteen. Fourteen fatalities. Even that horrible news registered but distantly at the moment.
Kraig opened a video communication link. "Roderick?"
He waited a moment. Probably asleep, he thought. But this was too important. Kraig raised his voice. "Roderick?"
"Yes, Kraig," a sleepy voice answered.
"Sorry to disturb you, but this is fantastic!"
The face of Roderick Halkin appeared on Kraig's screen. There was a hint of drowsy malaise in his eyes but none in his taut expression. His shoulders, visible in the image, were covered in the usual impeccable suit.
"May I remind you," said Roderick, "isolating the pathogenic agent to a tissue sample is not the same thing as identifying the agent, nor is it tantamount to an understanding of that agent. It is merely a first step. We have a drop of aqueous solution in which we know the agent is present."
Kraig refused to let Roderick's cool demeanor extinguish his excitement. "It's only a matter of time now. We'll find that little bugger even if we have to look behind every molecule in that sample!"
"Indeed," said Roderick, allowing himself a brief, faint smile.
"So this brainstem idea worked out," said Kraig.
"It proved correct, yes. Brainstem samples from the victims, when injected into mice, cause the disease. The first experimental animals died in the small hours of the morning." Roderick spoke as if he had stood watching the cages until one by one the poor mice had keeled over.
"Respiratory distress?"
"In all cases," said Roderick, nodding.
"They just quit breathing," muttered Kraig.
"Almost assuredly due to an attack on the neural respiratory centers in the brainstem, in agreement with the necropsy performed on tissue slices from the human victims late last night. The course of the pathology is rapid once it strikes, and I presume it's similar in rodents and humans. The respiration rhy
thm ceases, the victims take big, deep breaths and stay alive for a while, but then get sleepy and lose consciousness. Soon it's all over." Roderick paused. "The questions this discovery raises are imposing and troubling."
"How does it get into the brain?"
"That question, among others. It is entirely possible that the agent infiltrates the brain in a manner similar to certain kinds of brain viruses."
"Cellular transport," said Kraig, remembering. The virus hitches a ride on the nerves coming from the brain and there was little you could do about it. A nerve is actually a collection of long processes called axons that extend from neurons. Transportation of molecules between the cell body of the neuron and an axon terminal is the job of protein motors, which scoot down tiny filaments. The viruses catch a ride on these motors.
"There are other possibilities, of course," said Roderick. "We have an enormous amount of work to do."
"Need any resources? No, skip it, I know you'll have already thought of whatever you need and ordered it or signed my name to the order." Kraig paused. "So this Gordon Norschalk was the bird dog on the brainstem thing?"
"Correct. It was a bald-faced guess, as far as I can determine."
"Maybe. But it's worth hauling him in for another round of questioning. A little more serious this time. Maybe you or I should be in on it too."
"Which in my estimation would be a waste of time. I don't think Dr. Norschalk knows any more than he's telling us, at least not now. This is also Cecily's opinion. She seems to think rather highly of him."
"Yeah." Kraig thought a moment. "About that...."
"About Cecily or Dr. Norschalk?"
"Cecily." Kraig took a few seconds to work out what he wanted to say. "Cecily has my complete confidence but under the present circumstances...." He glanced at the number he had darkly nicknamed the "ticker." Still fourteen. It never goes down, it only goes up. Kraig fantasized about how he'd feel if it started counting backward and reached zero before nightfall.
"You're worried about Cecily?" There was an undertone of disbelief in Roderick's question.
"I'm not worried about Cecily so much as I'm worried about...the circumstances, and how they will affect her."
"Her addiction to dysphoria concerns you?"
Kraig hadn't wanted to say it bluntly, but that was basically it. He frowned but nodded.
Rubbing his upper lip with a finger, Roderick's gaze lowered briefly, then shot back up. "Granted, the woman has a truly bizarre personality. If a catastrophic epidemic unfolds—and you can argue that there is evidence one has already begun—and if it proves to be insurmountable, then she may succumb to her depressive tendencies."
"Rod," said Kraig. "In English, please."
"She may give up. Her psyche—shall I define the word for you, Kraig?—her mind, so to speak, may become overwhelmed by the depression created by a serious epidemic."
"Cecily wouldn't quit on us," said Kraig. That was exactly what he'd been worried about; but when Roderick echoed his thoughts, he found himself defending her.
"Then what is the nature of the problem that worries you?"
"The problem is, sometimes I'm wrong. I assigned Lisa Murdoch, a young and bright but completely green Ph.D. as her field assistant. I'm regretting that decision. I'm thinking I need to send more of our investigators into the zone, in addition to Cecily and Lisa and all the techs and hired hands we've sent."
There was a short period of silence as Kraig and Roderick looked at each other.
"But," said Roderick, "you're reluctant to do so. Correct?"
Kraig nodded.
"I commend your caution. In my opinion, it would be counterproductive to deploy other investigators in the zone at the present time. Let them stay on the sidelines and analyze the samples and other materials gathered by Cecily and Lisa. There is no need to expose other people to the danger, and I do not believe that any contribution they may make inside the zone will be of much benefit. In fact it might reduce our current output from the zone. Too many chefs spoil the meal, and I would prefer that no one get in Cecily's way."
Kraig leaned back. "I figured you were going to say something like that. But I keep getting messages from Cecily. From inside the zone. She's scared we're losing our grip. Maybe she'd welcome some extra investigators, even if she may not come out and admit it."
"Cecily's scared for the same reason you are. We're not being completely honest with the people."
Chet's doing. Kraig felt a rising anger. Chet, and some idiotic politicians with an even fewer number of functional neural circuits than he has.
Kraig made a fist. The knuckles screamed in agony but he dismissed the pain. Cyan light briefly flooded the office. "We have to get on top of this thing quick."
"The lab techs are working as fast as they can. I've supervised the operational details myself and I'm satisfied with the progress."
"No, I mean we need a breakthrough." Kraig tapped his forehead. "We need a scientific breakthrough, Rod, and that's your department. This guy Norschalk came up with one, now it's your turn."
"Rest assured, I'm working on it."
"You're going to have to work harder." Kraig smiled briefly to take the sting out of his words.
Roderick was unfazed, as usual. "There are several possibilities."
After waiting impatiently for a moment, Kraig said, "Which are?"
"You're aware I don't like to discuss speculations. Half-baked ideas have a way of coming back and haunting you."
Kraig glanced at the ticker. "I appreciate the care and thought you put into your scientific work, Rod. Listen to me. Fourteen people are dead and I don't give a damn about your sensitivities when it comes to speculative discussion. Let's hear some ideas."
"Cecily contends that the pathogen came from the creek," said Roderick, with neither hesitation nor anger. "If this is true—and I acknowledge the possibility—and considering the neural nature of the disease, then it is probable, as she presumes, that our ill-mannered bug was hatched in the laboratories of Vision Cell Bioceuticals. Assuming this is not some addlepated, poorly-considered, hopelessly wrong notion, then we may speculate how such an agent could have arisen, given the materials and procedures of these laboratories. Are you following me?"
"Like a lovesick puppy. Go on."
"I have noted one interesting aspect of the research endeavors at Vision Cell. This was again uncovered and reported to me by Cecily, whose unerring instincts I must say I greatly admire." Roderick paused, as if to pay respect to the strange woman with a personality twisted up like a pretzel, but with a mind that went straight to the heart of any problem. "There was a space shared by two experimental scientists, who were apparently not on the best of terms, one of whom was combinatorial organic chemist and the other a physiologist who was attempting to assemble biologically realistic human retinas from cultures of living cells."
"A physiologist and a combinatorial organic chemist. What was the chemist after?"
"Probably compounds to induce neural growth and synapse formation, and various means of manipulating these processes in vivo. I suspect that the company intended for the scientists to collaborate. The chemist's job was to cook up batches of organic compounds to be tested by the physiologist in her cell cultures."
"So how do you suppose they managed to brew up our little monster?"
"If these laboratories are somehow involved in the present crisis, then we might wonder whether the chemist, in one of his combinatorial reactions, created a previously unknown molecule that possessed curious properties. Then we might imagine, for the sake of argument, that this molecule somehow made it into the physiologist's cell cultures."
When Roderick gave no indication he meant to continue, Kraig became irritated. "And?"
"Really, I can't go further. Your guess is as good as mine, frankly."
"I don't understand." Kraig shook his head. "What does that scenario have to do with our bug?"
Roderick sighed. "This is why I tend to avoid speculation.
Public speculation, that is. I have no good idea. How do you expect me to solve a puzzle when the data are insufficient to even piece together a rudimentary sketch of the critical events?"
"So what kind of data do we need? I can't even imagine how what you've just said has anything to do with the spread of a disease-causing agent."
"We'll know more when we've identified the agent. Until then, we have more questions than answers."
Kraig frowned. He'd hoped for more; perhaps Roderick was closer to solving the mystery than he let on, but his stubborn refusal to expose himself to ridicule for making a wrong guess prevented further "public" discussion.
"How long before diagnostic tests become available?" asked Kraig. "Are our labs getting anywhere?"
"Unfortunately, as you've no doubt surmised, brainstem samples are not viable diagnostic tools. There's too much risk to healthy or potentially healthy patients."
"CSF, then," said Kraig at once. Physicians sometimes had no choice but to take a look at cerebrospinal fluid, the fluid that bathes brain cells and circulates through small spaces between the meninges—membranes that surround the nervous system and cushion it from mechanical shock. Physicians knew how to extract a sample of CSF in an invasive but relatively safe procedure that tapped into the meninges. Analysis of CSF sometimes revealed chemical concentrations and other properties of the brain and spinal cord.
Roderick nodded. "CSF is negative so far in mice, but it's possible that the agent is too diluted. We're continuing to try."
Kraig frowned. Dilution was a common problem in CSF analysis. That, and the molecules and chemicals you're looking for get lost among the many other substances floating around the fluid. "Give it your best shot. When we discover this bug and its modus operandi, we can open up the barrier and limit our quarantine to the people who are actually infected."
Kraig glanced at the ticker again. Still fourteen.
Medburg, Pennsylvania / 12:00 p.m.
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