“But I’m telling you,” Jack said when they were done. “You should behave yourself, Mitch Rafelson.”
“I’m out of the bone business for good,” Mitch said.
“Mitch dreams about the people he finds,” Eileen said.
“Really?” Jack was impressed by this. “Do they talk to you?”
“I become them,” Mitch said.
“Oh,” Jack said.
Kaye was fascinated by them all, but in particular by Sue. The woman’s features were more than strong—they were almost masculine—but Kaye thought she had never met anyone more beautiful. Eileen’s relationship with Mitch was so easy and intuitive that Kaye wondered if they might have been lovers once.
“Everybody’s scared,” Sue said. “We have so many SHEVA pregnancies in Kumash. That’s one of the reasons why we’re working with Eileen. The council decided that our ancestors can tell us how to survive these times. You’re carrying Mitch’s baby?” she asked Kaye.
“I am,” Kaye said.
“Has the little helper come and gone?”
Kaye nodded.
“Me, too,” Sue said. “We buried her with a special name and our gratitude and love.”
“She was Tiny Swift,” Jack said quietly.
“Congratulations,” Mitch said, just as softly.
“Yes, that is right,” Jack said, pleased. “No sadness. Her work is done.”
“The government can’t come and take names on the council lands,” Sue said. “We won’t let them. If the government becomes too scary, you come stay with us. We’ve fought them off before.”
“This is so wonderful,” Eileen said, beaming.
But Jack looked over his shoulder into the shadows. His eyes narrowed, he swallowed hard, and his face became deeply lined. “It’s so hard to know what to do or what to believe,” he said. “I wish the ghosts would speak more clearly.”
“Will you help us with your knowledge, Kaye?” Sue asked.
“I’ll try,” Kaye said.
Then, to Mitch, hesitantly, Sue said, “I have dreams, too. I dream about the new children.”
“Tell us about your dreams,” Kaye said.
“Maybe they’re personal, honey,” Mitch warned her.
Sue put her hand on Mitch’s arm. “I’m glad you understand. They are personal, and sometimes they’re frightening, too.”
Wendell came down from the attic on a ladder with a cardboard box in one arm. “My folks said they were still here, and they are. Ornaments—God, what memories! Who wants to put the tree up and decorate it?”
80
Building 52, The National Institutes of Health, Bethesda
January
Here are your meetings for the next two days.” Florence Leighton gave Augustine a small sheet of paper he could fit in his shirt pocket for instant reference, as he liked. The list was growing; this afternoon he would be seeing the governor of Nebraska, and if there was time, he would meet with a group of financial columnists.
And he was looking forward to dinner at seven with a lovely woman who cared not a damn for his prominence in the news and his reputation as a tireless workaholic. Mark Augustine squared his shoulders and ran his finger down the list before he folded it, which was his way of telling Mrs. Leighton the list was approved and final.
“And here’s an odd one,” she added. “He has no appointment but says he’s sure you’ll want to see him.” She dropped a business card onto his desk and gave him an arch look. “A pixie.”
Augustine stared down at the name and felt a small twinge of curiosity.
“You know him?” she asked.
“He’s a reporter,” Augustine said. “A science writer with his finger in a number of steaming pies.”
“Fruit or cow?” Mrs. Leighton asked.
Augustine smiled. “All right. I’ll call his bluff. Tell him he has five minutes.”
“Bring in your coffee?”
“He’ll want tea.”
Augustine arranged his desk and put two books into a drawer. He did not want anyone snooping on what he was currently reading. One was a thin monograph, Movable Elements as Sources of Genomic Novelty in Grasses. The second was a popular novel by Robin Cook, just published, about the outbreak of a major and unexplained disease by a new kind of organism, possibly from space. Augustine generally enjoyed outbreak novels, though he had stayed away from them for the past year. Reading this one was a sign of his new confidence.
He stood and smiled as Oliver Merton entered. “Good to see you again, Mr. Merton.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Augustine,” Merton said. “I’ve been through quite the shakedown outside. They even took my notepad.”
Augustine made an apologetic face. “There’s very little time. I’m sure you have something interesting to say.”
“Right.” Merton glanced up as Mrs. Leighton entered with a tray and two cups.
“Tea, Mr. Merton?” she asked.
Merton smiled sheepishly. “Coffee, actually. I’ve been in Seattle the last few weeks and I’m rather off tea.”
Mrs. Leighton stuck her tongue out at Augustine and went back for a cup of coffee.
“She’s bold,” Merton observed.
“We’ve worked together through some tough times,” Augustine said. “Pretty dark times, too.”
“Of course,” Merton said. “First, congratulations on getting the University of Washington conference on SHEVA postponed.”
Augustine looked puzzled.
“Something about NIH grants being withdrawn if the conference proceeded, is all I’ve managed to winkle out of a few sources at the university.”
“It’s news to me,” Augustine said.
“Instead, we’re going to hold it at a little motel off campus. And maybe have it catered by a famous French restaurant with a sympathetic chef. Sweeten the lemon juice. If we’re going to be complete and unaffiliated rogues, we’ll enjoy ourselves.”
“You sound less than objective, but I wish you luck,” Augustine said.
Merton’s expression shifted to a challenging grin. “I’ve just heard this morning from Friedrich Brock that there’s been a wholesale rearrangement of the staff overseeing the Neandertal mummies at the University of Innsbruck. An internal scientific review concluded that key facts were being ignored and that gross scientific errors had been made. Herr Professor Brock has been summoned to Innsbruck. He’s on his way there now.”
“I don’t know why I should be interested,” Augustine said. “We have about two minutes.”
Mrs. Leighton returned with a cup of coffee. Merton took a strong swallow. “Thank you. They’re going to treat the three mummies as a family group, related genetically. And that means they’re going to acknowledge the first solid evidence of human speciation. SHEVA has been found in these specimens.”
“Very good,” Augustine said.
Merton pressed his palms together. Florence watched him with a kind of idle curiosity.
“We’ve arrived at the verge of the long fast slope to the truth, Dr. Augustine,” Merton said. “I was curious how you would take the news.”
Augustine sucked in a small breath through his nose. “Whatever happened tens of thousands of years ago doesn’t affect our judgment of what is happening now. Not a single Herod’s fetus has gone to full term. In fact, yesterday, we were told by scientists working with the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases that not only are these second-stage fetuses subject to first trimester rejection at a catastrophic rate, but that they are especially vulnerable to virtually every known herpes virus, including Epstein-Barr. Mononucleosis. Ninety-five percent of everyone on Earth has Epstein-Barr, Mr. Merton.”
“Nothing will change your views, Doctor?” Merton asked.
“My one good ear still rings from the bomb that killed our president. I’ve rolled with every punch. Nothing can shake me but facts, present-day, relevant facts.” Augustine came around the desk and sat on the corner. “I wish the Innsbruck people a
ll the best, whoever does the investigating,” he said. “There are enough mysteries in biology to last us until the end of time. The next time you’re in Washington, drop by again, Mr. Merton. I’m sure Florence will remember—no tea, coffee.”
Tray balanced on his lap, Dicken pushed his wheelchair through the Natcher Building cafeteria, saw Merton, and rolled himself to the end of the table. He set his tray down with one hand.
“Good train ride?” Dicken asked.
“Glorious,” Merton said. “I thought you should know that Kaye Lang keeps a photo of you on her desktop.”
“That’s an odd sort of message, Oliver,” Dicken said. “Why in hell should I care?”
“Because I believe you felt something more than scientific camaraderie for her,” Merton said. “She sent you letters after the bombing. You never answered.”
“If you’re going to be bloody-minded, I’ll eat elsewhere,” Dicken said, and lifted the tray again.
Merton raised his hands. “Sorry. My slash and reveal instincts at work.”
Dicken pushed the tray in and arranged his wheelchair. “I spend half my day waiting for myself to heal, worried that I’ll never recover full use of my legs or my hand . . . Trying to have faith in my body. The other half of the day I’m in rehab, pushing until it hurts. I don’t have time to moon over lost opportunities. Do you?”
“My girl in Leeds dumped me last week. I’m never at home. Besides, I turned positive. Scared her.”
“Sorry,” Dicken said.
“I just stopped by Augustine’s inner sanctum. He seems cocky enough.”
“The polls support him. Public health crisis blossoms into international policy. Fanatics push us into repressive legislation. It’s martial law in all but name, and the Emergency Action Taskforce sets down the medical decrees—which means they rule nearly everything. Now that Shawbeck has stepped down, Augustine is number two in the country.”
“Frightening,” Merton said.
“Show me something now that isn’t,” Dicken said.
Merton conceded that. “I’m convinced that Augustine is pulling strings to get our Northwestern conference on SHEVA shut down.”
“He’s a consummate bureaucrat—which means, he’ll protect his position using all the tools available.”
“What about the truth?” Merton said, his brow wrinkling. “I’m just not used to seeing government manage scientific debate.”
“You’re not usually so naÏve, Oliver. The British have done it for years.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve dealt with enough cabinet ministers to know the drill. But where do you stand? You helped bring Kaye’s coalition together—why doesn’t Augustine just fire you and move on?”
“Because I saw the light,” Dicken said glumly. “Or rather, the dark. Dead babies. I lost hope. Even before that, Augustine worked me around pretty well—kept me on as an apparent balance, let me be involved in policy meetings. But he never gave me enough rope to make a noose. Now . . . I can’t travel, can’t do the research we need to do. I’m ineffective.”
“Neutered?” Merton ventured.
“Castrated,” Dicken said.
“Don’t you at least whisper in his ear, ‘It’s science, O mighty Caesar, you could be wrong’?”
Dicken shook his head. “The chromosome numbers are pretty damning. Fifty-two chromosomes, as opposed to forty-six. Trisomal, tetrasomal . . . They could all end up with something like Down syndrome or worse. If Epstein-Barr doesn’t get them.”
Merton had saved the best for last. He told Dicken about the changes in Innsbruck. Dicken listened intently, with a squint in his blind eye, then turned his good eye to stare off at the wall of windows and the bright spring sunshine beyond.
He was remembering the conversation with Kaye before she had ever met Rafelson.
“So Rafelson is going to Austria?” Dicken poked with a fork at the steamed sole and wild rice on his plate.
“If they invite him. He might still be too controversial.”
“I await the report,” Dicken said. “But I’m not going to hold my breath.”
“You think Kaye is making a terrible leap,” Merton suggested.
“I don’t know why I even bought this food,” Dicken said, laying down the fork. “I’m not hungry.”
81
Seattle
February
The baby seems to be doing fine,” Dr. Galbreath said. “Second trimester development is normal. We’ve done our analysis, and it’s what we expect for a SHEVA second-stage fetus.”
This seemed a little cold to Kaye. “Boy or girl?” Kaye asked.
“Fifty-two XX,” Galbreath said. She opened a brown cardboard folder and gave Kaye a copy of the sample report. “Chromosomally abnormal female.”
Kaye stared at the paper, her heart thumping. She had not told Mitch, but she had hoped for a girl, to at least remove some of the distance, the number of differences, she might have to contend with. “Is there any duplication, or are they new chromosomes?” Kaye asked.
“If we had the expertise to decide that, we’d be famous,” Galbreath said. Then, less stiffly, “We don’t know. Cursory glance tells us they may not be duplicated.”
“No extra chromosome 21?” Kaye asked quietly, staring at the sheet of paper with its rows of numbers and brief string of explanatory words.
“I don’t think the fetus has Down syndrome,” Galbreath said. “But you know how I feel about this now.”
“Because of the extra chromosomes.”
Galbreath nodded.
“We have no way of knowing how many chromosomes Neandertals had,” Kaye said.
“If they’re like us, forty-six,” Galbreath said.
“But they weren’t like us. It’s still a mystery.” Kaye’s words sounded fragile even to her. Kaye stood up, one hand on her stomach. “As far as you can tell, it’s healthy.”
Galbreath nodded. “I have to ask, though, what do I know? Next to nothing. You test positive for herpes simplex type one, but negative for mono—that is, Epstein-Barr. You never had chicken pox. For God’s sake, Kaye, stay away from anyone with chicken pox.”
“I’ll be careful,” Kaye said.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you.”
“Wish me luck.”
“I wish you all the luck on Earth, and in the heavens. It doesn’t make me feel any better as a doctor.”
“It’s still our decision, Felicity.”
“Of course.” Galbreath flipped through more papers until she came to the back of the folder. “If this were my decision, you’d never see what I have to show you. We’ve lost our appeal. We have to get all our SHEVA patients to register. If you don’t agree, we have to register for you.”
“Then do so,” Kaye said evenly. She played with a fold on her slacks.
“I know that you’ve moved,” Galbreath said. “If I hand in an incorrect registration, Marine Pacific could get in trouble, and I could be called up before a review board and have my license revoked.” She gave Kaye a sad but level look. “I need your new address.”
Kaye stared at the form, then shook her head.
“I’m begging you, Kaye. I want to remain your doctor until this is over.”
“Over?”
“Until the delivery.”
Kaye shook her head again, with a stubbornly wild look, like a hunted rabbit.
Galbreath stared down at the end of the examination table, tears in her eyes. “I don’t have any choice. None of us has any choice.”
“I don’t want anyone coming to take my baby,” Kaye said, her breath short, hands cold.
“If you don’t cooperate, I can’t be your doctor,” Galbreath said. She turned abruptly and walked from the room. The nurse peered in a few moments later, saw Kaye standing there, stunned, and asked if she needed some help.
“I don’t have a doctor,” Kaye said.
The nurse stood aside as Galbreath entered again. “Please, give me your new address. I know Marine Pacific is fig
hting any local attempts by the Taskforce to contact its patients. I’ll put extra warnings on this file. We’re on your side, Kaye, believe me.”
Kaye wanted desperately to speak to Mitch, but he was in the University district, trying to finalize hotel arrangements for the conference. She did not want to break in on that.
Galbreath handed Kaye a pen. She filled out the form, slowly. Galbreath took it back. “They would have found out one way or another,” she said tightly.
Kaye carried the report out of the hospital and walked to the brown Toyota Camry they had purchased two months ago. She sat in the car for ten minutes, numb, bloodless fingers clutching the wheel, and then turned the key in the ignition.
She was rolling down her window for air when she heard Galbreath calling after her. She gave half a thought to simply pulling out of the parking space and driving on, but she reapplied the emergency brake and looked left. Galbreath was running across the parking lot. She put her hand on the door and peered in at Kaye.
“You wrote down the wrong address, didn’t you?” she asked, huffing, her face red.
Kaye simply looked blank.
Galbreath closed her eyes, caught her breath. “There’s nothing wrong with your baby,” she said. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. I don’t understand anything. Why aren’t you rejecting her as foreign tissue—she’s completely different from you! You might as well be carrying a gorilla. But you tolerate her, nurture her. All the mothers do. Why doesn’t the Taskforce study that?”
“It’s a puzzle,” Kaye admitted.
“Please forgive me, Kaye.”
“You’re forgiven,” Kaye said with no real conviction.
“No, I mean it. I don’t care if they take away my license—they could be wrong about this whole thing! I want to be your doctor.”
Kaye hid her face in her hands, exhausted by the tension. Her neck felt like steel springs. She lifted her head and put her hand on Galbreath’s. “If it’s possible, I’d like that,” she said.
“Wherever you go, whatever you do, promise me—let me be there to deliver?” Galbreath pleaded. “I want to learn everything I can about SHEVA pregnancies, to be prepared, and I want to deliver your daughter.”