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(Back Cover)


 


MOUNT DRAGONIS AS MARVELOUSLY COMPLEX


AS ANY THRILLER IVE EVER READ. ...


IT IS NOTHING LESS THAN A TOURDE FORCE!


Stuart Woods, author ofChoke


 


A delightfully gruesome yarn and an apt mirror of our love-hate relationship 
with science.


Business Week


 


Mount Dragon:an enigmatic research complex hidden in the vast desert of New 
Mexico. Guy Carson andSusana Cabeza de Vaca havecome toMount Dragon to work 
shoulder toshoulder w ith some of the greatest scientific minds on the planet. 
Led by visionary genius Brent Scopes, their secret goal is a medical 
breakthrough that promises to bring incalculable benefits to the human race. But 
while Scopes believes he is leading the way to a new world order, he may in fact 
be opening the door to mass human extinction. And when Guy andSusana attempt to 
stop him they find themselves locked in a frightening battle with Scopes, his 
henchmen, and the apocalyptic nightmare that science has unleashed. ...


The writing team that scared the willies out of readers withThe Relic returns 
with a second, equally gripping novel of techno-terror. ... Its a grand and 
scary story, with just enough grisly detail to stimulate real-life fears and 
characters full enough to engage the attention.


Publishers Weekly


 


Dynamic duo Preston and Child once again demonstrate their mastery of the 
genre. ... The thrillfest runs full force to the very last page.


Kirkus Reviews


 


Read this and youll be panting for Preston and Childs next yarn.


Booklist


 


(Inside Flap)


 


The most dangerous place on Earth. ... A slam-hang medical thriller, swift, 
gruesome, and wickedly clever.


Richard Preston.New York Times


best-selling author ofThe Hot Zone


 


The Hot ZonemeetsThe Stand. ... Explosive.


Jack Anderson. Pulitzer Prize- winning columnist


 


When you finish this book youll want to storm a genetic engineering firm and 
destroy their projects. ...Mount Dragon is a powerful, fast-paced story, with a 
cast of interesting characters. ... It will probably be made into a motion 
picture in no time.


San Francisco Examiner


 


Like a fictionalized rock-em, sock-em version of Richard PrestonsThe Hot 
Zone .


Library Journal


 


A chilling, fabulous trip through cyberspace, flight and survival on the 
searing desert, high-tech wonders that defy beliefall these elements and more 
combine for an evenings worth of heart-stopping excitement. A year ago, it 
seemed difficult, if not impossible, for these two guys to top their first 
novel. After I finished flipping the pages of this one and my near cardiac 
arrest had been averted, one clear impression lingered. Brother, was I 
mistaken.


The Tampa Tribune-Times


 


(Reviews)


 


Firstrate entertainment. ... Imagine a Michael Crichton-style thriller with 
immensely more detail paid to the level of writing. ... And yes, Preston and 
Child weave in plenty of soberly provocative discussion of the ethics of 
screwing around with human genetics. ... First class storytellers and 
stimulating entertainers.


Locus


 


The Relicis a straight thriller. Thats like saying, however, thatDie Hard was 
just another action adventure flick or thatGone With the Wind was just another 
Civil War film. Each stands as a superlative example of its type.


Orlando SentinelonThe Relic


 


Better than anything the theoreticallyrecombinant team of Michael Crichton and 
Peter Benchley could ever hope to achieve.


Albuquerque JournalonThe Relic


 


The Relicsatisfies the primal desire to be scared out of ones wits. ... The 
ending is a real bone-chilling shocker.


Express BooksonThe Relic


 


Forge Books by


Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child


 


 


Relic


Mount Dragon


Reliquary


 





 





 


 


Douglas Preston


& Lincoln Child


 


 





A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK


NEW YORK


 


NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this 
book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the 
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for 
this stripped book.


 


This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book 
are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.


 


MOUNT DRAGON


 


Copyright  1996 by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child


 


All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions 
thereof, in any form.


 


Cover art by Shelley Eshkar


Maps by Mark Stein Studios


 


A Tor Book


Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.


175 Fifth Avenue


New York, NY 10010


 


Tor Books on the World Wide Web:http://www.tor.com


 


Send author mail to102117.106@compuserve.com orlchild@ibm.net


 


Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.


 


ISBN: 0-812-56437-5


Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 95-41323


 


First edition: February 1996


First mass market edition: February 1997


 


Printed in the United States of America


 


0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


 


MountDragon is a work of fiction. The GeneDyne corporation, the Foundation for 
Genetic Policy, the Holocaust Memorial Fund, the Holocaust Research Foundation, 
Hemocyl, PurBlood, X-FLUand, of course, Mount Dragon itselfare all products of 
the authors imaginations. Any resemblance of these or other entities in the 
novel to existing entities is purely coincidental. All the characters and 
events portrayed herein are fictitious. Nothing should be interpreted as 
expressing the policies or depicting the procedures of any corporation, 
institution, university, or governmental department or agency.


 


To Jerome Preston, Senior


D. P.


To Luchie; my parents; and NinaSoller


L C.


Contents


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.10


INTRODUCTION..13


PART ONE.18


PART TWO..87


PART THREE.177


EPILOGUE.272


About the e-Book.274


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS





 


 


First, we want to thank our agents, HarveyKlinger and CAAs Matthew Snyder. 
Gentlemen, we lift our tumblers of single-malt Highland scotch in your honors: 
this project would never have been started were it not for the help and 
encouragement youve given us.


Wed also like to thank the following people at Tor/Forge: Tom Doherty, whose 
vision and support have remained equally unflagging; Bob Gleason, for believing 
in us from the beginning; Linda Quinton, for her refreshingly candid marketing 
advice; and NataliaAponte, Karen Lovell, and Stephende las Heras, for their 
sundry acts of authorial succor.


From a technical aspect, we wish to thank Lee Suckno, M.D.; Bry Benjamin, M.D.; 
Frank Calabrese, Ph.D.; and Tom Benjamin, M.D.


Lincoln Child would like to thank Denis Kelly: pal, erstwhile boss, 
long-suffering sounding board. Thanks to Juliette, soul of patience and 
understanding. Thanks also to Chris England for his explication of certain 
arcane slang. Wotcher, Chris!


A pre-war Gibson Granada, along with a generous fistful of chocolate-chip 
cookies, to Tony Trischka: banjo deity, confidante, and all-around good hang.


Douglas Preston would like to thank his wife, Christine, who crossed the Jornada 
delMuerto desert with him no less than four times, as well as Selene, who was 
helpful in so many ways. Aletheia was a great sport, camping in the Jornada with 
us when she was only three weeks old. Thanks to my brother Dick, author ofThe 
Hot Zone , for his help. Thanks also to Smithsonian andNew Mexico magazines, who 
helpedfinance our exploration of the ancient Spanish trail across the Jornada 
known as theCamino Realde Tierra Adentro.


Walter Nelson, Roeliff Annon, and Silvio Mazzarese accompanied us on horseback 
around the Jornada and were delightful riding companions. We also acknowledge 
with thanks the following people, who kindly allowed us to ride across their 
ranches: Ben and Jane Cain of the Bar Cross Ranch; EvelynFite of theFite Ranch; 
Shane Shannon, former manager of the Armandaris Ranch; Tom Waddell, current 
foreman of the Armandaris; Ted Turner and Jane Fonda, owners of the Armandaris; 
and Harry F. Thompson Jr. of the Thompson Ranches. Gabrielle Palmer was very 
helpful, as always, with historical information.


Special thanks go to Jim Eckles of the White Sands Missile Range for a memorable 
tour of the 3,200-square-mile range. We would like to apologize for the 
liberties we have taken in describing White Sands, which is without a doubt one 
of the best run (and environmentally aware) Army testing facilities in the 
country. Obviously, no such place as Mount Dragon exists on WSMR property.


Finally, our thanks to all the rest who have helped us withMount Dragon in 
particular and our novels in general: Jim Cush, Larry Bern, Mark Gallagher, 
Chris Yango, David Thomson, Bay and Ann Rabinowitz, Bruce Swanson, Ed Semple, 
Alain Montour, Bob Wincott; the sysops of CompuServes Literary Forum; and 
others too numerous to mention. Your enthusiasm helped make this book possible.


 


Our symbols shout at the universe,


They fly off, like hunters arrows


Into the night sky.


Or knapped spearpoints into flesh.


 


They race like fires across plains,


Driving buffalo.


Franklin Butt


 


 


 


One window upon Apocalypse is more than enough.


Susan Wright/Robert L. Sinsheimer,


Bulletin of Atomic Scientists


INTRODUCTION





 


 


The sounds drifted over the long green lawn, so faint they could have been the 
crying of ravens in the nearby wood, or the distant braying of a mule on the 
farm across the brown river. The peace of the spring morning was almost 
undisturbed. One had to listen carefully to the sounds to make certain they 
were screams.


The massive bulk of Featherwood Parks administrative building lay half-hidden 
beneath ancient cottonwood trees. At the front entrance, a private ambulance 
pulled away slowly from theporte cochere, pebbles scurrying on the gravel drive. 
Somewhere a pneumatic door hissed shut.


A small, unmarked white door was sunk into the side of the building for use by 
the professional staff. As Lloyd Fossey approached, his hand came forward 
automatically, reaching for the combination pad. He had been struggling to keep 
the sounds of Dvoraks E-minor piano trio alive in his head, but now he frowned 
and gave up. Here in the shadow of the building, the screams were much louder.


The nurses station was all ringing phones and scattered paper. Morning, Dr. 
Fossey, said the nurse.


Good morning, he replied, pleased when she managed to give him a bright smile 
amid the confusion. Grand Central here today.


Two came in early, bang, one after the other, she said, working forms with one 
hand and passing him charts with the other. Now theres this one. Guess you 
already know about him.


Couldnt help overhearing. Fossey flipped open a chart, searched his lapel 
pocket for a pen, hesitated. Is our noisy friend mine?


Dr. Garriots got him, the nurse replied. She looked up. The first one was 
yours.


A door opened somewhere, and suddenly there was the screaming again, much louder 
now, various urgent voices acting as counterpoint. Then the door shut again and 
only office noises remained.


Id like to see the admit, Fossey said, returning the charts and reaching for 
the metal binder. He scanned the vitals quickly, noting sex, age, at the same 
time trying to mentally reconstruct the strains of the Dvorak andante. His eye 
stopped when it reached the wordsInvoluntary Unit .


Did you see the first one come in? he asked quietly.


The nurse shook her head. You should talk to Will. He took the patient 
downstairs about an hour ago.


 


There was only one window in the Involuntary Unit at Featherwood Park. This 
window looked out from the guards station onto the stairway leading down from 
the Ward Two basement. As he pressed the buzzer, Dr. Fossey saw Will Hartungs 
pale, shaggy head appear on the far side of thePlexiglas pane. Will disappeared, 
and the door mechanically unlocked itself with a sound like a gunshot.


How ya doing, Doc, he said, sliding behind his desk and setting aside a copy 
of Shakespeares sonnets.


Mr. W.H., all happiness, Fossey replied, glancing at the book.


Very funny, Dr. Fossey. Your talents are wasted on the medical profession. 
Will handed him the log, sniffing loudly. At the far end of the counter, the new 
orderly was filling out med sheets.


Tell me about the early arrival, Fossey said, signing the log and passing it 
back, tucking the metal binder under his arm as he did so.


Will shrugged. Retiring type. Not much for conversation. He shrugged again. 
Not surprising, given his recent diet of Haldol.


Fossey frowned and opened the binder again, this time scanning the admitting 
history. My God. A hundred milligrams in a twelve-hour period.


Guess they love their meds at Albuquerque General, Will said.


Well, Ill write orders after the initial evaluation, Fossey said. Meanwhile, 
no Haldol. I cant do an eval on an eggplant.


Hes in six, Will said. Ill take you down.


 


A sign over the inner door readWARNING: ELOPEMENT RISK in large red letters. The 
new orderly let them through, sucking air between his big front teeth.


You know my feelings about placing arrivals in Involuntary before an admitting 
diagnosis is made, Fossey said as they started down the bleak hallway. It can 
color a patients entire perspective on the facility, set us back before weve 
even started.


Not my policy, Doc, sorry, Will replied, stopping beside a scarred black door. 
Albuquerque was pretty specific on that point. He unlocked the door, pulled 
the heavy bolt back. Want me inside? he asked, hesitating.


Fossey shook his head. Ill call if he gets agitated.


The patient lay faceup on the oversized transport stretcher, arms at his sides, 
legs straight to the ankles. From his doorway perspective, Fossey was unable to 
make out any facial features save a prominent nose and the knobbed arch of a 
chin, stubbled from a couple of days growth. The doctor closed the door quietly 
and stepped forward, never quite used to the way the floor padding rose 
obligingly around his shoes. He kept his eyes on the prone figure. Beneath the 
thick canvas straps that crossed the stretcher, bandolier-like, the chest rose 
slowly, rhythmically. At the end, another strap stretched tightly across the 
leather ankle cuffs.


Fossey braced himself, cleared his throat, waited for a reaction.


He took a step forward, then another, mentally calculating. Fourteen hours since 
the release from Albuquerque General. Couldnt be the Haldol keeping him quiet.


He cleared his throat again. Good morning, Mister he began, then looked down 
at his binder, searching for the name.


Dr. Franklin Burt, came the quiet voice from the stretcher. Forgive me for 
not rising to shake your hand, but as you can see ... The sentence was left 
incomplete.


Fossey, startled, moved up to look at the patients face. Dr. Franklin Burt. He 
knew that name.


He glanced down at the chart again, flipping the top page. There it was: Dr. 
Franklin Burt, molecular biologist, M.D./Ph.D. Johns Hopkins Medical School. 
Senior Scientist, GeneDyne Remote Desert Testing Facility. Somebody had placed 
marginal question marks next to the occupation.


Dr. Burt? Fossey said incredulously, looking again at the mans face.


The gray eyes focused in surprise. Do I know you?


The facewas the samea bit older, of course, more tanned than he remembered it, 
but still remarkably free of the gradual accretion of cares and worries that 
gravitate to the fronts of foreheads, the corners of eyes. There was a gauze 
bandage on one temple and the eyes were badly bloodshot.


Fossey was shaken. Hed heard this man lecture. In a way, the course of his own 
career had been shaped by admiration for this charismatic, witty professor. How 
could he possibly be here, in four-point leather restraint, surrounded by 
mattressed walls?


Its Lloyd Fossey, Doctor, Fossey said. I heard you speak at Yale med school. 
We spoke for a while afterwards. About synthetic hormones ...?


Fossey found his mind reaching out to the man on the stretcher, willing Burt to 
remember.


A moment passed. Burt sighed, nodded his head slightly. Yes. Forgive me. I do 
remember. You challenged me on the link between synthetic erythropoietin and 
metastization.


Something inside Fossey relaxed. Im flattered you remember, he said.


Burt seemed to hesitate, as if considering. Im glad to see you practicing, he 
said at last, his lips twitching as if faintly amused by the awkward situation.


Now more than anything Fossey wanted to look at the binder in his hand. He 
wanted to read and reread the medical clearance and the consults, to find some 
explanation. But he felt Burts eyes on him and knew the older man was following 
the course of his thoughts.


Of their own accord his eyes glanced down, scanning the typed columns on the 
chart. He looked up instantly, but not before hed made out the wordsfulminant 
psychosis ... extremely delusional ... rapid neuroleptization.


Dr. Burt was looking at him mildly. Feeling a strange embarrassment, Fossey 
reached out a hand and found a pulse under the wrist straps.


Burt blinked, moistened dry lips. He drew in a long breath of basement air. I 
was driving north from Albuquerque, he said. You know where Im affiliated 
now.


Fossey nodded. When Burt had gone into private industry and stopped publishing, 
there had been the usual talk about brain-drain into the corporate sector.


Were doing experiments with influencing chimp behavior patterns. Its a small 
setup, you know, we do a lot of our own running and fetching. Id picked up lab 
equipment and some proprietary compounds from the GeneDyne site in Albuquerque. 
Including a test agent wed developed, a synthetic derivative of phencyclidine, 
suspended in a gaseous medium.


Fossey nodded again.PCP in a gaseous state. Angel dust you could breathe like 
laughing gas. Strange use of research money.


Burt watched Fosseys eyes, smiled a little, or maybe winced, Fossey wasnt 
sure. We were measuring inspiration rate through lung tissue versus capillary 
absorption. In any case, I was driving back. I was tired and not paying 
attention. I ran off the road into a stony wash just pastLos Lunas. Nothing 
serious. Except the beaker broke in the accident.


Fossey grunted. That would do it, all right. He knew what even garden-variety 
angel dust could do to an otherwise normal person. In high doses, it simulated 
aggressive lunatic behavior. Hed seen it firsthand. It would also explain the 
bloodshot eyes.


There was a silence. Pupils normal, no dilation, Fossey noted. Good color. Some 
resting tachycardia, but Fossey knew that ifhe was strapped to a stretcher in a 
rubber room his heart might beat a little fast, too. There were absolutely no 
presentations of psychosis, mania, anything.


I dont remember a lot of details afterwards, Burt said, a look of deep 
exhaustion passing across his face for the first time. I had no credentials, of 
course, just a drivers license. Amiko, my wife, is in Venice with her sister. I 
have no other family. They kept me heavily medicated. I guess I wasnt too 
coherent.


Fossey wasnt surprised. An unknown man, battered from the accident, wigged out, 
perhaps violent, raving about being an important molecular biologist. What 
overworked emergency room would believe it? Easier to just arrange a psych 
transfer. Fossey pursed his lips, shook his head.Idiots .


Thank God I ran into you, Lloyd, Burt said. Its been a nightmare, I 
cantbegin to tell you. Where am I, anyway?


Featherwood Park, Dr. Burt, he replied.


I thought as much. Burt nodded. Im sure youll straighten all this out. You 
can call GeneDyne now, if you like. Im overdue and theyre no doubt worrying 
about me.


Well do that shortly, Dr. Burt, I promise, Fossey said.


Thank you, Lloyd, Burt said, with a slight wince. No mistaking it this time.


Anything wrong? Fossey asked immediately.


Its my shoulders, Burt said. Nothing, really. Theyre a bit sore from being 
pinioned against this stretcher.


Fossey hesitated only an instant. ThePCP had worn off, as had most of the 
Haldol. More importantly, Burts gray eyes continued to regard him calmly. There 
was none of that inner jitteriness you saw with faked sanity. Let me get those 
chest restraints off you, get you sitting up, he said.


Burt smiled with relief. Many thanks. I didnt want to ask myself, you 
understand. I know how the protocol works.


Sorry I couldnt do it immediately, Dr. Burt, Fossey said, bending over the 
chest strap and tugging at the cinch. Hed clear up this travesty with a few 
phone calls. Then hed have a couple of choice words with theER doc at 
Albuquerque General. The strap was tight, and he considered calling in Will to 
help, but decided against it. Will was a stickler for the rules.


Thats much better, Burt said, sitting up gingerly and hugging himself, 
working his shoulder muscles free of kinks. You cant imagine what its like, 
lying for hours, immobilized. I had to do it once before, for ten hours, after 
angioplasty a couple of years back. True hell. He moved his legs in their 
restraints.


Well need to run a few tests before we can release you, Doctor, Fossey said. 
Ill get the admitting psychiatrist down here right away. Unless youd like to 
rest first.


No thanks, Burt said, raising one hand from the stretcher to rub the back of 
his neck. Now is fine. Sometime when were all back East, youll have to come 
to dinner, meet Amiko. His hand moved forward, crept up his cheek.


Standing by the stretcher, making a notation on the chart, Fossey heard a sharp 
little intake of breath, like the rasp of a match on sandpaper. He turned to see 
Burt plucking the gauze bandage from his temple.


You must have cut your head in the accident, Fossey said, closing the binder 
briskly. Well get a fresh dressing for you in minute.


Poor alpha, Burt murmured, staring intently at the bloody bandage.


Im sorry? Fossey asked. He moved forward to examine the wound.


Franklin Burt shot upward with an explosive movement, ramming his head into 
Fosseys chin before falling back heavily to the stretcher. Fosseys front 
teeth met in his tongue and he staggered backward, mouth flooding with liquid 
warmth.


Poor alpha! Burt screamed, tearing at his ankle restraints. POOR ALPHA!


Fossey fell to the floor and scrambled backward calling for Will, his bubbling 
cry redundant beneath the pressure wave of screams. Will burst in as Burt lunged 
again, sending himself and the stretcher crashing to the floor. He thrashed 
about, teeth snapping, trying to kick free of the restraints on the tumbled 
stretcher.


Everything was happening so quickly around him, but Fossey was slowing down. He 
saw Will and the orderly fighting with Burt, trying to right the stretcher, Burt 
gnawing at his own wrists now, a tug of the head like a dog worrying a rabbit 
and a sudden jet of blood spattering the orderlys glasses like tobacco spit. 
Now they were pinning Burts arms to the stretcher, leaning hard on the writhing 
form, struggling to lash the thick straps, Will fumbling for his panic beeper. 
But the screaming continued unabated, as Fossey knew it would.


PART ONE





 


 


Guy Carson, stuck at yet another traffic light, glanced at the clock on his 
dashboard. He was already late for work, second time this week. Ahead, U.S. 
Route 1 ran like a bad dream through Edison, New Jersey. The light turned green, 
but by the time he had edged up it was red again.


Son of abitch , he muttered, slamming the dashboard with the fat part of his 
palm. He watched as the rain splattered across the windshield, listened to the 
slap and whine of the wipers. The serried ranks of brake lights rippled back 
toward him as the traffic slowed yet again. He knew hed never get used to this 
congestion any more than hed get used to all the damn rain.


Creeping painfully over a rise, Carson could see, a mere half mile down the 
highway, the crisp white facade of the GeneDyne Edison complex, a postmodern 
masterpiece rising above green lawns and artificial ponds. Somewhere inside, 
Fred Peck lay in wait.


Carson turned on the radio, and the throbbing sound of the Gangsta Muthas filled 
the air. As he fiddled with the dial, Michael Jacksons shrill voice separated 
itself from the static. Carson punched it off in disgust. Some things were even 
worse than the thought of Peck. Why couldnt they have a decent country station 
in this hole?


 


The lab was bustling when he arrived, Peck nowhere in sight. Carson drew the lab 
coat over his lanky frame and sat down at his terminal, knowing his log-on time 
would automatically go into his personnel file. If by some miracle Peck was out 
sick, hed be sure to notice when he came in. Unless he had died, of course. 
Now, that was something to think about. The man did look like a walking heart 
attack.


Ah, Mr. Carson, came the mocking voice behind him. How kind of you to grace 
us with your presence this morning. Carson closed his eyes and took a deep 
breath, then turned around.


The soft form of his supervisor was haloed by the fluorescent light. Pecks 
brown tie still bore testament to that mornings scrambled eggs, and his 
generous jowls were mottled with razor burn. Carson exhaled through his nose, 
fighting a losing battle with the heavy aroma of Old Spice.


It had been a shock on Carsons first day at GeneDyne, one of the worlds 
premier biotechnology companies, to find a man like Fred Peck there waiting for 
him. In the eighteen months since, Peck had gone out of his way to keep Carson 
busy with menial lab work. Carson guessed it had something to do with Pecks 
lowly M.S. from Syracuse University and his own Ph.D. from MIT. Or maybe Peck 
just didnt like Southwestern hicks.


Sorry Im late, he said with what he hoped would pass for sincerity. Got 
caught in traffic.


Traffic, said Peck, as if the word was new to him.


Yes, said Carson, theyve been rerouting


Reroutin, Peck repeated, imitating Carsons Western twang.


detouring, I mean, the traffic from the Jersey Turnpike


Ah, theTurnpike ,Peck said.


Carson fell silent.


Peck cleared his throat. Traffic in New Jersey at rush hour. What an unexpected 
shock it must have been for you, Carson. He crossed his arms. You almost 
missed your meeting.


Meeting? Carson said. What meeting? I didnt know


Of course you didnt know.I just heard about it myself. Thats one of the many 
reasons you have to be here on time, Carson.


Yes, Mr. Peck, Carson said, getting up and following Peck past a maze of 
identical cubicles. Mr. Fred Peckerwood. Sir Frederick Peckerfat. He was itching 
to deck the oily bastard. But that wasnt the way they did business around 
here. If Peck had been a ranch boss, the man wouldve been on his ass in the 
dirt long ago.


Peck opened a door markedVIDEOCONFERENCING ROOM II and waved Carson inside. It 
was only as Carson looked around the large, empty table within that he realized 
he was still wearing his filthy lab coat.


Take a seat, Peck said.


Where is everybody? Carson asked.


Its just you, Peck replied. He started to back out the door.


Youre not staying? Carson felt a rising uncertainty, wondering if hed 
missed an important piece of e-mail, if he should have prepared something. 
Whats this about, anyway?


I have no idea, Peck replied. Carson, when youre finished here, come 
straight down to my office. We need to talk about your attitude.


The door shut with the solid click of oak engaging steel. Carson gingerly took a 
seat at the cherrywood table and looked around. It was a beautiful room, 
finished in hand-rubbed blond wood. A wall of windows looked out over the 
meadows and ponds of the GeneDyne complex. Beyond lay endless urban waste. 
Carson tried to compose himself for whatever ordeal was coming. Probably Peck 
had sent in enough negative ratings on him to merit a stern lecture from 
personnel, or worse.


In a way, he supposed, Peck was right: his attitude could certainly be improved. 
He had to rid himself of the stubborn bad-ass outlook that did in his father. 
Carson would never forget that day on the ranch when his father sucker-punched a 
banker. That incident had been the start of the foreclosure proceedings. His 
father had been his own worst enemy, and Carson was determined not to repeat his 
mistakes. There were a lot of Pecks in the world.


But it was a goddamn shame, the way the last year and a half of his life had 
been flushed virtually down the toilet. When he was first offered the job at 
GeneDyne, it had seemed the pivotal moment of his life, the one thing hed left 
home and worked so hard for. And still, more than anything, GeneDyne stood out 
as one place where he could really make a difference, maybe do something 
important. But each day that he woke up in hateful Jerseyto the cramped, 
unfamiliar apartment, the gray industrial sky, and Peckit seemed less and less 
likely.


The lights of the conference room dimmed and went out. Window shades were 
automatically drawn, and a large panel slid back from the wall, revealing a bank 
of keyboards and a large video-projection screen.


The screen flickered on, and a face swam into focus. Carson froze. There they 
were: the jug ears, the sandy hair, the unrepentant cowlick, the thick glasses, 
the trademark black T-shirt, the sleepy, cynical expression. All the features 
that together made up the face of Brentwood Scopes, founder of GeneDyne. TheTime 
issue with the cover article on Scopes still lay next to Carsons living-room 
couch. The CEO who ruled his company from cyberspace. Lionized on Wall Street, 
worshipped by his employees, feared by his rivals. What was this, some kind of 
motivational film for hard cases?


Hi, said the image of Scopes. Howre you doing, Guy?


For a moment Carson was speechless.Jesus , he thought,this isnt a film at all . 
Uh, hello, Mr. Scopes. Sir. Fine. Sorry, Im not really dressed


Please call me Brent. And face the screen when you talk. I can see you better 
that way.


Yes, sir.


Not sir. Brent.


Right. Thanks, Brent. Just calling the supreme leader of GeneDyne by his first 
name was painfully difficult.


I like to think of my employees as colleagues, Scopes said. After all, when 
you joined the company, you became a principal in the business, like everyone 
else. You own stock in this company, which means we all rise and fall together.


Yes, Brent. In the background, behind the image of Scopes, Carson could make 
out the dim outlines of what looked like a massive, many-sided vault.


Scopes smiled, as if unashamedly pleased at the sound of his name, and as he 
smiled it seemed to Carson that he looked almost like a teenager, despite being 
thirty-nine. He watched Scopess image with a growing sense of unreality. Why 
would Scopes, the boy genius, the man who built a four-billion-dollar company 
out of a few kernels of ancient corn, want to talk to him?Shit ,I must have 
screwed up worse than Ithought.


Scopes glanced down for a moment, and Carson could hear the tapping of keys. 
Ive been looking into your background, Guy, he said. Very impressive. I can 
see why we hired you. More tapping. Although I cant quite understand why 
youre working as, lets see, a Lab Technician Three.


Scopes looked up again. Guy, youll forgive me if I get right to the point. 
Theres an important post in this company thats currently vacant. I think 
youre the person for it.


What is it? Carson blurted, instantly regretting his own excitement.


Scopes smiled again. I wish I could give you specifics, but its a highly 
confidential project. Im sure youll understand if I only describe the 
assignment in general terms.


Yes, sir.


Do I look like a sir to you, Guy? It wasnt so long ago that I was just the 
nerdy kid being picked on in the schoolyard. What Ican tell you is that this 
assignment involves the most important product GeneDyne has ever produced. One 
that will be of incalculable value to the human race.


Scopes saw the look on Carsons face and grinned. Its great, he said, when 
you can help people and get rich at the same time. He brought his face closer 
to the camera. What were offering you is a six-month reassignment to the 
GeneDyne Remote Desert Testing Facility. The Mount Dragon laboratory. Youll be 
working with a small, dedicated team, the best microbiologists in the company.


Carson felt a surge of excitement. Just the wordsMount Dragon were like a magic 
talisman throughout all of GeneDyne: a scientific Shangri-la.


A pizza box was laid at Scopess elbow by someone offscreen. He glanced at it, 
opened it up, shut the lid. Ah! Anchovies. You know what Churchill said about 
anchovies: A delicacy favored by English lords and Italian whores. 


There was a short silence. So Id be going to New Mexico? Carson asked.


Thats correct. Your part of the country, right?


I grew up in the Bootheel. At a place called Cottonwood Tanks.


I knew it had a picturesque name. You probably wont find Mount Dragon as harsh 
as some of our other people have. The isolation and the desert setting can make 
it a difficult place to work. But you might actually enjoy it. There are horse 
stables there. I suppose you must be a fairly good rider, having grown up on a 
ranch.


I know a bit about horses, Carson said. Scopes had sure as hell done his 
research.


Not that youll have much time for riding, of course. Theyll run you ragged, 
no point in saying otherwise. But youll be well compensated for it. A years 
salary for the six-month tour, plus a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus upon 
successful completion. And, of course, youll have my personal gratitude.


Carson struggled with what he was hearing. The bonus alone equaled his current 
salary.


You probably know my management methods are a little unorthodox, Scopes 
continued. Ill be straight with you, Guy. Theres a downside to this. If you 
fail to complete your part of the project in the necessary time frame, youll be 
excessed. He grinned, displaying oversized front teeth. But I have every 
confidence in you. I wouldnt put you in this position if I didnt think you 
could do it.


Carson had to ask. I cant help wondering why you chose me out of such a vast 
pool of talent.


Even that I cant tell you. When you get briefed at Mount Dragon, everything 
will become clear, I promise.


When would I begin?


Today. The company needs this product, Guy, and theres simply no time left. 
You can be on our plane before lunch. Ill have someone take care of your 
apartment, car, all the annoying details. Do you have a girlfriend?


No, said Carson.


That makes things easier. Scopes smoothed down his cowlick, without success.


What about my supervisor, Fred Peck? I was supposed to


Theres no time. Just grab yourPowerBook and go. The driver will take you home 
to pack a few things and call whoever. Ill send whats-his-namePeck?a note 
explaining things.


Brent, I want you to know


Scopes held up a hand. Please. Expressions of gratitude make me uncomfortable. 
Hope has a good memory, gratitude a bad one. Give my offer ten minutes 
serious thought, Guy, and dont go anywhere.


The screen winked out on Scopes opening the pizza box again.


As the lights came on, Carsons feeling of unreality was replaced by a surge of 
elation. He had no idea why Scopes had reached down among the five thousand 
GeneDyne Ph.D.s and picked him, busy with his repetitive titrations and 
quality-control checks. But for the moment he didnt care. He thought of Peck 
hearing thirdhand that Scopes had personally assigned him to Mount Dragon. He 
thought of the look on the fat face, the wattles quivering in consternation.


There was a low rumbling noise as the curtains drew back from the windows, 
exposing the dreary vista beyond, cloaked in curtains of rain. In the gray 
distance, Carson could make out the power lines and smokestacks and chemical 
effluvia that were central New Jersey. Somewhere farther west lay a desert, with 
eternal sky and distant blue mountains and the pungent smell of greasewood, 
where you could ride all day and night and never see another human being. 
Somewhere in that desert stood Mount Dragon, and within it, his own secret 
chance to do something important.


Ten minutes later, when the curtains closed and the video screen came once again 
to life, Carson had his answer ready.


 





 


Carson stepped onto the slanting porch, dropped his bags by the door, and sat 
down in a weather-beaten rocker. The chair creaked as the old wood absorbed his 
weight unwillingly. He leaned back, stretching out the kinks, and looked out 
over the vast Jornada delMuerto desert.


The sun was rising in front of him, a boiling furnace of hydrogen erupting over 
the faint blue outline of the San Andres Mountains. He could feel the pressure 
of solar radiation on his cheek as the morning light invaded the porch. It was 
still coolsixty, sixty-fivebut in less than an hour, Carson knew, the 
temperature would be over one hundred degrees. The deep ultraviolet sky was 
gradually turning blue; soon it would be white with heat.


He gazed down the dirt road that ran in front of the house. Engle was a typical 
New Mexico desert town, no longer dying but already dead. There were a 
scattering of adobe buildings with pitched tin roofs; an abandoned school and 
post office; a row of dead poplars long stripped of leaves by the wind. The only 
traffic past the house was dust devils. In one sense, Engle was atypical: the 
entire town had been bought by GeneDyne, and it was now used solely as the 
jumping-off place for Mount Dragon.


Carson turned his head toward the horizon. Far to the northeast, across ninety 
miles of dusty sun-baked sand and rock only a native could call a road, lay the 
complex officially labeled the GeneDyne Remote Desert Testing Facility, but 
known to all by the name of the ancient volcanic hill that rose above it: Mount 
Dragon. It was GeneDynes state-of-the-art laboratory for genetic engineering 
and the manipulation of dangerous microbial life.


He breathed deeply. It was the smell hed missed most, the fragrance of dust and 
witch mesquite, the sharp clean odor of aridity. Already, New Jersey seemed 
unreal, something from the distant past. He felt as if hed been released from 
prison, a green, crowded, sodden prison. Though the banks had taken the last of 
his fathers land, this still felt like his country. Yet it was a strange 
homecoming: returning not to work cattle, but to work on an unspecified project 
at the outer reaches of science.


A spot appeared at the hazy limits where the horizon met the sky. Within sixty 
seconds, the spot had resolved itself into a distant plume of dust. Carson 
watched the spot for several minutes before standing up. Then he went back into 
the ramshackle house, dumped out the remains of his cold coffee, and rinsed the 
cup.


As he looked around for any unpacked items, he heard the sound of a vehicle 
pulling up outside. Stepping onto the porch, he saw the squat white outlines of 
a Hummer, the civilian version of the Humvee. A wash of dust passed over him as 
the vehicle ground to a halt. The smoked windows remained closed as the 
powerfuldiesel idled.


A figure stepped out: plump, black-haired and balding, dressed in a polo shirt 
and white shorts. His mild, open face was deeply tanned by the sun, but the 
stubby legs looked white against the incongruously heavy boots. The man bustled 
over, busy and cheerful, and held out a plump hand.


Youre my driver? Carson asked, surprised by the softness of the handshake. He 
shouldered his duffel bag.


In a manner of speaking, Guy,the man replied. The names Singer.


Dr. Singer! Carson said. I didnt expect to get a ride from the director 
himself.


Call me John, please, Singer said brightly, taking the duffel from Carson and 
opening the Hummers storage bay. Everybodys on a first-name basis here at 
Mount Dragon. Except for Nye, of course. Sleep all right?


Best nights rest in eighteen months, Carson grinned.


Sorry we couldnt have come out to get you sooner, Singer replied, slinging 
the duffel, but its against the rules to travel outside the compound after 
dark. And no aircraft inside the Range, except for emergencies. He eyed a case 
lying at Carsons feet. Is that a five-string?


It is. Carson hefted it, came down the steps.


Whats your style: three-finger? Clawhammer? Melodic?


Carson stopped in the act of stowing the banjo and looked at Singer, who laughed 
delightedly in response. This is going to be more fun than I thought, he said. 
Hop in.


A wave of frigid air greeted Carson as he settled himself in the Hummer, 
surprised at the depth of the seats. Singer was almost an arms length away. I 
feel like Im riding in a tank, Carson said.


Best thing weve found for desert terrain. Takes a vertical cliff face to stop 
it. You see this indicator? Its a tire gauge. The vehicle has a central 
tire-inflation system, powered by a compressor. Pressing a button inflates or 
deflates the tires, depending on terrain. And all the Mount Dragon Hummers are 
equipped with run flat tires. They can travel for thirty miles even after 
being punctured.


They pulled away from the cluster of houses and bumped across a cattleguard. 
Carson could see barbed wire stretching endlessly in both directions from the 
cattleguard, signs placed at hundred-foot intervals, reading:WARNING: THERE IS A 
U.S. GOVERNMENT MILITARY INSTALLATION TO THE EAST. ENTRY STRICTLY PROHIBITED. 
WSMR-WEA .


Were entering the White Sands Missile Range, Singer said. We lease the land 
Mount Dragons on from the Department of Defense, you know. A holdover from our 
military contract days.


Singer aimed the vehicle for the horizon and accelerated over the rocky trail, a 
great rocket plume of dust corkscrewing behind the rear tires.


Im honored you came to get me personally, Carson said.


Dont be. I like to get out of the place when I can. Im just the director, 
remember. Everybody else is doing the important work. He looked over at 
Carson. Besides, Im glad of this chance to talk with you. Im probably one of 
five people in the world who read and understood your dissertation. Designer 
Coats: Tertiary and Quaternary Protein Structure Transformations of a Viral 
Shell. Brilliant.


Thank you, Carson said. This was no small praise coming from the former Morton 
Professor of Biology at CalTech.


Of course I only read it yesterday, Singer said with a wink. Scopes sent it, 
along with the rest of your file. He leaned back, right hand draped over the 
wheel. The ride grew increasingly jarring as the Hummer accelerated to sixty, 
slewing through a stretch of sand. Carson felt his own right foot pressing an 
imaginary brake pedal to the floorboards. The man drove like Carsons father.


What can you tell me about the project? Carson said.


What exactly do you want to know? Singer said, turning toward Carson, eyes 
straying from the road.


Well, I dropped everything and came out here on an hours notice, Carson said. 
I guess you could say Im curious.


Singer smiled. Therell be plenty of time when we reach Mount Dragon. His eyes 
drifted back to the road just as they whipped past a yucca, close enough to 
whack the drivers mirror. Singer jerked the Hummer back on course.


This must be like a homecoming for you, he said.


Carson nodded, taking the hint. My familys been here a long time.


Longer than most, I understand.


Thats right. Kit Carson was my ancestor. Hed been a drover along the Spanish 
Trail as a teenager. My great-grandfather acquired an old land grant in Hidalgo 
County.


And you grew tired of the ranching life? Singer asked.


Carson shook his head. My father was a terrible businessman. If hed just 
stuck to straight ranching he would have been all right, but he was full of 
grand schemes. One of them involved crossbreeding cattle. Thats how I got 
interested in genetics. It failed, like all the rest, and the bank took the 
ranch.


He fell silent, watching the endless desert unfold around him. The sun climbed 
higher in the sky, the light turning from yellow to white. In the distance, a 
pair of pronghorn antelope were running just below the horizon. They were barely 
visible, a streak of gray against gray. Singer, oblivious, hummed Soldiers 
Joy cheerfully to himself.


In time, the dark summit of a hill began to creep over the horizon in front of 
them, a volcanic cinder cone topped by a smooth crater. Along the rim of the 
crater stood a cluster of radio towers and microwave horns. As they approached, 
Carson could see a complex of angular buildings spread out below the hill, white 
and spare, gleaming in the morning sun like a cluster of salt crystals.


There it is, Singer said proudly, slowing. Mount Dragon. Your home for the 
next six months.


Soon a distant chain-link fence came into view, topped by thick rolls of 
concertina wire. A guard tower rose above the complex, motionless against the 
sky, wavering slightly in the heat.


Theres nobody in it at the moment, Singer said with a chuckle. Oh, theres a 
security staff, all right. Youll meet them soon enough. And theyre very 
efficient when they want to be. But our real securitys the desert.


As they approached, the buildings slowly took form. Carson had expected an ugly 
set of cement buildings and Quonset huts; instead, the complex seemed almost 
beautiful, white and cool and clean against the sky.


Singer slowed further, drove around a concrete crash barrier and stopped at an 
enclosed guardhouse. A mancivilian clothes, no uniform of any kindopened the 
door and came strolling over. Carson noticed that he walked with a stiff leg.


Singer lowered the window, and the man placed two muscled forearms on the 
doorframe and poked his crew-cut head inside. He grinned, his jaw muscles 
working on a piece of gum. Two brilliant green eyes were set deeply into a 
tanned, almost leathery face.


Howdy, John, he said, his eyes slowly moving around the interior and finally 
coming to rest on Carson. Whove we got here?


Its our new scientist. Guy Carson. Guy, this is Mike Marr, security.


The man nodded, eyes sliding around the car again. He handed Singer back his ID.


Documents? he spoke in Carsons direction, almost dreamily. Carson passed over 
the documents he had been told to bring: his passport, birth certificate, and 
GeneDyne ID.


Marr flicked through them nonchalantly. Wallet, please?


You want my drivers license? Carson frowned.


The whole wallet, if you dont mind. Marr grinned very briefly, and Carson saw 
that the man wasnt chewing gum after all, but a large red rubber band. He 
handed over his wallet with irritation.


Theyll be taking your bags, as well, Singer said. Dont worry, youll get 
everything back before dinner. Except your passport, of course. That will be 
returned at the end of your six-month tour.


Marr heaved himself off the window and walked back into his air-conditioned 
blockhouse with Carsons belongings. He had a strange walk, hitching his right 
leg along as if it were in danger of becoming dislocated. A few moments later, 
he raised the bar and waved them through. Carson could see him through the thick 
blue-tinted glass, fanning out the contents of his wallet.


There are no secrets here, Im afraid, except the ones you keep inside your 
head, Singer said with a smile, easing the Hummer forward. And watch out for 
those, as well.


Why is all this necessary? asked Carson.


Singer shrugged. The price of working in a high-security environment. 
Industrial espionage, scurrilous publicity, and so forth. Its what youve been 
used to at GeneDyne Edison, really, just magnified tenfold.


Singer pulled into the motor pool and killed the engine. As Carson stepped out, 
a blast of desert air rolled over him and he inhaled deeply. It felt wonderful. 
Looking up, he could see the bulk of Mount Dragon rising a quarter mile beyond 
the compound. A newly graded gravel road switchbacked up its side, ending at the 
microwave towers.


First, said Singer, the grand tour. Then well head back to my office for a 
cold drink and a chat. He moved forward.


This project ...? Carson began.


Singer stopped, turned.


Scopes wasnt exaggerating? Carson asked. Its really that important?


Singer squinted, looked off into the empty desert. Beyond your wildest dreams, 
he said.


 





 


Percival Lecture Hall at Harvard University was filled to capacity. Two hundred 
students sat in the descending rows of chairs, some bent over notebooks, others 
looking attentively forward. Dr. Charles Levine paced before the class, a small 
wiry figure with a fringe of hair surrounding his prematurely balding dome. 
There were chalk marks on his sleeves and his brogues still had salt stains from 
the previous winter. Nothing in his appearance, however, reduced the intensity 
that radiated from his quick movements and expression. As he lectured, he 
gestured with a stub of chalk at complex biochemical formulae and nucleotide 
sequences scattered across the huge sliding chalkboards, indecipherable as 
cuneiform.


In the rear of the hall sat a small group of people armed withmicrocassette 
recorders and handheld video cameras. They were not dressed like students, and 
press cards were prominently displayed on lapels and belts. But media presence 
was routine; lectures by Levine, professor of genetics and head of the 
Foundation for Genetic Policy, often became controversial without notice. 
AndGenetic Policy , the foundations journal, had made sure this lecture was 
given plenty of advance notice.


Levine stopped his pacing and moved to the podium. That wraps up our discussion 
on Tuitts constant, as it applies to disease mortality in western Europe, he 
said. But I have more to discuss with you today. He cleared this throat.


May I have the screen, please? The lights dimmed and a white rectangle 
descended from the ceiling, obscuring the chalkboards.


In sixty seconds, I am going to display a photograph on this screen, Levine 
said. I am not authorized to show you this photograph. In fact, by doing so, 
Ill be technically guilty of breaking several laws under the Official Secrets 
Act. By staying, youll be doing the same. Im used to this kind of thing. If 
youve ever readGenetic Policy , youll know what I mean. This is information 
that must be made public, no matter what the cost. But it goes beyond the scope 
of todays lecture, and I cant ask you to stay. Anyone who wishes to go may do 
so now.


In the dimly lit room, there were whispers, the turning of notebook pages. But 
nobody stood up.


Levine looked around, pleased. Then he nodded to the projectionist. A 
black-and-white image filled the screen.


Levine looked up at the image, the top of his head shining in the light of the 
projector like a monks tonsure. Then he turned to face his audience.


This is a picture taken on July 1, 1985, by the image-gathering satellite TB-17 
from a sun-synchronous orbit of about one hundred and seventy miles, he began. 
Technically, it has not yet been declassified. But it deserves to be. He 
smiled. Nervous laughter briefly filled the hall.


Youre looking at the town of Novo-Druzhina, in western Siberia. As you can see 
by the length of the shadows, this was taken in the early morning, the preferred 
time for image analysis. Note the position of the two parked cars, here, and 
the ripening fields of wheat.


A new slide appeared.


Thanks to the surveillance technique of comparative coverage, this slide shows 
the exact same location three months later. Notice anything strange?


There was a silence.


The cars are parked in exactly the same spot. And the field of grain is 
apparently very ripe, ready to be harvested.


Another slide appeared.


Heres the same place in April of the following year. Note the two cars are 
still there. The field has obviously gone fallow, the grain unharvested. It was 
images like these that suddenly made this areavery interesting to certain 
photo-grammetrists in the CIA.


He paused, looking out over the classroom.


The United States military learned that all of Restricted Area Fourteena 
half-dozen towns, in an eighty-square-mile area surrounding Novo-Druzhinawere 
affected in a similar way. All human activity had ceased. So they took a closer 
look.


Another slide appeared.


This is a magnification of the first slide, digitally enhanced, 
glint-suppressed, and compensated for spectral drift. If you look closely along 
the dirt street in front of the church, you will see a blurry image resembling a 
log. That is a human corpse, as any Pentagon photo-jock could tell you. Now here 
is the same scene, six months later.


Everything appeared to be the same, except that the log now looked white.


The corpse is now skeletonized. When the military examined large numbers of 
these enhanced images, they found countless such skeletons lying unburied in the 
streets and the fields. At first, they were mystified. Theories of mass 
insanity, another Jonestown, were advanced. Because


A new slide appeared.


as you can see, everything else is still alive. Horses are still grazing in 
the fields. And there in the upper left-hand corner is a pack of dogs, 
apparently feral. This next slide shows cattle. The only dead things are human 
beings. Yet whatever it was that killed them was so dangerous, so 
instantaneous, or so widespread, that they remain where they fell, unburied.


He paused.


The question is,what was it ?


The hall was silent.


Lowell Cafeteria cooking? someone ventured.


Levine joined in the general laughter. Then he nodded, and another aerial slide 
appeared, showing an extensive complex, gutted and ruined.


Would that it were, my friend. In time, the CIA learned that the cause was a 
pathogen of some sort, created in the laboratory pictured here. You can see from 
the craters that the site has been bombed.


Exact details were not known outside Russia until earlier this week, when a 
disenchanted Russian colonel defected to Switzerland, bringing with him a fat 
parcel of Soviet Army files. The same contact who provided me with these images 
alerted me to this colonels presence in Switzerland. I was the first to examine 
his files. The events I am about to relate to you have never before been made 
public.


What you must understand first is that this was a primitive experiment. There 
was little thought to political, economic, even military use. Remember, ten 
years ago the Russians were lagging behind in genetic research and struggling to 
catch up. In the secret facility outside Novo-Druzhina, they were experimenting 
with viral engineering. They were using a common virus, herpes simplex Ia+, the 
virus that produces cold sores. Its a relatively simple virus, well understood, 
easy to work with. They began meddling with its genetic makeup, inserting human 
genes into its viral DNA.


We still dont know quite how they did it. But suddenly they had a horrific new 
pathogen on their hands, a scourge they were ill equipped to deal with. All they 
knew at the time was that it seemed unusually long-lived, and that it infected 
through aerosol contact.


On May 23, 1985, there was a small safety breach at the Soviet laboratory. 
Apparently, a worker inside the transfection lab fell, damaging his 
biocontainment suit. As you know from Chernobyl, Soviet safety standards can be 
execrable. The worker told nobody about the incident, and later went home to his 
family in the workers complex.


For three weeks the virus incubated in his peritoneum, duplicating and 
spreading. On June 14, this worker felt ill and went to bed with a high fever. 
Within a few hours, he was complaining of a strange pressure in his gut. He 
passed a large amount of foul-smelling gas. Growing nervous, his wife sent for 
the doctor.


Before the doctor could arrive, however, the man hadyou will excuse the 
graphic descriptionvoided most of his intestines out through his anus. They had 
suppurated inside his body, becoming pastelike. He had literally defecated his 
insides out. Needless to say, by the time the doctor arrived, the man was dead.


Levine paused again, looking around the room as if for raised hands. There were 
none.


Since this incident has remained a secret from the scientific community, the 
virus has no official name, it is known only as Strain 232. We now know that a 
person exposed to it becomes contagious four days after exposure, although it 
takes several weeks for symptoms to appear. The mortality rate of Strain 232 is 
close to a hundred percent. By the time the worker had died, he had exposed 
dozens, if not hundreds, of people. We could call him vector zero. Within 
seventy-two hours of his death, dozens of people were complaining of the same 
gastrointestinal pressure, and soon suffered the same gruesome fate.


The only thing that prevented a worldwide pandemic was the location of the 
outbreak. In 1985, movement in and out of Restricted Area Fourteen was highly 
controlled. Nevertheless, as word spread, a general panic ensued. People in the 
area began loading their belongings into cars, trucks, even horsecarts. Many 
tried fleeing on bicycle, or even on foot, abandoning everything in their 
desperation to get away.


From the papers the colonel brought with him out of Russia, we can piece 
together the response of the Soviet Army. A special team in biohazard suits set 
up a series of roadblocks, preventing anyone from leaving the affected area. 
This was relatively easy, since Area Fourteen was already fenced and 
checkpointed. As the epidemic roared through the neighboring villages, whole 
families died in the streets, in the fields, in the market squares. By the time 
a person felt the first alarming symptoms, a painful death was only three hours 
away. The panic was so great that at the checkpoints, the soldiers were ordered 
to shoot and kill anyoneanyoneas soon as they came within range. Old men, 
children, pregnant women were gunned down. Air-dropped antipersonnel mines were 
scattered in wide swaths across woods and fields. What these measures didnt 
catch, the razor wire and tank traps did.


Then the laboratory was carpet-bombed. Not, of course, to destroy the 
virusbombs would have no effect on it. But rather to obliterate the traces, to 
hide what really happened from the West.


Within eight weeks, every human being within the quarantined area was dead. 
The villages were deserted, the pigs and dogs gorging on corpses, the cows 
wandering unmilked, a horrible stench hanging over the deserted buildings.


Levine took a sip of water, then resumed.


This is a shocking story, the biological equivalent of a nuclear holocaust. But 
Im afraid the last chapter has yet to be written. Towns that have been 
irradiated with atomic bombs can be shunned. But the legacy of Novo-Druzhina is 
harder to avoid. Viruses are opportunistic, and they dont like to stay put. 
Although all the human hosts are dead, there is a possibility that Strain 232 
lives on somewhere in this devastated area. Viruses sometimes find secondary 
reservoirs where they wait, patiently, for the next opportunity to infect. 
Strain 232 might be extinct. Or a viable pocket of it may still be there. 
Tomorrow, some hapless rabbit with muddy paws might wriggle through a hole in 
the perimeter fence. A farmer might shoot that rabbit and take it to market. And 
then the world as we know it could very well end.


He paused.


Andthat , he shouted suddenly, is the promise of genetic engineering!


He stopped, letting the silence grow in the hall. Finally he dabbed his brow and 
spoke again, more quietly. We wont be needing the projector anymore.


The projector image disappeared, leaving the hall in darkness.


My friends, Levine continued, we have reached a critical turning point in 
our stewardship of this planet, and were so blind we cant even see it. Weve 
walked the earth for five thousand centuries. But in the last fifty years, weve 
learned enough to really hurt ourselves. First with nuclear weapons, and 
nowinfinitely more dangerouslywith the reengineering of nature.


He shook his head. There is an old proverb: Nature is a hanging judge. The 
Novo-Druzhina incident nearly hanged the human race. And yet, as I speak, other 
companies across the globe are tinkering with viruses, exchanging genetic 
material between viruses, bacteria, plants, and animals indiscriminately, 
without any thought to the ultimate consequences.


Of course, todays cutting-edge labs in Europe and America are a far cry from 
1985 Siberia. Should that reassure us? Quite the opposite.


The scientists in Novo-Druzhina were doing simple manipulations of a simple 
virus. They accidentally created a catastrophe. Todaybarely a stones throw 
from this hall much more complicated experiments are being done with 
infinitely more exotic, infinitely more dangerous viruses.


Edwin Kilbourne, the virologist, once postulated a pathogen he called the 
Maximally Malignant Virus. The MMV would have, he theorized, the environmental 
stability of polio, the antigenic mutability of influenza, the unrestricted 
host range of rabies, the latency of herpes.


Such an idea, almost laughable then, is deadly serious now. Such a pathogen 
could be, and maybeis being , created in a laboratory somewhere on this planet. 
It would be far more devastating than a nuclear war. Why? A nuclear war is 
self-limiting. But with the spread of an MMV,every infected person becomes a 
brand new walking bomb . And todays transmission routes are so widespread, so 
quickly achieved by international travelers, it only takes a few carriers for a 
virus to go global.


Levine stepped around the podium to face the audience. Regimes come and go. 
Political boundaries change. Empires grow and fall. Butthese agents of 
destruction, once unleashed, last forever. I ask you: should we allow 
unregulated and uncontrolled experiments in genetic engineering to continue in 
laboratories around the world?That is the real question raised by Strain 232.


He nodded, and the lights came back up. There will be a full report of the 
Novo-Druzhina incident in the next issue ofGenetic Policy ,he said, turning to 
gather his papers.


The spell broken, the students stood up and began collecting their things, 
moving in a rustling tide toward the exits. The reporters at the back of the 
hall had already left to file their stories.


A young man appeared at the top of the hall, pushing his way through the milling 
crowd. Slowly, he made his way down the central steps toward the podium.


Levine glanced up, then looked carefully left and right. I thought you were 
told never to approach me in public, he said.


The youth came forward, held Levines elbow, and whispered urgently in his ear. 
Levine stopped loading papers into his briefcase.


Carson? he asked. You mean that bright cowboy fellow who was always 
interrupting my lectures to argue?


The man nodded his head.


Levine fell silent, his hand on the briefcase. Then he snapped it shut.


My God, he said simply.


 





 


Carson looked out across the motor pool toward a sweeping cluster of white 
buildings which rose abruptly from the desert sands: curves, planes and domes 
thrusting from the ground. The stark placement of the buildings in the desert 
terrain, along with a total absence of landscaping, gave the laboratory a 
Zen-like feeling of purity and emptiness. Glassed-in walkways connected many of 
the buildings, forming crisscrossing patterns.


Singer led Carson along one of the covered walkways. Brent is a great believer 
in architecture as a means of inspiring the human spirit, he said. Ill never 
forget when that architect, whats-his-nameGuareschicame from New York to 
experience the site.


Singer chuckled softly.


He arrived in tasseled loafers and a suit, with this silly straw hat. But the 
guy was game, Ill give him that. He actually camped out for four days before 
he got heatstroke and hightailed it back to Manhattan.


Its beautiful, Carson said.


It is. Despite his bad experience, the man did manage to capture the spareness 
of the desert. He insisted there be no landscaping. For one thing, we didnt 
have the water. But he also wanted the complex to look as if it was part of the 
desert, and not imposed on it. Obviously, he never forgot the heat. I think 
thats why everythings white: the machine shop, the storage barrackseven the 
power plant. He nodded toward a long building with gracefully curving 
rooflines.


Thats the power plant? Carson asked in disbelief. It looks more like an art 
museum. This place must have cost a fortune.


Several fortunes, Singer said. But back in 85, when construction began, 
money wasnt much of an issue. He ushered Carson toward the residency 
compound, a series of low curvilinear structures gathered together like pieces 
of a jigsaw puzzle. Wed obtained a nine-hundred-million-dollar contract 
through DATRADA.


Who?


Defense Advanced Technology, Research and Development Administration.


Never heard of it, said Carson.


It was a secret Defense Department agency. Disbanded after the Reagan years. 
We all had to sign a lot of formal loyalty documents and the like. Secret 
clearance, top-secret clearance, you name it. Then they investigated usboy, 
did they investigate. I got calls from ex-girlfriends twenty years removed: A 
bunch of suits were just here asking a lot of questions about you. What the 
hell did you do now, Singer?  He laughed.


So youve been here from the beginning, Carson said.


Thats right. Only the scientists have six-month tours. I guess they figure I 
dont do enough real work to get burnt out. He laughed. Im the old-timer 
here, me and Nye. And a few others, old Pavel and the fellow you just met, Mike 
Marr. Anyway, its been much nicer since we went civilian. The military boys 
were a pain in the posterior.


How did the changeover happen? Carson asked.


Singer steered him through the smoked-glass door of a structure on the far side 
of the residency compound. A river of air-conditioning washed over them as the 
door hissed shut. Carson found himself in a vestibule, with slate floors, white 
walls, and taupe furniture. Singer led him toward another door.


At first, we did strictly defense research. Thats how we got these land 
parcels in the Missile Range. Our job was to look for vaccines, countermeasures 
and antitoxins to presumed Soviet biological weapons. When the Soviet Union 
fell apart, so did our brief. We lost the contract in 1990. We almost lost the 
lab, too, but Scopes did some quick lobbying behind closed doors. God knows how 
he did it, but we were able to get a thirty-year lease under the Defense 
Industry Conversion Act.


Singer opened a door into a long laboratory. A series of black tables gleamed 
under fluorescent lights.Bunsen burners, Erlenmeyer flasks, glass 
tubing,Stereozoom microscopes and various other low-tech equipment sat in neat, 
spotless rows.


Carson had never seen a lab look so clean. Is this the low-level facility? he 
asked incredulously.


Nope, Singer said. Most of the real work is done on the inside, our next 
stop. This is just eye candy for congressmen and military brass. They expect to 
see an upscale version of their old university chem lab, and we give it to 
them.


They passed into another, much smaller room. A large, gleaming instrument sat in 
its center. Carson recognized it instantly.


The worlds best microtome: the Scientific Precision Ultra-Shave,  Singer 
said. Thats what we call it, anyway. Its all computer controlled. A diamond 
blade that cuts a human hair into twenty-five hundred sections. Widthwise. This 
ones just for show, of course. Weve got two identical units operating on the 
inside.


They walked back into the baking heat. Singer licked afinger and held it up. 
Winds from the southeast, he said. As always. Thats why they picked this 
placealways blowing from the southeast. The first town downwind of us is 
Claunch, New Mexico, population twenty-two. One hundred forty miles away. The 
Trinity Site, where they blew up the first A-bomb, is only thirty miles 
northwest of here. Good place to hide an atomic explosion. You couldnt find a 
more isolated place in the lower forty-eight.


We called that wind the Mexican Zephyr, Carson said. When I was a kid, I 
hated to go out in that wind more than anything. My dad used to say it caused 
more trouble than a rat-tailed horse tied short in fly time.


Singer turned. Guy, I have no idea what you just said.


A rat-tailed horse is a horse with a short tail. If you tie him short and the 
flies start tormenting him, hell go crazy, tear down your fence and take off.


I see, Singer said without conviction. He pointed over Carsons shoulder. 
Over there are the recreational facilitiesgymnasium, tennis courts, horse 
corral. I have a strong aversion to physical activity, so Ill let you explore 
those on your own. He patted his paunch affectionately and laughed. And that 
awful-looking building is the air incinerator for the Fever Tank.


Fever Tank?


Sorry, Singer said. I mean the Biosafety Level-5 laboratory, where the 
really high-risk organisms are worked on. Im sure youve heard of the Biosafety 
classification system. Level-1 is the safety standard for working with the least 
infectious, least dangerous microbes. Level-4 is for the most dangerous. There 
are two Level-4 laboratories in the country: the CDChas one in Atlanta, and the 
Armys got one at Fort Detrick. These Level-4 laboratories are designed to 
handle the most dangerous viruses and bacteria that exist in nature.


But whats this Level-5? Ive never heard of it.


Singer grinned. Brents pride and joy. Mount Dragon has the only Level-5 
laboratory in the world. It was designed for handling viruses and bacteriamore 
dangerous than anything naturally existing in nature. In other words, microbes 
that have been genetically engineered. Somebody christened it the Fever Tank 
years ago, and the name stuck. Anyway, all the air from the Level-5 facility is 
circulated through the incinerator and heated to one thousand degrees Celsius 
before being cooled and returned. Sterilized completely.


The alien-looking air incinerator was the only structure Carson had seen at 
Mount Dragon that was not pure white. So youre working with an airborne 
pathogen?


Clever. Yes we are, and a very nasty one at that. I enjoyed it much more when 
we were working on PurBlood. Thats our artificial blood product.


Carson glanced over in the direction of the corrals. He could see a barn, 
stalls, several turnouts, and a large fenced pasture beyond the perimeter fence.


Can you ride outside the facility? he asked.


Of course. You just have to log out and log in. Singer glanced around and 
wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Christ, its hot. I just never 
get used to it. Lets go inside.


Inside meant the inner perimeter, a large chain-linked area at the heart of 
Mount Dragon. Carson could see only one break in the inner fence, a small 
gatehouse directly in front of them. Singer led the way through the gate and 
into a large building on the far side. The doors opened to a cool foyer. Through 
an open door, Carson could see a row of computer terminals on long white 
tables. Two workers, ID cards hung around their necks, wearing jeans under white 
lab coats, were busily typing at terminals. Carson realized with surprise that, 
except for guards, these were the first workers hed seen on the site.


This is the operations building, Singer said, gesturing into the mostly empty 
room. Administration, data processing, you name it. Our staff isnt large. 
There were never more than thirty scientists here at one time, even in our 
military days. Now the number is half that, all focused on the project.


Thats pretty small, Carson said.


Singer shrugged. The human-wave approach just doesnt work in genetic 
engineering.


He gestured Carson out of the foyer into a large atrium paved in black granite 
and roofed with heavily tinted glass. The strong desert sun, attenuated to a 
pale light, fell on a small grouping of palm trees in the center. Three 
corridors branched out from the atrium. Those lead to the transfection labs and 
the DNA-sequencing facility, he said. You wont be spending much time there, 
but you can get somebody to take you through at your leisure, if you like. Our 
next stops out there. He pointed at a window. Through it, Carson could make 
out a low, rhombus-like structure poking up from the desert.


Level-5, Singer said unenthusiastically. The Fever Tank.


Looks pretty small, Carson said.


Believe me, it feels small. But what you see is just the housing for the HEPA 
filters. The real labs beneath that, underground. Added protection in case of 
an earthquake, fire, explosion. He hesitated. Guess we might as well go in.


A slow descent in a cramped elevator deposited them in a long, white-tiled 
corridor lit by orange lights. Video cameras hung from the ceiling, tracking 
their progress. At the end of the corridor, Singer stopped at a gray metal door, 
its edges curved to fit the doorframe and sealed with thick black rubber.


To the right was a small mechanical box. Bending over, Singer spoke his name 
into the device. A green light came on above the door, and a tone sounded.


Voice recognition, said Singer, opening the door. Its not as good as 
hand-geometry readers or retinal scanners, but those dont work through 
biosuits. And this one, at least, cant be fooled by a tape recorder. Youll be 
coded this afternoon, as part of your entrance interview.


They moved into a large room, sparsely decorated with modern furniture. Along 
one wall was a series of metal lockers. On the far side stood another steel 
door, polished to a high gloss, marked with a bright yellow-and-red 
symbol.EXTREME BIOHAZARD , read a legend above the frame.


This is the ready room, Singer said. The bluesuits are in those lockers.


He moved toward one of the lockers, then paused. Suddenly he turned toward 
Carson. Tell you what. Why dont I get someone who really knows the place to 
show you around?


He pressed a button on the locker. There was a hiss as the metal door slid up, 
revealing a bulky blue rubber suit, carefully packed into a molded container 
that resembled a small coffin.


Youve never entered a BSL-4 facility, right? Singer asked. Then listen 
closely. Level-5 is a lot like Level-4, only more so. Most people wear scrub 
under the full-body suits for comfort, but its not a requirement. If you wear 
your street clothes, all pens, pencils, watches, knives must come out of the 
pockets. Anything that could puncture the suit. Carson quickly turned his 
pockets inside out.


No long fingernails? Singer asked.


Carson looked at his hands. Nope.


Thats good. Im always worrying mine down to the quick, so I dont have a 
problem. He laughed. Youll find a pair of rubber gloves in that lower left 
compartment. No rings, right? Good. Youll have to take off your boots and put 
on those slippers. And no long toenails. Youll find toenail clippers in one of 
the locker compartments, if you need them.


Carson removed his boots.


Now step into the suit, right leg first, then left leg, and draw it up. But not 
all the way. Leave the visor open for now so we can talk more easily.


Carson fumbled with the bulky suit, drawing it over his clothes with difficulty.


This thing weighs a ton, he said.


Its fully pressurized. See that metal valve at your waist? Youll be on oxygen 
the entire time youre inside. Youll be shown how to move from station to 
station. But the suit itself contains ten minutes worth of air, in case of 
emergencies. He walked toward an intercom unit, pressed a series of buttons. 
Rosalind? he asked.


There was a short pause. What? came the buzzing response.


Could I trouble you to give our new scientist, Guy Carson, a tour of BSL-5?


There was a longer silence.


Im in the middle of something, the voice came back.


Itll just take a few minutes.


Aw, for Chrissakes. The voice cut off immediately.


Singer turned to Carson. Thats Rosalind Brandon-Smith. Shes a little 
eccentric, I guess you could say. He leaned toward Carsons open visor 
conspiratorially. Actually, shes extremely rude, but dont pay any attention. 
She was instrumental in developing our artificial blood. Now shes wrapping up 
her part of the new project. She did a lot of work with Frank Burt, and they 
were pretty close, so she may not be too friendly to his replacement. Youll be 
meeting her inside, no reason for her to go through decontam twice.


Whos Frank Burt? Carson asked.


He was a true scientist. And a fine human being. But he found conditions here a 
little too stressful. Had something of a breakdown recently. Its not uncommon, 
you know. About a quarter of the people who come to Mount Dragon cant finish 
their tour.


I didnt know I was replacing anyone, Carson frowned.


You are. Ill tell you about it later. Youll be filling some large shoes. He 
stepped back. OK, finish up the zippers. Make sure you close and secure all 
three. Weve got a buddy system here. After you suit up, someone else has to 
check over everything.


He did a careful inspection of the bluesuit, then showed Carson how to use the 
visor intercom. Unless youre standing next to somebody, its very hard to 
hear anything. Press this button on your forearm to speak over the intercom.


He waved toward the door markedEXTREME BIOHAZARD . On the far side of the air 
lock is a chemical shower. Once youre inside, it starts automatically. Get used 
to it, therell be a much longer one coming out. When the inner door opens, go 
on through. Be especially careful until youre used to the suit. Rosalind will 
be waiting for you on the far side. I hope.


Thanks, said Carson, raising his voice to make sure it carried through the 
thick rubber of the suit.


No problem, came the muffled response. Sorry I wont be going in with you. 
Its just ... He hesitated. Nobody goes into the Fever Tank unless they have 
to. Youll see why.


As the door hissed shut behind him, Carson walked forward onto a metal grating. 
There was a sudden rumble, and a yellow chemical solution spurted from shower 
heads in the ceiling, walls, and floor. Carson could feel the solution drumming 
loudly on his suit. In a minute it was over; the next door opened, and he 
stepped into a small antechamber. A motor began to rumble, and he could feel the 
pressure of a powerful air machine blowing at him from all directions. Inside 
his suit, the drying mechanism felt like a strange, distant wind: He was unable 
to tell whether the air was hot or cold. Then the inner door hissed open, and 
Carson found himself facing a short woman who was staring at him impatiently 
through the clear faceplate of her visor. Even compensating for the bulkiness of 
the suit, Carson estimated her weight at 250 pounds.


Follow me, a voice inside his helmet said brusquely, and the woman turned 
away, moving down a tiled corridor so narrow that her shoulders brushed against 
both walls. The walls were smooth and slick, with no corners or projecting 
apparatus that might tear a protective suit. Everythingfloors, wall tiles, 
ceilingwas painted a brilliant white.


Carson pressed the left button on his forearm, activating the intercom. Im Guy 
Carson, he said.


Glad to hear it, came the reply. Now, pay attention. See those air hoses 
overhead?


Carson looked up. A number of blue hoses dangled from the ceiling, metal valves 
affixed to their ends.


Grab one and plug it into your suit valve. Careful. Turn it to the left to lock 
it in. When you move from one station to the next, youll have to detach it and 
plug into another hose. Your suit has a limited supply of air, so dont dawdle 
between hookups.


Carson followed her instructions, felt the snap as the valve seated itself, and 
heard the reassuring hiss of airflow. Inside the suit, he felt a strange sense 
of detachment from the world. His movements seemed slow, clumsy. Because of the 
multiple pairs of gloves, he could barely feel the air hose as he guided it into 
the attachment.


Keep in mind that this place is like a submarine, came the voice of 
Brandon-Smith. Small, cramped, and dangerous. Everything and everyone has its 
place.


I see, said Carson.


Do you?


Yes.


Good, because sloppiness is death down here in the Fever Tank. And not just for 
you. Got that?


Yes, Carson repeated.Bitch .


They continued down the narrow hall. As he followed Brandon-Smith, trying to 
acclimate himself to the pressure suit, Carson thought he could hear a strange 
noise in the background: a faint drumming, almost more sensation than sound. He 
decided it must be the Fever Tanks generator.


Brandon-Smiths great bulk eased sideways through a narrow hatch. In the lab 
beyond, suited figures were working in front of large Plexiglas-enclosed tables, 
their hands stretched through rubber holes bored into the cases. They were 
swabbing petri dishes. The light was painfully bright, throwing every object in 
the lab into sharp relief. Small waste receptacles with biohazard labels and 
flash-incineration attachments stood beside each worktable. More 
ceiling-mounted video cameras-swiveled, monitoring the scientists.


Everybody, Brandon-Smiths voice sounded in the intercom. This is Guy 
Carson. Burts replacement.


Visors angled upward as people turned to get a look at him, and a chorus of 
greetings crackled in Carsons helmet.


This is production, she said flatly. It wasnt a statement that invited 
questions, and Carson didnt ask any.


Brandon-Smith led Carson through a warren of other labs, narrow corridors, and 
air locks, all starkly bathed in the same brilliant light.Shes right , Carson 
thought, looking around.The place is like a submarine. All available floor space 
was packed with fabulously expensive equipment: transmission and scanning 
electron microscopes, autoclaves, incubators, mass spectrometers, even a small 
cyclotron, all reengineered to allow the scientists to operate them through the 
bulky bluesuits. The ceilings were low, heavily veined with piping, and painted 
white like everything else in the Fever Tank. Every ten yards Brandon-Smith 
halted to hook up to a new air hose, then waited for Carson to do the same. The 
going was excruciatingly slow.


My God, Carson said. These safety measures are unbelievable. What have you 
got in here, anyway?


You name it, came the response. Bubonic plague, pneumonic plague, Marburg 
virus, Hantavirus, Dengue, Ebola, anthrax. Not to mention a few Soviet 
biological agents. All currently on ice, of course.


The cramped spaces, the bulky suit, the stuffy air, all had a disorienting 
effect on Carson. He found himself gulping in oxygen, fighting down an urge to 
unzip the suit, give himself breathing room.


At last they stopped in a small circular hub from which several narrow corridors 
branched out like the spokes of a wheel. Whats that? Carson pointed to a huge 
manifold over their heads.


The air uptake, Brandon-Smith said, attaching another new hose to her suit. 
This is the center of the Fever Tank. The entire facility has negative airflow 
controls. The air pressure decreases the further in you go. Everything flows to 
this point, then its taken up to the incinerator and recirculated. She 
gestured at one of the corridors. Your labs down there. Youll see it soon 
enough. I dont have time to show you everything.


And down there? Carson pointed to a narrow tube at their feet containing a 
shiny metal ladder.


There are three levels beneath us. Backup labs, security substation, CRYLOX 
freezers, generators, the control center.


She stepped a few feet down one of the hallways, stopping in front of another 
door.


Carson? she said.


Yes.


Last stop. The Zoo. Keep the hell away from the cages. Dont let them grab you. 
If they rip a piece off your suit, youll never see the light of day. Youll be 
locked up in here and left to die.


The Zoo? Carson began, but Brandon-Smith was already opening the door. 
Suddenly the drumming was louder, and Carson realized it was not a generator, 
after all. Muffled screams and hoots filtered through his pressure suit. Turning 
a corner, Carson saw that one wall of the rooms interior was lined floor to 
ceiling with cages. Black beady eyes peered out from between wire mesh. The new 
arrivals in the room caused the noise level to increase dramatically. Many of 
the prisoners were now pounding on the floors of the cages with their feet and 
hands,


Chimpanzees? asked Carson.


Good for you.


A small bluesuited figure at the far end of the row of cages turned toward them.


Carson, this is Bob Fillson. He takes care of the animals.


Fillson nodded curtly. Carson could see a heavy brow, bulbous nose, and- wet 
pendulous lip behind the faceplate. The rest was in shadow. The man turned and 
went back to work.


Why so many? Carson asked.


She stopped and looked at him. Theyre the only animal with the same 
immunological system as a human being. You should know that, Carson.


Of course, but why exactly


But Brandon-Smith was peering intently into one of the cages.


Aw, for Chrissakes, she said.


Carson came over, keeping a respectful distance from the countless fingers 
poking through the mesh. A chimpanzee was lying on its side, trembling, 
oblivious of the commotion surrounding it. There seemed to be something wrong 
with its facial features. Then Carson realized that the creatures eyeballs 
seemed abnormally enlarged. Looking closer, he could see that they were actually 
bulging from its head, the blood vessels rupturing and hemorrhaging in 
thesclera. The animal suddenly jerked, opened its hairy jaws, and screamed.


Bob, Carson could hear Brandon-Smith saying through the intercom, the last of 
Burts chimps is about to go.


With a notable lack of haste, Fillson came shuffling over. He was a very small 
man, barely five feet, and he moved with a slow deliberation that reminded 
Carson of a diver under water.


He turned to Carson, and spoke with a hoarse voice. Youll have to go. You too, 
Rosalind. Cant open a cage when others are in the room.


Carson watched in horror as one of the eyeballs suddenly erupted from its 
socket, followed by a gush of bloody fluid. The chimp thrashed about silently, 
teeth snapping, arms flailing.


What the hell? Carson began, frozen in horror.


Good-bye,Fillson said firmly, as he reached into a cabinet behind him.


Bye, Bob, said Brandon-Smith. Carson noticed a distinct change of tone in her 
voice when she spoke to the animal handler.


The last thing Carson saw as they sealed the door was the chimp, rigid with 
pain, pawing desperately at its ruined face, as Fillson sprayed something from 
an aerosol can into the cage.


Brandon-Smith made her ponderous way down another corridor, not speaking.


Are you going to tell me what was wrong with that chimpanzee? Carson said at 
last.


I thought it was obvious, she snapped. Cerebral edema.


Caused by what?


The woman turned to look at him. She seemed surprised. You really dont know, 
Carson?


No, I dont. And from now on, the name is Guy. Or Dr. Carson, if you prefer. I 
dont appreciate being called by my last name.


There was a silence. Fine,Guy ,she replied. Those chimps are all X-FLU 
positive. The one you saw is in the tertiary stage of the disease. The virus 
stimulates massive overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid. In time, the pressure 
herniates the brain down through the foramen magnum. Thats when the lucky ones 
die. A few hang on until the eyeballs are forced from their sockets.


X-FLU? Carson asked. He could feel the sweat trickling down his forehead and 
under his arms, dampening the inside of his suit.


This time Brandon-Smith stopped dead. There was a buzz of static and he heard 
her voice: Singer, can you enlighten me as to why this joker doesnt know about 
X-FLU?


Singers voice came back. I havent briefed him yet on the project. That comes 
next.


Mr. Ass-backwards, as usual, she said, then turned to Carson. Lets go,Guy , 
the tours over.


She left Carson at the exit air lock. He stepped through the access chamber into 
another chemical shower, waiting the required seven minutes as the high-pressure 
solution doused his suit. A few minutes later he was back in the ready room. He 
was vaguely annoyed to see Singer, cool and relaxed, doing the crossword of the 
local newspaper.


Enjoy your tour? Singer asked, looking up from the paper.


No, said Carson, breathing deeply, trying to shake the oppressive feeling of 
the Fever Tank. That Brandon-Smith is meaner than a sidewinder in a hot 
skillet.


Singer burst out laughing and shook his bald head. A colorful way of putting 
it. Shes the most brilliant scientist weve got at present. If we pull this 
project off, you know, were all going to become rich. Yourself included. Thats 
worth putting up with a Rosalind Brandon-Smith, dont you think? Shes really 
just a frightened, insecure little girl underneath that mountain of adipose 
tissue.


He helped Carson out of his suit and showed him how to pack it back inside the 
locker.


I think the time has come for me to hear about this mysterious project, 
Carson said, closing the locker.


Absolutely. Shall we head back to myoffice for a cold drink?


Carson nodded. You know, there was a chimpanzee back there with its


Singer held up a hand. I know what you saw.


So what the hell was it?


Singer paused. Influenza.


What? Carson said. Theflu? 


Singer nodded.


I dont know of any flu that pops your eyeballs out of your skull.


Well, Singer said, this is a very special kind of flu. Gripping Carsons 
elbow, he led him through the outer corridors of the maximum-security lab and 
back up into the welcoming desert sunlight.


 





 


At precisely two minutes to three in the afternoon, Charles Levine opened his 
door and ushered a young woman, clad in jeans and sweatshirt, back into his 
outer office.


Thank you, Ms. Fields, he said, smiling. Well let you know if anything opens 
up for next term.


As the student turned to leave, Levine checked his watch. Thats it, right, 
Ray? he said, turning to his secretary.


With an effort, Ray shifted his eyes from Ms. Fieldss departing ass to the 
open appointment book on his desk. He smoothed his hand over his immaculate 
Buddy Holly haircut, his fingers dropping to scratch the heavily muscled chest 
beneath the sleeveless red T-shirt. Thats it, Dr. Levine, he said.


Any messages? Sheriffs deputies bearing summonses? Offers of marriage?


Ray grinned and waited until the outer door closed before answering. Borucki 
called twice. Apparently that pharmaceutical company in Little Rock was 
unimpressed with last months article. Theyre suing for libel.


How much?


Ray shrugged. A million.


Tell our legal friends to take the usual steps. Levine turned away. No 
interruptions, Ray.


Right.


Levine closed the door.


 


With his notoriety as Foundation for Genetic Policy spokesman growing, Levine 
found it increasingly difficult to maintain a routine existence as professor of 
theoretical genetics. The nature of the foundation made it a lightning rod for a 
certain kind of student: lonely, idealistic, in need of a burning cause. It also 
made him and his office the target of a great deal of anger from business 
concerns.


When his former secretary quit after receiving a number of threatening phone 
calls, Levine took two precautionary steps. He had a new lock installed on his 
office door, and he hired Ray. Rays office skills left a lot to be desired. But 
as an ex-Navy SEAL discharged because of a heart murmur, he was very good at 
keeping things peaceful. Ray seemed to spend most of hisnon working hours 
chasing women, but at the office he was serenely indifferent to all forms of 
intimidation, and for that alone Levine found him indispensable.


The heavy bolt of the lock slid home with reassuring finality. Levine tugged at 
the doorknob, then, satisfied, moved quickly between piles of term papers, 
scientific journals, and back issues ofGenetic Policy to his desk. The affable, 
easygoing air he had maintained during his consultation hours quickly 
dissipated. Clearing the center of the desk with a sweep of his hand, he tugged 
his computer keyboard into typing range. Then he dug into a pocket of his 
briefcase and pulled out a black object the size of a cigarette box. A slender 
length of gray cable dangled from one end. Leaning forward in his chair, Levine 
disconnected his telephone, plugged the phone line into one end of the Black 
box, and inserted the slender gray cable into the back panel of his laptop 
computer.


Even before his single-minded crusade to regulate genetic engineering made his 
name a foul word in a dozen top labs around the world, Levine had learned hard 
lessons about security. The black box was a dedicated cryptographic device for 
scrambling computer transmissions over telephone lines. Using proprietary 
public-key algorithms far more sophisticated than theDES standard, it was 
supposedly uncrackable even by government supercomputers. Mere possession of 
such devices was of questionable legality. But Levine had been an active member 
of the student antiwar underground before graduating from U.C. Irvine in 1971. 
He was no stranger to using unorthodox or even illegal methods to achieve his 
ends.


Levine switched on his PC, drumming his fingers on the desktop while the machine 
booted itself into consciousness. Typing rapidly, he brought up the 
communications program that would dial out over the phone lines to another 
computer, and another user. A very special user.


He waited while the call was rerouted, then rerouted again across the telephone 
long lines, threading a complex, untraceable path. At last, the call was 
answered by the hiss of another modem. There was a shrill squealing noise as the 
two computers negotiated; then Levines screen dissolved into a now-familiar 
image: a figure, dressed in mimes costume, balancing the earth on one 
fingertip. Almost immediately the log-in device disappeared, and words appeared 
on Levines screen: disembodied, as if typed by a ghost.


 


Professor! What up?


 


I need a line into GeneDynes net, Levine typed.


 


The response was immediate.Simple enough. What are we looking for today? 
Employee phone numbers? P&L sheets? The latest scores of the mailroom 
deathmatchers?


 


I need a private channel into the Mount Dragon facility, Levine typed.


 


The next response was a little slower in coming.Whoa! _Whoa!_ Whose pair of 
balls have you strapped on today, monsieurleprofessor?


 


Cant do it?Levine prodded.


 


Did I say I couldnt do it? Remember to whom youre speaking, varlet! You wont 
find the word cant in my spell-checker. Im not worried about me: Im worried 
about _you_, my man. I hear that this guy Scopes is bad juju. Hed love to catch 
you copping a feel beneath his skirts. Are you sure youre ready to jack into 
prime time, professor?


 


Youre worried about me?Levine typed.Thats hard to believe.


 


Why, professor. Your callousness wounds me.


 


Do you want money this time? Is that it?


 


Money? Now Im insulted. I demand satisfaction. Meet me at high noon in front of 
the Cyberspace Saloon.


 


Mime, this is serious.


 


Im always serious. Of course I can handle your little problem. Besides, Ive 
heard rumors of some truly girthy program Scopes has been working on. Something 
very hip, very interesting. But hes a jealous guy, supposedly, keeps a 
chastity belt around it. Perhaps while Im taking care of business, I can pay a 
little visit to his private server. Thats just the kind of deflowering I enjoy 
most.


 


What you do on your off time is your own affair,Levine typed irritably.Just make 
sure the channel is absolutely secure. Let me know when its in place, please.


 


CID.


 


Mime, I dont understand.CID?


 


Bless me, I keep forgetting what a newbie you are. Out here in the electronic 
ether, we use acronyms to help keep our epistolary exchanges short and 
sweet.CID:Consider it done. You long-winded academic types could take a page 
from our virtual book. Heres another: TTFN. Viz, ta-ta for now. So 
TTFN,HerrProfessor.


 


The screen went blank.


 





 


John Singers office, which occupied the southwest corner of the administration 
building, was more living room than directors suite. A kiva fireplace was 
built into one corner, surrounded by a sofa and two leather wing chairs. 
Against one wall was an antique Mexicantrastero, on which sat a battered Martin 
guitar and an untidy stack of sheet music. A Two Gray HillsNavajo rug lay on the 
floor, and the walls were lined with nineteenth-century prints of the American 
frontier, including six Bodmer images ofMandan and Hidatsa Indians on the Upper 
Missouri. There was no deskonly a computer workstation and telephone.


The windows looked over the Jornada desert, where the dirt road wandered off 
toward infinity. Sun streamed in the tinted window and across the room, filling 
it with light.


Carson seated himself in one of the leather chairs while Singer moved to a small 
bar on the far side of the room.


Anything to drink? he asked. Beer, wine, martini, juice?


Carson glanced at his watch. It was 11:45A.M. His stomach still felt a little 
queasy. Ill have some juice.


Singer returned with a glass of Cranapple in one hand and a martini in the 
other. He settled back on the sofa and propped his feet up on the table. I 
know, he said, drinking before noon. Very bad. But this is a special 
occasion. He raised his glass. To X-FLU.


X-FLU, Carson muttered. Thats what Brandon-Smith said killed the chimp.


Correct, Singer took a sip, exhaling contentedly.


Forgive my bluntness, said Carson, but Id really like to know what this 
project is all about. I still cant understand why Mr. Scopes chose me out 
ofwhatfive thousand scientists? And why did I have to drop everything, get my 
ass out here on five minutes notice?


Singer settled back. Let me start at the beginning. Are you familiar with an 
animal called a bonobo?


No.


We used to call them pygmy chimpanzees until we realized they were a completely 
different species. Bonobos are even closer to human beings than the more common 
lowland chimps. They are more intelligent, form monogamous relationships, and 
share ninety-nine-point-two percent of our DNA. Most importantly, they get all 
our diseases. Except one.


He paused, sipped his drink.


They dont get the flu. All other chimps, as well as gorillas and orangs, get 
the flu. But not the bonobo. This fact came to Brents attention about ten 
months ago. He sent us several bonobos, and we did some genetic sequencing. Let 
me show you what we discovered.


Singer opened a notebook lying on the coffee table, moving aside a malachite 
egg to make room. Inside, the sheets of paper were covered with strings of 
letters in complex ladder-like arrangements.


The bonobo has a gene that makes it immune to influenza. Not just one or two 
strains, butall sixty known varieties. Weve named it the X-FLU gene.


Carson examined the printout. It was a short gene, going only to several hundred 
base pairs.


How does the gene work? Carson asked.


Singer smiled. We dont really know. It would take years to figure it out. But 
Brent hypothesized that if we could insert this gene into human DNA, it would 
render humans immune to flu, as well. The initial in vitro tests we performed 
bore this out.


Interesting, Carson replied.


Ill say. Take the gene out of the bonobo, and insert it into yourself. Presto, 
you never get the flu again. Singer leaned forward and lowered his voice. Guy, 
how much do you know about the flu?


Carson hesitated. He actually knew quite a bit. But Singer didnt seem the type 
whod appreciate a braggart. Not as much as I should. People are too complacent 
about it, for one thing.


Singer nodded. Thats right. People tend to think of it as a nuisance. But its 
not a nuisance. Its one of the worst viral diseases in the world. Even today, a 
million people die annually from the flu. It remains one of the top ten causes 
of death in the United States. During flu season, onequarter of the population 
falls ill. And thats in a good year. People forget that the swine flu epidemic 
of 1918 killed one person out of fifty worldwide. That was the worst pandemic in 
recorded history, worse than the Black Death. And it happenedin this century . 
If it happened again today, wed be almost as helpless now as we were then.


Truly virulent flu mutations can kill in hours, Carson said. But


Just one moment, Guy. That word,mutation , is key. The serious pandemics occur 
when the flu virus undergoes significant mutation. Its already happened three 
times this century, most recently with the Hong Kong flu in 1968. Were 
overduewereripe for another pandemic right now.


And because the coating of the viral particle keeps mutating, Carson said, 
theres no permanent vaccine. A flu shot is just a cocktail of three or four 
strains, a guess on the part of epidemiologists as to what strain might be 
coming along in the next six months. Correct? They could guess wrong and youd 
be just as sick.


Singer smiled. Very good, Guy. Were well aware of the work you did with flu 
viruses at MIT. Thats part of the reason we chose you.


He finished his drink with a short hard gulp. One thing you may not have been 
aware of was that the world economy loses almost onetrilliondollars a year in 
unrealized productivity to the flu.


I didnt know that.


Heres something else you may not know: the flu causes an estimated two hundred 
thousand birth defects annually. When a pregnant woman gets a fever above a 
hundred and four degrees, all kinds of developmental hell can break loose in the 
womb.


He inhaled slowly. Guy, were working on the last great medical advancement of 
the twentieth century. And now youre a part of it. You see, with the X-FLU gene 
inserted into his body, a human being will be immune to all strains of the flu. 
Forever. Whats more, his children will inherit the immunity.


Carson slowly put down his drink and looked at Singer.


Jesus, he said. You mean, a gene therapy aimed at reproductive cells?


Thats right. Were going to alter the germ cell line of the human race 
permanently. And you, Guy, are central to this effort.


But my work with influenza was just preliminary, Carson said. My main focus 
was elsewhere.


I know, Singer replied. Bear with me a moment longer. Our major obstacle has 
been getting the X-FLU gene into human DNA. It has to be done, of course, using 
a virus.


Carson nodded. He knew that viruses worked by inserting their own DNA into a 
hosts DNA. That made viruses the ideal vector to exchange genes between 
distantly related species. As a result, most genetic engineering used viruses 
in this way.


Heres how it will work, Singer continued. We insert the X-FLU gene into a 
flu virus itself. Use the virus as a Trojan horse, if you will. Then we infect a 
person with that virus. As with any flu vaccine, the person will develop a mild 
case of influenza. Meanwhile, the virus has inserted the bonobo DNA into the 
persons DNA. When he recovers, hes got the X-FLU gene. And hell never get the 
flu again.


Gene therapy, Carson said.


Absolutely, Singer replied. Its one of the hottest things around today. Gene 
therapies are promising to cure all kinds of genetic diseases. Like Tay-Sachs 
disease, PKU syndrome, hemophilia, you name it. Someday, anyone born with a 
genetic defect will be able to get the right gene and live a normal life. Only 
in this case, the defect is susceptibility to the flu. And the change 
isinheritable .


Singer mopped his brow. I get pretty excited, talking about this stuff, he 
said, grinning. I never dreamed I could change the world when I was teaching at 
CalTech. X-FLU made me believe in God again, it really did. He cleared his 
throat.


Were very close, Guy. But theres one small problem. When we insert the X-FLU 
gene into the ordinary flu virus, it turns the ordinary virus virulent. 
Infinitely more virulent. And brutally contagious. Instead of being an innocuous 
messenger, the protein coat of the virus seems to mimic a hormone that 
stimulates the overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid. What you saw in the Fever 
Tank was the viruss effect on a chimpanzee. We dont quite know what it will do 
to a human being, but we know it wont be pleasant. He stood up and moved to a 
nearby window.


Your job is to redesign the viral coat of the X-FLU messenger virus. To 
render it harmless. To allow it to infect its human host without killing it, so 
that it can transport the X-FLU gene into human DNA.


Carson opened his mouth to speak, then shut it abruptly. He suddenly understood 
why Scopes had plucked him out of the mass of GeneDyne talent. Until Fred Peck 
had set him to doing make-work, his specialty had been altering the protein 
shells that surround a virus. He knew that the protein coat of a virus could be 
changed or attenuated using heat, various enzymes, radiation, even through the 
growing of different strains. Hed done it all himself. There were many ways to 
neutralize a virus.


It sounds like a straightforward problem, he said.


It should be. But it isnt. For some reason, no matter what you do, the virus 
always mutates back to its deadly form. When Burt was working on it, he must 
have inoculated an entire colony of chimps with supposedly safe strains of the 
X-FLU virus. Each time, the virus reverted, and, well, youve seen the grim 
result. Sudden cerebral edema. Burt was a brilliant scientist. If it wasnt for 
him, wed have never been able to get PurBlood, our artificial blood product, 
stabilized and out the door. But the X-FLU problem drove him Singer paused. 
He couldnt take the pressure.


I can see why people avoid the Fever Tank, Carson said.


Its horrible. And I have grave misgivings about using the chimps. But when you 
consider the benefits to humanity ... Singer fell silent, looking out over the 
landscape.


Why the secrecy? Carson finally asked.


Two reasons. We believe that at least one other drug company is working along 
similar lines of research, and we dont want to tip our hand prematurely. But 
more importantly, there are a lot of people out there afraid of technology. I 
dont really blame them. With nuclear weapons, radiation, Three Mile Island and 
Chernobyltheyre suspicious. And they dont like the idea of genetic 
engineering. He turned toward Carson. Lets face it, what were talking about 
is a permanent alteration in the human genome. That could bevery controversial. 
And if people object to genetically altered veggies, what are they going to make 
of this? We face the same problem with PurBlood. So we want to have X-FLU ready 
to go when its announced to the world. That way, opposition wont have time to 
develop. People will see that the benefits far outweigh any irrational outcry of 
fear from a small segment of the public.


That segment can be pretty vocal. Carson had sometimes passed groups of 
demonstrators outside the GeneDyne gates on his way to and from work.


Yes. You have people out there like Charles Levine. You know his Foundation for 
Genetic Policy? Very radical organization, out to destroy genetic engineering 
in general and Brent Scopes in particular.


Carson nodded.


They were friends in college, Levine and Scopes. God, thats quite a story. 
Remind me to tell you what I know of it someday. Anyway, Levine is a bit 
unbalanced, a real Don Quixote. Rolling back scientific progress has become his 
goal in life. Its gotten worse since the death of his wife, Im told. And hes 
carried out a twenty-year vendetta against Brent Scopes. Unfortunately, there 
are many in the media who actually listen to him and print his garbage. He 
stepped away from the window. Its much easier to tear something down than 
build it up, Guy. Mount Dragon is the safest genetic-engineering lab in the 
world. No one, and I mean no one, is more interested in the safety of his 
employees and his products than Brent Scopes.


Carson almost mentioned that Charles Levine had been one of his undergraduate 
professors, but thought better of it. Maybe Singer already knew. So you want to 
present the X-FLU therapy as a fait accompli. And thats the reason for the 
rush?


Thats partly the reason. Singer hesitated, then continued. Actually, the 
truth is that X-FLU is very important to GeneDyne. In fact, its critical. 
Scopess corn royalty patentGeneDynes financial bedrockexpires in a matter of 
weeks.


But Scopes only turns forty this year, Carson said. The patent cant be that 
old. Why doesnt he just renew it?


Singer shrugged. I dont know all the details. I just know its expiring, and 
it cant be renewed. When that happens, all those royalties will cease. PurBlood 
wont see distribution for a couple of months, and it will take years to 
amortize the cost ofR andD anyway. Our other new products are still stuck 
undergoing the approval process. If X-FLU doesnt come through soon, GeneDyne 
will have to cut its generous dividend. That would have a catastrophic effect 
on the stock price. Your nest egg and mine.


He turned, beckoned. Come over here, Guy, he said.


Carson walked to where Singer was standing. The window offered a sweeping view 
of the Jornada delMuerto desert, which stretched toward the horizon, dissolving 
in a firestorm of light where the sky met the earth. To the south Carson could 
barely make out the rubble of what looked like an ancient Indian ruin, several 
ragged walls poking above the drifted sand.


Singer placed a hand on Carsons shoulder. These matters shouldnt be of any 
concern to you right now. Think about the potential that lies just beneath our 
fingertips. The average doctor, if hes lucky, may save hundreds of lives. A 
medical researcher may save thousands. But you, me, GeneDyne were going to 
save millions. Billions.


He pointed toward a low range of mountains to the northeast, rising above the 
bright desert like a series of dark teeth. Fifty years ago, mankind exploded 
the first atomic device at the foot of those mountains. The Trinity Site is a 
mere thirty miles from here. That was the dark side of science. Now, half a 
century later, in this same desert, we have the chance to redeem science. Its 
really as simple and as profound as that.


His grip tightened. Guy, this is going to be the greatest adventure of your 
lifetime. I think I can guarantee that.


They stood looking out over the desert, and as he stared, Carson could feel its 
vast intensity, a feeling almost religious in its force. And he knew Singer was 
right.


 





 


Carson rose at five-thirty. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and 
looked out the open window toward the San Andres Mountains. The cool night air 
flowed in, bringing with it the intense stillness of the predawn morning. He 
breathed deeply. In New Jersey, it was all he could do to drag himself out of 
bed at eight oclock. Now, on his second morning in the desert, he was already 
back on his old schedule.


He watched as the stars disappeared, leaving only Venus in the cloudless eastern 
sky. The peculiar green color of the desert sunrise crept into the sky, then 
faded to yellow. Slowly, the outlines of plants emerged from the indistinct 
blueness of the desert floor. The wiry tangles of witch mesquite and the tall 
clumps oftobosa grass were widely scattered; life in the desert, Carson thought, 
was a solitary, uncrowded affair.


His room was sparsely but comfortably furnished: bed, matching sofa and chair, 
oversized desk, bookshelves. He showered, shaved, and dressed in white scrubs, 
feeling alternately excited and apprehensive about the day ahead.


Hed spent the previous afternoon being processed into the Mount Dragon 
workforce: filling out forms, getting voice-printed and photographed, and 
undergoing the most extensive physical hed ever experienced. The site doctor, 
Lyle Grady, was a thin, small man with a reedy voice. Hed barely smiled as he 
typed notes into his terminal. After a brief dinner with Singer, Carson had 
turned in early. He wanted to be well rested.


The workday at GeneDyne began at eight oclock. Carson did not eat breakfasta 
holdover from the days when his father roused him early and made him saddle his 
horse in the darkbut he found his way to the cafeteria, where he grabbed a 
quick cup of coffee before heading toward his new lab. The cafeteria was 
deserted, and Carson remembered a remark Singer had made at dinner the night 
before. We eat big dinners around here, hed said. Breakfast and lunch arent 
too popular. Something about working in the Fever Tank that really curbs your 
appetite.


People were suiting up quickly and silently when Carson arrived at the Fever 
Tank. Everyone turned to look at the new arrival, some friendly, some frankly 
curious, some noncommittal. Then Singer appeared in the ready room, his round 
face smiling broadly.


Howd you sleep? he asked, giving Carson a friendly pat on the back.


Not bad, Carson said. Im anxious to get started.


Good. I want to introduce you to your assistant. He looked around. 
WheresSusana?


Shes already inside, said one of the technicians. She had to go in early to 
check some cultures.


Youre in Lab C, Singer said. Rosalind showed you the way, right?


More or less, Carson said, pulling the bluesuit out of his locker.


Good. Youll probably want to start by going over Frank Burts lab notes.Susana 
will see that you have everything you need.


Completing the dressing procedure with Singers help, Carson followed the others 
into the chemical showers, then again entered the warren of narrow corridors and 
hatches of the Biosafety Level-5 lab. Once again, he found it difficult to get 
used to the constricting suit, the reliance on air tubes. After a few wrong 
turns he found himself in front of a metal door markedLABORATORY C .


Inside, a bulky, suited figure was bent over a bioprophylaxis table, sorting 
through a stack of petri dishes. Carson pressed one of the intercom buttons on 
his suit.


Hi. Are youSusana?


The figure straightened up.


Im Guy Carson, he continued.


A small sharp voice crackled over the intercom.Susana Cabeza de Vaca.


They clumsily shook hands.


These suits are a pain in the butt,de Vaca said irritably. So youre Burts 
replacement.


Thats right, said Carson.


She peered into his visor.Hispano? she asked.


No, Im an Anglo, Carson replied, a little more hastily than hed intended.


There was a pause. Hmm,de Vaca said, looking at him intently. Well, you 
suresound like you could be from around here, anyway.


I grew up in the Bootheel.


I knew it! Well, Guy, you and I are the only natives here.


Youre a New Mexican? When did you come? Carson asked.


I got here about two weeks ago, transferred from the Albuquerque plant. I was 
originally assigned to Medical, but now Ill be replacing Dr. Burts assistant. 
She left a few days after he did.


Wherere you from? Carson asked.


A little mountain town calledTruchas. About thirty miles north of Santa Fe.


Originally, I mean.


There was another pause. I was born inTruchas, she said.


Okay, Carson said, surprised by her sharp tone.


You meant, when did we swim the Rio Grande?


Well, no, of course not. Ive always had a lot of respect for Mexicans


Mexicans?


Yes. Some of the best hands on our ranch were Mexican, and growing up I had a 
lot of Mexican friends


My family,de Vaca interrupted frostily, came toAmerica with DonJuan de 
Oate. In fact, DonAlonso Cabeza de Vaca and his wife almost died of thirst 
crossing this very desert. That was in 1598, which Im sure was a lot earlier 
than when your redneck dustbowl family settled in the Bootheel. But Im deeply 
touched you had Mexican friends growing up.


She turned away and began sorting through petri dishes again, typing the numbers 
intoa PowerBook computer.


Jesus, thought Carson,Singer wasnt kidding when he said everyone here was 
stressed . Ms.de Vaca, he said, I hope you understand I was just trying to be 
friendly.


Carson waited.De Vaca continued to sort and type.


Not that it matters, but I dont come from some dustbowl family. My ancestor 
was Kit Carson, and my great-grandfather homesteaded the ranch I grew up on. The 
Carsons have been in New Mexico for almost two hundred years.


Colonel Christopher Carson? Well, whaddya know, she said, not looking up. I 
once wrote a college paper on Carson. Tell me, are you descended from his 
Spanish wife or his Indian wife?


There was a silence.


Its got to be one or the other, she continued, because you sure dont look 
like a white man to me. She stacked the petri dishes and squared them away, 
sliding them into a stainless-steel slot in the wall.


I dont define myself by my racial makeup, Ms.de Vaca, Carson said, trying to 
keep an even tone.


ItsCabezade Vaca, notde Vaca,  sheresponded, beginning to sort another 
stack.


Carson jabbed angrily at his intercom switch. I dont care if itsCabeza 
orKowalski. Im not going to take this kind of rude shit from you or that 
walking chuck wagon Rosalind or anyone else.


There was a momentary silence. Thende Vaca began to laugh. Carson? Look at the 
two buttons on your intercom panel. One is for private conversation over a local 
channel, and one is for global broadcast. Dont get them mixed up again, or 
everyone in the Fever Tank will hear what youre saying.


There came a hiss on the intercom. Carson? Brandon-Smiths voice sounded. I 
just want you to know I heard that, you bowlegged asswipe.


De Vacasmirked.


Ms.Cabezade Vaca, said Carson, fumbling with the intercom buttons. I just 
want to get my job done. Got that? Im not interested in petty squabbling or in 
sorting out your identity problem. So start acting like an assistant and show me 
how I can access Dr. Burts lab notes.


There was an icy pause.


Right,de Vaca said at last, pointing to a gray laptop stored in a cubbyhole 
near the entry hatch. ThatPowerBook was Burts. Now its yours. If you want to 
see his entries, the network jacks are in that receptacle by your left elbow. 
You know the rules about notes, dont you?


You mean the pencil-and-paper directive? Back in New Jersey, GeneDyne had a 
policy of discouraging the recording of any information except into company 
computers.


They take it a step further here,de Vaca said. No hard copy ofany kind. No 
pens, pencils, paper. All test results, all lab work,everything you do and 
think, has to be recorded in yourPowerBook and uploaded to the mainframe at 
least once a day. Just leaving a note on someones desk is enough to get you 
fired.


Whats the big deal?


De Vacashrugged inside the confines of her suit. Scopes likes to browse through 
our notes, see what were up to, offer suggestions. He roams company cyberspace 
all night long from Boston, poking and prying into everyones business; The guy 
never sleeps.


Carson sensed a note of disrespect in her voice. Turning on the laptop and 
plugging the network cable into the wall jack, he logged on, then letde Vaca 
show him where Burts files were kept. He typed a few brief commandsannoyed at 
the pudgy clumsiness of his gloved fingersand waited while the files were 
copied to the laptops hard disk. Then he loaded Burts notes into the laptops 
word processor.


 


February 18. First day at lab. Briefed by Singer on PurBlood with other new 
arrival,P. Brandon-Smith. Spent afternoon in library ,studying precedents for 
encapsulating naked hemoglobin. The problem ,as I see it ,is essentially one of 
...


 


You dont want that stuff,de Vaca said. Thats the last project, before I 
came. Page ahead until you get to X-FLU.


Carson scrolled through three months worth of notes, at last locating where 
Burt had completed work on GeneDynesartificial blood and begun laying the 
groundwork for X-FLU. The story unfolded in terse, businesslike entries: a 
brilliant scientist, fresh from the triumph of one project, launching 
immediately into the next. Burt had used his own filtration processa process 
that had made him a famous name within GeneDyneto synthesize PurBlood, and his 
optimism and enthusiasm shone through clearly. After all, it had seemed a fairly 
simple task to neutralize the X-FLU virus and get on with human testing.


Day after day Burt worked on various angles of the problem: computer-modeling 
the protein coat; employing various enzymes, heat treatments, and chemicals; 
moving from one angle of attack to another with rapidity. Scattered liberally 
throughout the notes were comments from Scopes, who seemed to peruse Burts work 
several times a week. The computer had also captured many on-line typed 
conversations between Scopes and Burt. As he read these exchanges, Carson 
found himself admiring Scopess understanding of the technical aspects of his 
business, and envying Burts easy familiarity with the GeneDyne CEO.


Despite Burts ceaseless energy and brilliant attack, however, nothing seemed 
to work. Altering the protein capsule around the flu virus itself was an almost 
trivial matter. Each time, the coat remained stable in vitro, and Burt would 
then move toward an in vivo testinjecting the altered virus into chimpanzees. 
Each time, the animals lived for a while without obvious symptoms, then suddenly 
died hideous deaths.


Carson scrolled through page after page in which an increasingly exasperated 
Burt recorded continual, inexplicable failures. Over time, the entries seemed to 
lose their clipped, dispassionate tone, and become more rambling and personal. 
Barbed comments about the scientists Burt worked with especially Rosalind 
Brandon-Smith, whom he detestedbegan to appear.


About three weeks before Burt left Mount Dragon, the poems began. Usually ten 
lines or less, they focused on the hidden, obscure beauty of science: the 
quaternary structure of a globulin protein, the blue glow of Cerenkov radiation. 
They were lyrical and evocative, yet Carson found them chilling, appearing 
suddenly between columns of test results, unbidden, like alien guests.


Carbon, one of the poems began,


 


Most beautiful of elements.


Such infinite variety,


Chains, rings, branches, buckyballs, side groups, aromatics.


Your index of refraction kills shahs and speculators.


Carbon.


You who were with us in the streets of Saigon,


You were everywhere, floating in the air


Invisible in the fear and sweat,


The napalm.


 


Without you we are nothing.


Carbon we were and carbon we shall become.


 


The entries quickly grew more sporadic and disjointed as the end drew near. 
Carson had increasing difficulty following Burts logic from one thought to 
another. Throughout, Scopes had been a constant background presence; now his 
comments and suggestions became more critical and sarcastic. Their exchanges 
developed a distinct confrontational edge: Scopes aggressive, Burt evasive, 
almost penitent.


 


Burt, where were you yesterday?


 


I took the day off and walked outside the perimeter.


 


For every day this problem isnt solved, its costing GeneDyne one million 
dollars. So Dr. Burt decides to take the day off fora one-million-dollarhike. 
Charming. Everybodys waiting on you, Frank, remember? The entire projects 
waiting on you.


 


Brent, Ijust cant go on day after day. Ive got to have some time to think and 
be alone.


 


So what did you think about?


 


I thought about my first wife.


 


Jesus Christ, he thought about his first wife. One million bucks, Frank, to 
think about your fucking first wife. I could kill you, Ireally could.


 


I just couldnt work yesterday. Ive tried everything, 
includingrecombinantviral vectors. The problem isnt solvable.


 


Frank, I really hate you for even thinking that. No problem is insoluble. Thats 
what you said about the blood, remember? And then you solved it. You did it, 
Frank, think about it! And I love you for it, Frank, I do. And I know you can do 
it again. Theres a Nobel Prize in this for you, I swear.


 


Tempting me with glory wont help, Brent. Money wont, either. Nothing is going 
to make an impossible problem possible.


 


Dont say that, Frank. Please. It hurts me to hear you say that word, because 
its always a lie. Impossible is a lie. The universe is strange and vast, and 
anything is possible. You remind me of Alice in Wonderland. You remember that 
exchange between Alice and the Queen about this very subject?


 


No, I dont. And I dont think Alice in Wonderland is going to help me believe 
in the impossible.


 


You son of a bitch, if I hear that word again Ill come out there and kill you 
with my bare hands. Look, Ive given you everything you need. Please, Frank, 
just get back in there and do it. I have faith that you can do it. Look, why 
dont you just start over. Start with some other host, something 
reallyimprobable, like a new virus,a macrophage. Or a reovirus. Something that 
will let you approach things from an entirely new direction. Okay?


 


All right, Brent.


 


Several days passed with no entries at all. Then, on June 29just a fortnight 
pastcame a rush of writing, full of apocalyptic imagery and ominous ramblings. 
Several times Burt mentioned a key factor, never explaining what it was. 
Carson shook his head. His predecessor had obviously gone delusional, imagining 
solutions his rational mind had been unable to discover.


Carson sat back, feeling the trapped sweat collecting between his shoulder 
blades and around his elbows. For the first time, he felt a momentary thrust of 
fear. How could he succeed, when a man like Burt had failednot only failed, 
but lost his mind in the process? He glanced up and founddeVaca looking at him.


Have you read this? he asked.


She nodded.


How ... I mean, how do they expect me to take this over?


Thats your problem, she responded evenly. Im not the one with the degrees 
from Harvard and MIT.


 


Carson spent the rest of the day rereading the early experiments, staying away 
from the distracting convolutions of Burts lab notes. Toward the end of the day 
he began to feel more upbeat. There was a newrecombinant DNA technique he had 
worked with at MIT that Burt hadnt been aware of. Carson diagrammed the 
problem, breaking it down into its parts, then further breaking down those parts 
until it had been separated intoirreducibles.


As the day drew to a close, Carson began to sketch out an experimental protocol 
of his own. There was, he realized, still a lot to work with. He stood up, 
stretched, and watched asde Vaca plugged her notebook into the network jack.


Dont forget to upload, she said. Im sure Big Brother will want to check 
over your work tonight.


Thanks, said Carson, scoffing inwardly at the thought that Scopes would waste 
time looking over his notes. Scopes and Burt had clearly been friends, but 
Carson was still just a grade-three technician from the Edison office. He 
uploaded the days data, stored the computer in its cubbyhole for the night, 
then followedde Vaca as she made the long slow trip out of the Fever Tank.


Back in the ready room, Carson had unbuckled his visor and was unzipping the 
lower part of his biohazard suit when he glanced over at his assistant. She had 
already stowed her suit and was shaking out her hair, and Carson was surprised 
to see not the chunkyseorita he had imagined underneath the bluesuit, but a 
slender, extremely beautiful young woman with long black hair, brown skin, and a 
regal face with two deep purple eyes.


She turned and caught his look.


Keep your eyes to yourself,cabrn, she said, if you dont want them to end up 
like one of those chimps in there.


She slung her handbag over her shoulder and strode out while the others in the 
ready room erupted into laughter.


 





 


The room was octagonal. Each of its eight walls rose ponderously toward a 
groined ceiling that hung fifty feet above, softly illuminated by invisible cove 
lighting. Seven walls were covered with enormous flat-panel computer screens, 
currently dark. The eighth wall contained a door, flush with the wall, small but 
extremely thick to accommodate the rooms external soundproofing. Although the 
room stood sixty stories above the Boston harbor, there were no windows and no 
views. The floor was laid in rare Tanzanianmbanga slate. The colors were a 
spectrum of muted grays, ashes, andtaupes.


The exterior of the door was made of a thick, banded metal alloy. Instead of a 
handle, there was an EyeDentify retinal scanner and a FingerMatrix hand geometry 
reader. Next to the door, beneath a sterilizing ultraviolet light, sat a row of 
foam slippers, their sizes imprinted in large numbers on the toes. Below an 
overhead camera that swiveled ceaselessly to and fro, a large sign read,SPEAK 
SOFTLY AT ALL TIMES PLEASE .


Beyond lay a long, dimly lit corridor leading to a security station and an 
elevator bank. On either side of the corridor, a series of closed doors led to 
the security offices, kitchens, infirmary, air-purifying electrostatic 
precipitators, and servants quarters necessary to fill the various 
requirements of the octagonal rooms occupant.


The door closest to the octagon was open. The room inside was paneled in cherry, 
with a marble fireplace, a parquet floor covered with a Persian rug, and several 
large Hudson River School paintings on the wall. A magnificent mahogany desk 
stood in the center of the room, its only electronic device an old dial 
telephone. A suited figure sat behind the desk, writing on a piece of paper.


Inside the huge octagonal room itself, a spotlight was recessed into the very 
point of the vaulted ceiling, and it dropped a pencil beam of pure white light 
down to the midpoint of the room. Centered in the pool of light was a battered 
sofa of 1970s styling. Its arms were dark with use and wifts of stuffing 
protruded from the threadbare nap. Silver duct tape sealed the front edge. As 
ugly and frayed as it was, the sofa had one essential quality: itwasextremely 
comfortable.


Two cheapfaux-antique end tables stood guard at either side of the sofa. A large 
telephone and several electronic devices in black brushed metal boxes stood on 
one of the end tables, and a video camera, affixed to one end, was pointed 
toward the sofa. The other end table was bare, but it bore the legacy of 
innumerable greasy pizza boxes and sticky Coke cans.


In front of the sofa sat a large worktable. In contrast to the other furniture, 
it was breathtakingly beautiful. The top was carved from birds-eye maple, 
polished and oiled to bring out its fractal perfection. The maple was surrounded 
by a border of lignum vitae, black and heavy, in which was inlaid a strip of 
oyster walnut in a complex geometric pattern. This pattern showed thenaadaa , 
the sacred corn plant, which was at the heart of the religion of the ancient 
Anasazi Indians. The kernels of this corn had made the rooms occupant a very 
wealthy man. A single computer keyboard lay on the table, a short remote antenna 
jutting from its flank.


The rest of the vast room was clinically sterile and empty, the only exception 
being a large musical instrument that stood perched at the periphery of the 
circle of light. It was a six-octave, quadruple-string pianoforte, supposedly 
built for Beethoven in 1820 by the Hamburg firm ofOtto Schachter. The shoulders 
and lyre of the pianos rosewood sound box were ornately carved in a rococo 
scene of nymphs and water gods.


A figure in a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and beaded Sioux Indian slippers sat 
hunched at the piano, head drooping, motionless fingers dead on the ivory keys. 
For several minutes, all was still. Then the profound silence was shattered with 
a massive diminished-seventh chord,sforzando, resolving to a melancholy C minor: 
the opening bars of Beethovens last piano sonata, Opus 111. The maestoso 
introduction echoed upward into the great vaulted space. The introduction 
evolved into the allegro con brio ed appassionato, the first motive notes 
filling the room with sound, drowning out the beep of an incoming video call. 
The movement continued, the slight figure hunched over the keyboard, his untidy 
hair shaking with the effort. The beep sounded again, unnoticed, and finally one 
massive wall screen sprang to life, revealing a mud-streaked, rain-spattered 
face.


The notes suddenly stopped, the sound of the piano dying away quickly. The 
figure rose with a curse, slamming the keyboard cover shut.


Brent, the face called. Are you there?


Scopes walked over to the battered couch, flounced down on it cross-legged, and 
dragged the computer keyboard into his lap. He typed some commands, then looked 
up atthe vast image on the screen.


The mud-spattered face belonged to a man currently seated inside a Range Rover. 
Beyond the vehicles rain-streaked windows lay a green clearing, a fresh gash 
in the flank of the surrounding Cameroon jungle. The clearing was a sea of mud, 
churned into lunar shapes by boots and tires. Scarred tree trunks were pulled up 
along the edges of the clearing. A few feet from the Range Rover, several dozen 
cages made of pipe and hog wire were stacked into rickety piles. Furry hands and 
toes poked from the hog wire, and miserable childlike eyes peered out at the 
world.


How you doing, Rod? Scopes said wearily, turning to face the camera on the end 
table.


The weather sucks.


Raining here too, Scopes said.


Yeah, but you havent seen rain until youve


Ive been waiting three days to hear from you,Falfa, Scopes interrupted. What 
the hells been going on?


The face broke into an ingratiating smile. We had problems getting gas for the 
trucks. Ive had a whole village out in the jungle, at a dollar a day per 
person, for the last two weeks. Theyre all rich now, and weve got fifty-six 
baby chimps. He grinned and wiped his nose, which only served to smear more mud 
across his face. Or maybe it wasnt mud.


Scopes looked away. I want them in New Mexico in six weeks. With no more than a 
fifty-percent mortality rate.


Fifty percent! Thatll be tough,Falfa said. Usually


Yo, Falfa!


Excuse me?


You think thats tough? See what happens to Rodney P.Falfa if more corpses 
than live bodies arrive in New Mexico. Look at them, sitting out there in the 
goddamn rain.


There was a silence.Falfa honked and an African face appeared in the 
window.Falfa cracked the window a half inch, and Scopes could hear the miserable 
screams of the animals beyond. Hunter mans!Falfa was saying in pidgin. You 
cover up dat beef, you hear? For every beef dat ee go die, hunter mans get 
dashed out one shilling.


Na whatee? came the response from outside the Range Rover.Masa promisede dash 
of


Do it.Falfa snugged the window shut, locking out the mans complaints, and 
turned to Scopes with another grin. Hows that for prompt action?


Scopes looked at him coldly. Piss-poor. Dont you think those chimps need to be 
fed, too?


Right!Falfa honked the horn again. Scopes pressed a button, cutting off the 
video communication, and sat back on the sofa. He typed a few more commands, 
then stopped. Suddenly, with another curse, he winged the keyboard angrily 
across the room. The keyboard hit the wall with a sharp cracking sound. A single 
key, jarred loose, rattled across the polished floor. Scopes flopped back onto 
the sofa, motionless.


A moment later the door hissed open and a tall man of perhaps sixty appeared. He 
was dressed in a charcoal suit, with a starched white shirt, wing-tip shoes, and 
a blue silk tie. Between graying temples, two fine gray eyes framed a small, 
chiseled nose.


Is everything all right, Mr. Scopes? the figure asked.


Scopes gestured toward the keyboard. The keyboard is broken.


The figure smiled ironically. I take it Mr.Falfa finally checked in.


Scopes laughed, rubbing his unruly hair. Correct. These animal collectors are 
the lowest form of human being Ive encountered. Its a shame the Mount Dragon 
appetite for chimps seems insatiable.


SpencerFairley inclined his head. I wish you would let somebody else handle 
these details, sir. You seem to find them so upsetting.


Scopes shook his head. This project is too important.


If you say so, sir. Can I get you anything else besides a new keyboard?


Scopes waved his hand absently. As Fairley turned to go, Scopes suddenly spoke 
again. Wait. There were two things, after all. Did you see the Channel Seven 
news last night?


As you know, sir, I dont care for television or computers.


You crusty Beacon Hill fossil, Scopes said affectionately. Fairley was the 
only man in the company Scopes would allow to call him sir. What would I do 
without you to show me how the electronically illiterate half live? Anyway, last 
night on Channel Seven they discussed a twelve-year-old girl who has leukemia. 
She wanted to go to Disneyland before she died. Its the usual exploitative crap 
were fed on the evening news. I forget her name. Anyway, will you arrange for 
her and her family to go to Disneyland, private jet, all expenses paid, best 
hotels,limos, the works? And please, keep it strictly anonymous. I dont want 
that bastard Levine mocking me again, twisting it into something it isnt. Give 
them some money to help with the medical bills, say, fifty thousand. They seemed 
like nice people. It must be hell to have a kid die of leukemia. I cant even 
imagine it.


Yes, sir. Thats very kind of you sir.


Remember what Samuel Johnson said: It is better to live rich, than die rich. 
And remember: its to beanonymous. I dont even wantthem to know who did it. All 
right?


Understood.


And another thing. When I was in New York yesterday, this fucking cab nearly 
ran me over in a crosswalk. Park Avenue and Fiftieth.


Fairleys expression was inscrutable. That would have been unfortunate.


Spencer, you know what I like about you? Youre so droll that I can never tell 
whether Im being insulted or complimented. Anyway, the hack number on top of 
the cab was four-A-five-six. Get his medallion pulled, will you? I dont want 
the son of a bitch running over some grandmother.


Yes, sir. As the small door hissed shut with a muffled click, Scopes stood up 
and made his way thoughtfully back toward the piano.


 





 


A loud tone sounded in his helmet, and Carson jerked up from his terminal screen 
with a start. Then he relaxed again. It was only his third day on-site; he 
assumed that eventually hed get used to the 6P.M. reminder. He stretched, 
looked round thelab. De Vaca was in pathology; he might as well wrap up for the 
day. He laboriously typed a few paragraphs into his laptop, detailing the days 
events. As he connected the laptop to the network link and uploaded his files, 
he found himself unable to suppress a sense of pride. Two days of lab-work, and 
he knew exactly what had to be done. Familiarity with the latest lab techniques 
was the advantage hed needed. Now, all that remained was to carry it out.


Then he hesitated. A message was flashing at the bottom of the screen.


 


John Singer@Exec.Dragon is paging.


Press the command key to chat.


 


Hurriedly, Carson went into chat mode and paged Singer. He hadnt been plugged 
into the network all day; there was no telling when Singer had originally 
requested to speak with him.


 


John Singer@Exec.Dragon ready to chat.


Press the command key to continue.


 


How are you, Guy?came the words on Carsons screen.


 


Good, Carson typed.Just got your page now.


 


You should get in the habit of leaving your laptop connected to the network the 
entire time youre in the lab. You might mention that toSusana,too. Could you 
spare me a few moments after dinner? Theres something we need to discuss.


 


Name the time and place, Carson typed.


 


How about nine oclock in the canteen? Ill see you then.


 


Wondering what Singer wanted, Carson issued the network logoff. The computer 
responded:


 


One new message remains unread.


Do you want to read it now (Y/N)?


 


Carson switched to GeneDynes electronic messaging system and brought up the 
message.Probably an earlier message from Singer, wondering where I am , he 
thought.


 


Hello,Guy. Glad to see you in place and at work.


I like what youve done with the protocol. It has the feel of a winner. But 
remember something: Frank Burt was the best scientist Ive ever known,and this 
problem bested him. So dont get cocky on me ,okay?


I know youre going to come through for GeneDyne,Guy.


Brent.


 





 


A few minutes after nine, Carson helped himself to a Jim Beam from the canteen 
bar and stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the observation deck 
beyond. Early in the evening, the canteenwith its cozy coffehouse atmosphere 
and its backgammon and chess boardswas a favorite hangout for lab people. But 
now it was almost deserted. The wind had died down, and the heat of the day had 
abated. The deck was empty, and he chose a seat away from the white expanse of 
the building. He savored the smoky flavor of the bourbon drunk without ice, a 
taste he developed when he drank his dinner cocktail from a hip flask in front 
of a fire out on the ranchand watched the last of the sun set over the distant 
FraCristbal Mountains. To the northeast and the east the sky still held traces 
of a rich shade of pearly rose.


He tilted his head backward and closed his eyes a moment, inhaling the pungent 
smell of the desert air, chilled by sunset: a mixture of creosote bush, dust, 
and salt. Before hed gone East, he had only noticed the odor after a rain. But 
now it was like new to him. He opened his eyes again and stared at the vast dome 
of night sky, smoking with the brilliance of stars already in place above his 
head: Scorpio clear and bright in the south, Cygnus overhead, the Milky Way 
arching over all.


The bewitching fragrance of the night desert combined with the familiar stars 
brought a hundred memories crowding back. He sipped his drink meditatively.


He brushed the thoughts away at the sound of footsteps. They came from one of 
the walkways beyond the canteen, and Carson assumed it was Singer, approaching 
from the residency compound. But the figure that came silently out of the dusk 
was not short and squat, but well over six feet, and impeccably dressed in a 
tailored suit. A safari hat sat incongruously atop hair that looked iron gray 
in the cold beam of the sodium walkway lights. A ponytail descended between his 
shoulder blades. If the man saw Carson he gave no sign, continuing past the 
balcony toward the limestone central plaza.


There was a thump behind him, then Carson heard Singers voice. Beautiful 
sunset, isnt it? the director said. Much as I hate the days here, the nights 
make up for it. Almost. He stepped forward, a mug of coffee steaming in one 
hand.


Whos that? Carson nodded toward the retreating figure.


Singer looked out into the night and scowled. Thats Nye, the security 
director.


So thats Nye, Carson said. Whats his story? I mean, he looks a little 
strange out here, with that suit-and-pith-helmet getup.


Strange isnt the word. I think he looks ridiculous. But I advise you not to 
tangle with him. Singer drew up a seat next to Carson and sat down. He used to 
work at the Windermere Nuclear Complex, in the UK. Remember that accident? 
There was talk of employee sabotage, and somehow Nye, as security director, 
became the scapegoat. Nobody wanted to touch him after that, and he had to find 
work in the Middle East somewhere. But Brent has peculiar ideas about people. He 
figured that the man, always a stickler, would be extra careful after what 
happened, so he hired him for GeneDyne UK. He proved to be such a fanatic about 
security that Scopes brought him over here at start-up. Been here ever since. 
Never leaves. Well, thats not true, exactly. On the weekends, he often 
disappears for long rides into the desert. Sometimes he even stays out 
overnight, a real no-no around here. Scopes knows, of course, but he doesnt 
seem to mind.


Maybe he likes the scenery, said Carson.


Frankly, he gives me the willies. During the week, all the security personnel 
live in fear of him. Except Mike Marr, his assistant. They seem to be friends. 
But I suppose a facility such as ours needs a Captain Bligh for a security 
director.


He looked at Carson for a moment. I guess you riled up Rosalind Brandon-Smith 
pretty good.


Carson glanced at Singer. The director was smiling again and there was a gleam 
of good humor in his eye.


I pushed the wrong button on my intercom, said Carson.


So I gather. She filed a complaint.


Carson sat up. A complaint?


Dont worry, Singer said, lowering his voice, youve just joined a club that 
includes me and practically everyone else here. But formality requires that we 
discuss it. This is my version of calling you on the carpet. Another drink? He 
winked. I should mention, though, that Brent places a high value on team 
harmony. You might want to apologize.


Me? Carson felt his temper rising. Im the one that should be filing a 
complaint.


Singer laughed and held up a hand. Prove yourself first, then you can file all 
the complaints you want. He got up and walked to the balcony railing. I 
suppose youve looked through Burts lab journal by now.


Yesterday morning, said Carson. It was quite a read.


Yes, it was, said Singer. A read with a tragic end. But I hope it gave you a 
sense of what kind of man he was. We were close. I read through those notes 
after he left, trying to figure out what happened. Carson could hear a real 
sadness in his voice.


Singer sipped his coffee, looked out over the expanse of desert. This is not a 
normal place, were not normal people, and this is not a normal project. Youve 
got world-class geneticists, working on a project of incalculable scientific 
value. Youd think people would only be concerned with lofty things. Not so. You 
wouldnt believe the kind of sheer pettiness that can go on here. Burt was able 
to rise above it. I hope you will, too.


Ill do my best. Carson thought about his temper; hed have to control it if 
he was going to survive at Mount Dragon. Already hed made two enemies without 
even trying.


Have you heard from Brent? Singer asked, almost casually.


Carson hesitated, wondering if Singer had seen the e-mail message sent to him.


Yes, he said.


What did he say?


He gave me a few encouraging words, warned me against being cocky.


Sounds like Brent. Hes a hands-on CEO, and X-FLU is his pet project. I hope 
you like working in a glass house. He took another sip of coffee. And the 
problem with the protein coat?


I think Im just about there.


Singer turned, gave him a searching glance. What do you mean?


Carson stood up and joined the director at the railing. Well, I spent yesterday 
afternoon making my own extrapolations from Dr. Burts notes. It was much 
easier to see the patterns of success and failure once Id separated them from 
the rest of his writings. Before he lost hope and began simply going through the 
motions, Dr. Burt was very close. He found the active receptors on the X-FLU 
virus that make it deadly, and he also found the gene combination that codes for 
the polypeptides causing the overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid. All the hard 
work was done. Theres a recombinant-DNA technique I developed for my 
dissertation that uses a certain wavelength of far-ultraviolet light. All we 
have to do is clip off the deadly gene sequences with a special enzyme thats 
activated by the ultraviolet light, recombine the DNA and its done. All 
succeeding generations of the virus will be harmless.


But its not done yet, said Singer.


Ive done it a hundred times at least. Not on this virus, of course, but on 
others. Dr. Burt didnt have access to this technique. He was using an earlier 
gene-splicing method that was a little crude by comparison.


Who knows about this? Singer asked.


Nobody. Ive only roughed out the protocol, I havent actually tested it yet. 
But I cant think of a reason why it wouldnt work.


The director was staring at him, motionless. Then he suddenly came forward, 
taking Carsons right hand in both of his own and crushing it in an enthusiastic 
handshake. This is fantastic! he said excitedly. Congratulations.


Carson took a step backward and leaned against the railing, a little 
embarrassed. Its still too early for that, he said. He was beginning to 
wonder whether he should have mentioned his optimism to Singer quite so soon.


But Singer wasnt listening. Ill have to e-mail Brent right away, give him the 
news, he said.


Carson opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, just that afternoon, 
Scopes had warned him against being cocky. But he knew instinctively that his 
procedure would work. His dissertation research had proved it countless times. 
And Singers enthusiasm was a welcome change from Brandon-Smiths sarcasm andde 
Vacas brusque professionalism. Carson found himself liking Singer, this 
balding, fat, good-humored professor from California. He was so unbureaucratic, 
so refreshingly frank. He took another swig of the bourbon and glanced around 
the balcony, his eye lighting on Singers old Martin guitar. You play? he 
asked.


I try, said Singer. Bluegrass, mostly.


So thats why you asked about my banjo, Carson said. I got hooked listening 
to performances in Cambridge coffeehouses. Im pretty awful, but I enjoy 
mangling the sacred works of Scruggs, Reno, Keith, the other banjo gods.


Ill be damned! said Singer, breaking into a smile. Im working through the 
early Flatt and Scruggs stuff myself. You know, Shuckin the Corn, Foggy 
Mountain Special, that kind of thing. Well have to massacre a few of them 
together. Sometimes I sit out here while the sun sets and just pick away. Much 
to everyones dismay, of course. Thats one reason the canteen is so deserted 
this time of the evening.


The two men stood up. The night had deepened and a chill had crept into the air. 
Beyond the balcony railing, Carson could hear sounds from the direction of the 
residency compound: footsteps, scattered snatches of conversation, an 
occasional laugh.


They stepped into the canteen, a cocoon of light and warmth in the vast desert 
night.


 





 


Charles Levine pulled up in front of theRitz Carlton, his 1980 FordFestiva 
backfiring as he downshifted beside the wide hotel steps. The doorman approached 
with insolent slowness, making no secret of the fact that he found the car and 
whoever was inside itdistasteful.


Unheeding, Charles Levine stepped out, pausing on the red-carpeted steps to pick 
a generous coating of dog hairs off his tuxedo jacket. The dog had died two 
months ago, but his hairs were still everywhere in the car.


Levine ascended the steps. Another doorman opened the gilt glass doors, and the 
sounds of a string quartet came floating graciously out to meet him. Entering, 
Levine stood for a moment in the bright lights of the hotel lobby, blinking. 
Then, suddenly, a group of reporters was crowding around him, a barrage of 
flashbulbs exploding from all sides.


Whats this? Levine asked.


Spotting him,Toni Wheeler, the media consultant for Levines foundation, bustled 
over. Elbowing a reporter aside, she took Levines arm. Wheeler had severely 
coiffed brown hair and a sharply tailored suit, and she looked every inch the 
public-relations professional: poised, gracious, ruthless.


Im sorry, Charles, she said quickly, I wanted to tell you but we couldnt 
find youanywhere . Theres some extremely important news. GeneDyne


Levine spotted a reporter he recognized, and his face broke into a big smile. 
Evening, Artie! he cried, shrugging away from Wheeler and holding up his 
hands. Glad to see the Fourth Estate so active. One at a time, please! AndToni, 
tell them to cut the music for a moment.


Charles, Wheeler said urgently, please listen. Ive just learned that


She was drowned out by the reporters questions.


Professor Levine! one person began. Is it true


Iwill choose the questioners, Levine broke in. Now, all of you be quiet. 
You, he said, pointing to a woman in front. You start.


Professor Levine, the reporter called out, could you elaborate on the 
accusations about GeneDyne made in the last issue ofGenetic Policy ? Its being 
said that you have a personal vendetta against Brentwood Scopes


Wheeler suddenly spoke up, her voice cutting through the air like ice. One 
moment, she said crisply. This press conference is about the Holocaust 
Memorial award Professor Levine is about to receive, not about the GeneDyne 
controversy.


Professor, please! cried a reporter, unheeding.


Levine pointed at someone else. You, Stephen, you shaved off that magnificent 
mustache. An aesthetic miscalculation on your part.


A ripple of laughter went through the crowd.


Wife didnt like it, Professor. It tickled the


Ive heard enough, thank you. There was more laughter. Levine held up his 
hand.


Your question?


Scopes has called youand I quotea dangerous fanatic, a one-man inquisition 
against the medical miracle of genetic engineering. Do you have any comment?


Levine smiled. Yes. Mr. Scopes has always had a way with words. But thats all 
it is. Words, full of sound and fury ... You all know how that line ends.


He also said that you are trying to deprive countless people of the medical 
benefits of this new science. Like a cure for Tay-Sachs disease, for example.


Levine held up his hand again. That is a more serious charge. Im not 
necessarily against genetic engineering. What I am against isgerm-cell therapy. 
You know the body has two kinds of cells, somatic cells and germ cells. Somatic 
cells die with the body. Germ cellsthe reproductive cellslive forever.


Im not sure I understand


Let me finish. With genetic engineering, if you alter the DNA of a persons 
somatic cells, the change dies with the body. But if you alter the DNA of 
someones germ cellsin other words, the egg or sperm cellsthe change will be 
inherited by that persons children.Youve altered the DNA of the human race 
forever . Do you understand what that means? Germ-cell changes are passed along 
to future generations. This is an attempt to alter what it is that makes us 
human. And there are reports that this is what GeneDyne is doing at their Mount 
Dragon facility.


Professor, Im still not sure I understand why that would be so bad


Levine threw up his hands, throwing his bow tie seriously askew. Its Hitlers 
eugenics all over again! Tonight, Im going to receive an award for the work 
Ive done to keep the memory of the Holocaust alive. I was born in a 
concentration camp. My father died a victim to the cruel experiments of Mengele. 
I know firsthand the evils of bad science. Im trying to prevent all of you from 
learning it firsthand, as well. Look, its one thing to find a cure for 
Tay-Sachs or hemophilia. But GeneDyne is going further. Theyre out to improve 
the human race. Theyre going to find ways to make us smarter, taller, 
better-looking. Cant you see the evil in this? This is treading where mankind 
was never meant to tread. It is profoundly wrong.


But Professor!


Levine chuckled and pointed. Fred, Id better let you ask a question before you 
pull a muscle in your armpit.


Dr. Levine, you keep saying there is insufficient government regulation of the 
genetic-engineering field. But what about the FDA?


Levine scowled impatiently, shook his head. The FDA doesnt even require 
approval of most genetically engineered products. On your grocery-store shelves, 
there are tomatoes, milk, strawberries and, of course, X-RUST cornall 
genetically engineered. Just how carefully do you suppose theyve been tested? 
Its not much better in medical research. Companies like GeneDyne can 
practically do as they please. These genetic-engineering firms are puttinghuman 
genes into pigs and rats and even bacteria! Theyre mixing DNA from plants and 
animals, creating monstrous new forms of life. At any moment they could 
accidentallyor deliberatelycreate a new pathogen capable of eradicating the 
human race. Genetic engineering is far and away the most dangerous thing 
mankind has ever done. This is infinitely more dangerous than nuclear weapons. 
And nobody is paying attention.


The shouts began again, and Levine pointed at a reporter near the front of the 
crowd. One more question. You, Murray, I loved your article on NASA in last 
weeksGlobe .


I have a question that Im sure were all waiting to hear the answer to. How 
does it feel?


How does what feel?


To have GeneDyne suing you and Harvard for two hundred million dollars and 
demanding the revocation of your foundations charter.


There was a short, sudden silence. Levine blinked twice, and it dawned on 
everyone that Levine had not known about this development. Two hundred 
million? he asked, a little weakly.


ToniWheeler came forward. Dr. Levine, she whispered, thats what I was


Levine looked at her briefly and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. 
Perhaps its time that everything came out, after all, he said quietly. Then 
he turned back to the crowd. Let me tell you a few things you dont know about 
Brent Scopes and GeneDyne. You probably all know the story about how Mr. Scopes 
built his pharmaceutical empire. He and I were undergraduates together at U.C. 
Irvine. We were ... He paused. Close friends. One spring break he took a solo 
hike through Canyonlands National Monument. He returned to school with a handful 
of corn kernels hed found in an Anasazi ruin. He succeeded in germinating them. 
Then he made the discovery that these prehistoric kernels were immune to the 
devastating disease known as corn rust. He succeeded in isolating the immunity 
gene and splicing it into the modern corn he labeled X-RUST. Its a legendary 
story; Im sure you can read all about it inForbes.


But that story isnt quite accurate. You see, Brent Scopes didnt do it 
alone.We did it together . I helped him isolate the gene, splice it into a 
modern hybrid. It was our joint accomplishment, and we submitted the patent 
together.


But then we had a falling-out. Brent Scopes wanted to exploit the patent, make 
money from it. I, on the other hand, wanted to give it to the world for free. 
Wewell, lets just say that Scopes prevailed.


How? a voice urged.


Thats not important, Levine said very brusquely. The point is that Scopes 
dropped out of college, and used the royalty income to found GeneDyne. I refused 
to have anything to do with itwith the money, the company, anything. To me, 
its always seemed like the worst kind of exploitation.


But in less than three months, the X-RUST hybrid patent will expire. In order 
for GeneDyne to renew it, the patent renewal must be signed by two people: 
myself, and Mr. Scopes.Iwill not sign that patent renewal . No amount of bribes 
or threats will change my mind. When it expires, the rust-resistant corn will 
fall into the public domain. It will become the property of the world. The 
massive royalties GeneDyne receives every year will cease. Mr. Scopes knows 
this, but I am not sure the financial markets know it. Perhaps it is time 
analysts took another look at the high P/E ratio of GeneDyne stock. In any case, 
I believe this lawsuit isnt really about my recent article on GeneDyne 
inGenetic Policy . Its Brents way of trying to pressure me to sign that patent 
renewal.


There was a brief silence, and a sudden hubbub of voices.


But Dr. Levine! one voice sounded over the crowd. You still havent said what 
you plan to do about the suit.


For a moment, Levine said nothing. Then he opened his mouth and began to laugh; 
a rich, full laugh that reached to the back of the lobby. Finally, he shook his 
head in disbelief, took out a handkerchief, and blew his nose.


Your response, Professor? the reporter urged.


I just gave you my response, said Levine, stowing the handkerchief. And now I 
believe I have an award to receive. He waved to the reporters with a final 
smile, tookToni Wheelers arm, and headed across the lobby toward the open doors 
of the banquet hall.


 





 


Carson stood before a bioprophylaxis table in Lab C. The lab was narrow and 
cluttered, the lighting almost painfully bright. He was rapidly learning the 
countless nuisances, minor and major, of working in a biohazard environment: the 
rashes that developed where the inside of the suit rubbed against bare skin; the 
inability to sit down comfortably; the muscular tension that came with hours of 
slow, careful movement.


Worst of all was Carsons growing feeling of claustrophobia. He had always had a 
touch of ithe assumed it was growing up in the open desert spaces that made him 
susceptibleand this was just the kind of constricted environment he couldnt 
stand. As he worked, the memory of his first terrified elevator ride in a 
Sacramento hospital kept surfacing, along with the three hours he had once spent 
in a subway train disabled beneath Boylston Street. The Fever Tank 
emergency-procedure drills were a regular reminder of the dangerous 
surroundings, as were the frequent mutterings about a terminal fumble: the 
dreaded accident that might someday contaminate the lab and all who worked in 
it. At least, Carson thought, he wouldnt be confined to the Fever Tank much 
longer. Provided, of course, that the gene splicing worked.


And it had worked perfectly. He had done it many times before, at MIT, but this 
had been different. This was no dissertation experiment; he was involved with a 
project that could save countless lives and, perhaps, win them a Nobel Prize. 
And he had access to finer equipment than even the best-equipped laboratory at 
MIT.


It had been easy. In fact, it had been a breeze.


He murmured a few words tode Vaca, and she placed a single test tube into the 
bioprophylaxis chamber. At the bottom of the tube, the crystallized X-FLU virus 
formed a white crust. Despite the elaborate safety measures that constrained his 
every movement, Carson still had trouble comprehending that this thin film of 
white substance was terrifyingly lethal. Sliding his hands into the chamber 
through the rubberized armholes, he took a syringe, filled it with viral 
transport medium, and gently swirled the tube. The crystallized mass gently 
broke up and dissolved, forming a cloudy solution of live virus particles.


Take a look, he said tode Vaca. This is going to make us all famous.


Yeah, right, saidde Vaca. If it doesnt kill us first.


Thats ridiculous. This is the safest lab in the world.


De Vacashook her head. I have a bad feeling, working with a virus this deadly. 
Accidents can happen anywhere.


Like what?


Like what if Burt had become homicidal instead of just stressed out? He could 
have stolen a beaker of this shit and well, we wouldnt be here today, I can 
tell you that.


Carson looked at her for a moment, thought of a reply, then shelved it. He was 
rapidly learning that arguments withde Vaca were always a waste of time. He 
uncoupled his air hose. Lets get this to the Zoo.


Carson alerted the medical technician and Fillson, the animal handler, through 
the global intercom, and they started the slow journey down the narrow corridor.


Fillson met them outside the holding area, glaring at Carson morosely through 
his visor as if annoyed to be put to work. As the door swung open, the animals 
began their piteous screaming and drumming, brown hairy fingers curling from 
the wire mesh of the cages.


Fillson walked down the line of cages with a stick, rapping on the exposed 
fingers. The screaming increased, but the banging of the stick had the desired 
effect and all the fingers vanished back into the cages.


Ouch, saidde Vaca.


Fillson stopped and looked toward her. Excuse me? he asked.


I said ouch. You were hitting their fingers pretty hard.


Uh-oh, thought Carson,here we go .


Fillson gazed at her for a few moments, his wet bottom lip moving slightly 
behind his visor. Then he turned away. He reached into the cabinet and removed 
the same pump canister Carson had seen him use before, shuffled over to a cage, 
and directed its spray inside. He waited a few minutes for the sedative to take 
effect, then unlocked the cage door and carefully removed the groggy occupant.


Carson came forward for a look. It was a young female. She squeaked and looked 
up at Carson, her terrified eyes barely open, half-paralyzed by the drug. 
Fillson strapped her to a small stretcher and wheeled it to an adjoining 
chamber. Carson nodded tode Vaca, who handed the test tube, encased in a 
shockproof Mylar housing, to the technician.


The usual ten ccs? the technician asked.


Yes, said Carson. This was his first time directing an inoculation, and he 
felt a strange mixture of anticipation, regret, and guilt. Moving into the next 
chamber, he watched as the technician shaved a small round area on the animals 
forearm and swabbed it vigorously with betadine. The chimpanzee drowsily 
watched the process, then turned and blinked at Carson. Carson looked away.


They were joined, silently, by Rosalind Brandon-Smith, who gave Fillson a broad 
smile before turning, stony-faced, toward Carson. One of her responsibilities 
was tracking the inoculated chimps and autopsying those who died of edema. So 
far, Carson knew, the ratio of inoculations to deaths had been 1:1.


The chimp didnt flinch as the needle slid home.


You realize you need to inoculate two chimps, Brandon-Smiths voice sounded in 
Carsons headset. Male and female.


Carson nodded without looking at her. The female chimp was wheeled back into the 
Zoo, and Fillson soon returned with a male. He was even smaller, still juvenile, 
with an owlish, curious face.


Jesus, saidde Vaca, its enough to break your heart, isnt it?


Fillson glanced at her sharply. Dont anthropomorphize. Theyre just animals.


Just animals,de Vaca murmured. So are we, Mr. Fillson.


These two are going to live, said Carson. Im sure of it.


Sorry to disappoint you, Carson, said Brandon-Smith, with a snort. Even if 
your neutralized virus works, theyll be killed and autopsied anyway. She 
crossed her arms and looked at Fillson, receiving a smile in return.


Carson glanced atde Vaca. He could see an angry blush collecting on her facea 
look that was becoming all too familiar to him. But she remained silent.


The technician slid the needle into the male chimps arm and smoothly injected 
ten ccs of the X-FLU virus. He slipped the needle out, pressed a piece of 
cotton on the spot, then taped the cotton to the arm.


When will we know? Carson asked.


It can take up to two weeks for the chimps to develop symptoms, said 
Brandon-Smith, although it often happens more quickly. We take blood every 
twelve hours, and antibodies usually show up within one week. The infected 
chimps go straight into the animal-quarantine area behind the Zoo.


Carson nodded. Will you keep me posted? he asked.


Certainly, said Brandon-Smith. But if I were you, I wouldnt wait around for 
the results. Id assume it was a failure and proceed accordingly. Otherwise, 
youre going to waste a lot of time.


She left the room. Carson andde Vaca unhooked their air hoses and followed her 
out the hatch and back to their work area.


God, what an asshole, saidde Vaca as they entered Lab C.


Which one? Carson asked. Watching the inoculations, listening to 
Brandon-Smiths sarcasm, had left him feeling short-tempered.


Im not sure we have a right to treat animals like that,de Vaca said. I 
wonder if those tiny cages meet federal regulations.


It may not be pleasant, Carson said, but its going to save millions of 
lives. Its a necessary evil.


I wonder if Scopes is really interested in saving lives. It seems to me hes 
more into thedinero.Mucho dinero . She rubbed her gloved fingers together.


Carson ignored her. If she wanted to talk this way on a monitored intercom 
channel and get herself fired, that was her business. Maybe his next assistant 
would be a little more friendly.


He brought up an image of an X-FLU polypeptide and rotated it on his computer 
screen, trying to think of other ways it might be neutralized. But it was hard 
to concentrate when he believed that he had already solved the problem.


De Vacaopened an autoclave and started removing glass beakers and test tubes, 
racking them at the far end of the lab. Carson peered deep into the tertiary 
structure of the polypeptide, made up of thousands of amino acids.If I could 
cut those sulfur bonds, there , he thought,we might just uncurl the active side 
group, make the virus harmless . But then Burt would have thought of that, too. 
He cleared the screen and brought up the data from his X-ray diffraction tests 
of the protein coat. There was nothing else left to be done. He allowed himself 
to think, just briefly, of the accolades; the promotion; the admiration of 
Scopes.


Scopes is smart,de Vaca continued, giving all of us stock in the company. It 
stifles dissent. Plays to peoples greed. Everyone wants to get rich. Whenever 
you get a big multinational corporation like this


His daydream rudely punctured, Carson turned on her. If youre so set against 
it, he snapped into his intercom, why the hell are you here?


For one thing, I didnt know what Id be working on. I was supposed to be 
assigned to Medical, but they transferred me when Burts assistant left. For 
another, Im putting my money into a mental health clinic I want to start in 
Albuquerque. In the barrio.


She emphasized the wordbarrio , rolling ther s off her tongue in rich Mexican 
Spanish, which Carson found even more irritating, as if she were showing off her 
bilingual ability. He could speak reasonablepocho Spanish, but he wasnt about 
to try it and give her an opportunity for ridicule.


What do you know about mental health? he asked.


I spent two years in medical school, saidde Vaca. I was studying to be a 
psychiatrist.


What happened?


Had to drop out. Couldnt swing it financially.


Carson thought about that for a moment. It was time to call this bitch on 
something. Bullshit, he said.


There was an electric silence.


Bullshit,cabrn? She moved closer to him.


Yes, bullshit. With a name likeCabezade Vaca, you couldve gotten a full 
scholarship. Ever heard of affirmative action?


There was a long silence.


I put my husband through medical school,de Vaca said fiercely. And when it 
was my turn he divorced me, thecanalla. I lost more than a semester, and when 
youre in medical school She stopped. I dont know why Im bothering to 
defend myself to you.


Carson was silent, already sorry that hed once again allowed himself to be 
drawn into an argument.


Yeah, I couldve gotten a scholarship, but not because of my name. Because I 
got fifteens on all three sections of my MCATs. Asshole.


Carson didnt believe the perfect score, but fought to keep his mouth shut.


So you think Im just some poor dumbchola who needs a Spanish surname to get 
into medical school?


Shit,Carson thought,why the hell did I start this ?He turned back to his 
terminal, hoping that by ignoring her she would go away.


Suddenly he felt a hand tighten on his suit, screwing a fistful of the rubber 
material into a ball.


Answer me,cabrn.


Carson raised a protesting arm as the pressure on his blue-suit increased.


The enormous figure of Brandon-Smith bulked in the hatchway, and a harsh laugh 
barked over the intercom.


Forgive me for interrupting you two lovebirds, but I just wanted to let you 
know that chimps A-twenty-two and Z-nine are back in their cages, revived and 
looking healthy. For now, anyway. She turned abruptly and waddled out.


De Vacaopened her mouth as if to respond. But then she relaxed her hold on his 
suit, stepped away, and grinned.


Carson, you looked a little nervous there for a moment.


He looked back at her, struggling to keep in mind that the tension and nastiness 
that overcame people down in the Fever Tank was just a part of the job. He was 
beginning to see what had driven Burt crazy. If he could just keep his mind on 
the ultimate goal ... in six months, one way or another, it would be over.


He turned back to the molecule, rotating it another 120 degrees, looking for 
vulnerabilities.De Vaca went back to racking equipment out of the autoclave. 
Quiet once again settled on the lab. Carson wondered, briefly, what had 
happened tode Vacas husband.


 





 


Carson awoke just before dawn. He glanced blearily at the electronic calendar 
set into the wall beside his bed: Saturday, the day of the annual Bomb Picnic. 
As Singer had explained it, the Bomb Picnic tradition dated back to the days 
when the lab did military research. Once a year, a pilgrimage was organized to 
the old Trinity Site, where the first atomic bomb had been exploded in 1945.


Carson got up and prepared to brew a cup of coffee. He liked the quiet desert 
mornings, and the last thing he felt like doing was making small talk in the 
dining hall. Hed stopped drinking the insipid cafeteria coffee after three 
days.


He opened a cupboard and took out an enameled coffeepot, battered by years of 
use. Along with his old set of spurs, the tin pot was one of the few things he 
had brought with him to Cambridge, and one of the only possessions that remained 
after the bank auctioned the ranch. It was his companion of many morning 
campfires on the range, and he had become almost superstitiously fond of it. He 
turned it over in his hands. The outside was dead black, covered with a crust of 
fire-hardened soot a bowie knife couldnt remove. The inside was still a 
cheerful dark blue enamel flecked with white, with the fat dent on the side 
where his old horse, Weaver, had kicked it off the fire one morning. The handle 
was mashed, again Weavers doing, and Carson remembered the unbearably hot day 
when the horse had rolled inHueco Wash with both saddlebags on. He shook his 
head. Weaver had gone with the ranch, just a goose-rumped Mexican grade horse 
worth a couple hundred bucks, tops. Probably got his ass sent straight to the 
knackers.


Carson filled the pot with water from his bathroom sink, dumped in two fistfuls 
of coffee grounds, and placed it on a hot plate built into a nearby console. He 
watched it carefully. Just before it boiled over he plucked it from the heat, 
poured in a little cold water to settle the grounds, and put it back on to 
finish. It was the very best way to make coffeefar better than the ridiculous 
filters, plungers, and five-hundred-dollar espresso machines everyone had used 
in Cambridge. And this coffee had a kick. He remembered his dad saying that the 
coffee wasnt done until you could float a horseshoe in it.


As he was pouring the coffee he stopped, catching his reflection in the mirror 
above his desk. He frowned, remembering how dubiousde Vaca had looked when hed 
insisted he was Anglo. In Cambridge, women had often found something exotic in 
his black eyes and aquiline nose. Occasionally, hed told them about his 
ancestor, Kit Carson. But he never mentioned that his maternal ancestor was a 
SouthernUte. The fact that he still felt secretive about it, so many years 
removed from the schoolyard taunts of half-breed, annoyed him.


He remembered his great-uncle Charley. Even though he was half white, he looked 
like a full-blood and even spokeUte. Charley had died when Carson was nine, and 
Carsons memories of him were of a skinny man sitting in a rocking chair by the 
fire, chuckling to himself, smoking cigars and spitting bits of tobacco off his 
tongue into the flames. He told a lot of Indian stories, mostly about tracking 
lost horses and stealing livestock from the reviledNavajos. Carson could only 
listen to his stories when his parents werent around; otherwise they hustled 
him away and scolded the old man for filling the boys head with lies and 
nonsense. Carsons father did not like Uncle Charley, and often made comments 
about his long hair, which the old man refused to cut, saying it would reduce 
rainfall. Carson also remembered overhearing his father tell his mother that God 
had given their son more than his share ofUte blood.


He sipped his coffee and looked out the open window, rubbing his back absently. 
His room was on the second floor of the residency quarters, and it commanded a 
view of the stables, machine shop, and perimeter fence. Beyond the fence the 
endless desert began.


He grimaced as his fingers hit a sore spot at the base of his back where the 
spinal tap had been inserted the evening before. Another nuisance of working in 
a Level-5 facility, hed discovered, were the mandated weekly physical exams. 
Just one more reminder of the constant worry over contamination that plagued 
workers at Mount Dragon.


The Bomb Picnic was his first day off since arriving at the lab. Hed discovered 
that the inoculation of the chimps with his neutralized virus was just the 
beginning of his assignment. Although Carson had explained that his new protocol 
was the only possible solution, Scopes had insisted on two additional sets of 
inoculations, to minimize any chance of erroneous results. Six chimpanzees were 
now inoculated with X-FLU. If they survived the inoculations, the next test 
would be to see if they had been, given immunity to the flu.


Carson watched from his window as two workmen rolled a large galvanized stock 
tank over to a Ford 350 pickup and began wrestling it onto the bed. The water 
truck had arrived early and the driver was idling in the motor pool, too lazy to 
shut off his engine, sending up clouds ofdiesel smoke. The sky was clearthe 
late-summer rains wouldnt begin for another few weeksand the distant 
mountains glowed amethyst in the morning light.


Finishing his coffee and going downstairs, he found Singer standing by the 
pickup, shouting directions at the workmen. He was wearing beach sandals and 
Bermuda shorts. A flamboyant pastel shirt covered his generous midriff.


I see youre ready to go, Carson said.


Singer glanced at him through an old pair of Ray-Bans. I look forward to this 
all year, he said. Wheres your bathing suit?


Under my jeans.


Get in the spirit, Guy! You look like youre about to round up some cattle, not 
spend a day at the beach. He turned back to the workmen: We leave at eight 
oclock sharp, so lets get moving. Bring up the Hummers and get them loaded.


Other scientists, technicians, and workers were drifting down to the motor pool, 
burdened with beach bags, towels, and folding chairs. How did this thing ever 
start? Carson asked, looking at them.


I cant remember whose idea it was, Singer said. The government opens the 
Trinity Site once a year to the public. At some point we asked if we could visit 
the site ourselves, and they said yes. Then someone suggested a picnic, and 
someone else suggested volleyball and cold beer. Then someone pointed out what a 
shame it was we couldnt bring the ocean along. And thats when the idea of the 
cattle tank came up. It was a stroke of genius.


Arent people worried about radiation? Carson asked.


Singer chuckled. Theres no radiation left. But we bring alongGeiger counters 
anyway, to reassure the nervous. He looked up at the sound of approaching 
motors. Come on, you can ride with me.


Soon a dozen Hummers, their tops down, were jostling over a faint dirt track 
that led like an arrow toward the horizon. The water truck followed last, 
trailing a firestorm of dust.


After an hour of steady driving, Singer pulled the lead Hummer to a halt. 
Ground zero, he said to Carson.


How can you tell? Carson asked, looking around at the desert. The SierraOscura 
rose to the west: dry, barren desert mountains, run through with jagged 
sedimentary outcrops. It was a desolate place, but no more desolate than the 
rest of the Jornada.


Singer pointed to a rusted girder, twisting a few feet out of the ground. 
Thats what was left of the tower that held the original bomb. If you look 
carefully, youll see that were in a shallow depression scooped out by the 
blast. Over thereSinger pointed to a mound and some ruined bunkerswas one of 
the instrument observation posts.


Is this where we picnic? Carson asked a little uncertainly.


No, said Singer. We continue another half mile. The scenerys nicer there. A 
little nicer, anyway.


The Hummers halted at a sandy flat devoid of brush or cactus. A single dune, 
anchored by a cluster of soapweed yucca, rose above the flat expanse of desert. 
While the workmen wrestled the stock tank off the pickup, the scientists began 
staking out positions in the sand, setting up chairs and umbrellas and laying 
out coolers. Off to one side, a volleyball net was erected. A wooden staircase 
was shoved up against the tank; then the water truck maneuvered up to its rim 
and began filling it with fresh water. Beach Boys harmonies blared from a 
portable stereo.


Carson stood to one side, watching the proceedings. Hed spent most of his 
waking hours in Lab C, and he still did not know many of the people by name. 
Most of the scientists were well into their tours and had been working together 
for close to six months. Looking around, he noticed with relief that 
Brandon-Smith had apparently stayed behind in the air-conditioned compound. The 
previous afternoon, hed stopped by her office for an update on the chimps, and 
shed practically taken his head off when he accidentally disturbed the 
littleknickknacks shed obsessively arranged along the edge of her desk.Just as 
well , he thought, as the unwelcome image of the scientist in her bathing suit 
intruded into his imagination.


Singer caught sight of him and waved him over. Two senior scientists that Carson 
barely knew were sitting nearby.


Have you met George Harper? Singer asked Carson.


Harper grinned and held out his hand. We bumped into each other in the Fever 
Tank, he said. Literally. Two bio-suits passing in the night. And, of course, 
I heard your fetching description of Dr. Brandon-Smith. Harper was lanky, with 
thinning brown hair and a prominent hooked nose. He slouched in his deck chair.


Carson winced. I was just testing the global function of my intercom.


Harper laughed. All work stopped for five minutes while everyone shut off their 
own intercoms to, ah ... He glanced at Singer. Cough.


Now, George, Singer smiled. He indicated the other scientist. This is Andrew 
Vanderwagon.


Vanderwagon wore a conservative bathing suit, his sallow, sunken chest looking 
dangerously exposed to the sunlight. He scrambled to his feet, removing his 
sunglasses. How do you do, he said, standing and shaking Carsons hand. He was 
short, thin, straight, and fastidious, with blue eyes bleached to faded denim by 
the desert light. Carson had noticed him around Mount Dragon, wearing a coat and 
tie and black wing tips.


Im from Texas, Harper said, putting on a thick accent, so I dont have to 
get up. We dont got no manners. Andrew here is from Connecticut.


Vanderwagon nodded in return. Harper only gets up when a bull deposits a load 
at his feet.


Hell, no, Harper said. We just nudge it out of the way with a boot.


Carson settled in a deck chair provided by Singer. The sun was brutal. He heard 
several shouts, then a splash; people were climbing up the stairs and jumping 
into the water. As he looked around he saw Nye, the security director, sitting 
well off to one side and reading theNew York Times under a golf umbrella.


Hes as odd as a gelded heifer, Harper said, following Carsons gaze. Look at 
him out there in his damn Savile Row suit, and it must be a hundred degrees 
already.


Why did he come? Carson asked.


To watch us, said Vanderwagon.


What exactly might we do thats dangerous? Carson asked.


Harper laughed. Why, Guy, didnt you know? At any moment one of us might steal 
a Hummer, drive to Radium Springs, and sprinkle a little X-FLU into the Rio 
Grande. Just to hell around a bit.


Singer frowned. That kind of talks not funny, George.


Hes like a KGB man, always hovering, said Vanderwagon. He hasnt left the 
place since 86, and I guess its queered him. I wouldnt be surprised if he 
bugged our rooms.


Doesnt he have any friends here? Carson asked.


Friends? Vanderwagon said, eyebrows raising. Not that Im aware of. Unless 
you count Mike Marr. No family, either.


What does he do all day long?


He struts around in that pith helmet and ponytail, said Harper. You should 
see the security staff when Nye is around, bowing and bending like a pig over a 
nut.


Vanderwagon and Singer laughed. Carson was a little startled to see the Mount 
Dragon director joining in the mockery of his own security director.


Harper settled back, throwing his hands behind his head, and sighed. So youre 
from these here parts, he said, nodding at Guy with his eyes half closed. 
Maybe you can tell us more about theMondragn gold.


Vanderwagon groaned.


The what? Carson asked.


All three turned to look at him in surprise.


You dont know the story? Singer asked. And you a New Mexican! He dove into 
the cooler with both hands and pulled out a fistful of beers. This calls for a 
drink. He passed them around.


Oh, no. Were not going to hear the legendagain , Vanderwagon said.


Carson here has never heard it, Harper protested.


Aslegend has it, Singer began with a humorous glance at Vanderwagon, a 
wealthy trader namedMondragn lived outside old Santa Fe in the late sixteen 
hundreds. He was accused of witchcraft by the Inquisition and 
imprisoned.Mondragn knew the punishment would be death, and he managed to 
escape with the help of his servant,Estevnico. ThisMondragn had owned some 
mines in theSangre de Cristo Mountains, worked by Indian slave labor. Rich 
mines, they say, probably gold. So when he escaped from the Inquisition, he 
snuck back to his hacienda, dug up the gold, packed a mule, and fled with his 
servant along theCamino Real. Two hundred pounds of gold, all he could safely 
carry on one mule. A few days into the Jornada desert the two men ran short of 
water. SoMondragn sentEstevnico ahead with the gourd canteen to replenish 
their supply, while he stayed behind with one horse and the mule. The servant 
found water at a spring a days ride ahead, then galloped back. But by the time 
he returned to the spot where hed leftMondragn, the man was gone.


Harper took over the story. When the Inquisition learned what had happened, 
they began searching the trail. About five weeks later, right at the base of 
Mount Dragon, they found a horse, tied to a stake, dead. It wasMondragns.


At Mount Dragon? Carson asked.


Singer nodded. TheCamino Real, the Spanish Trail, ran right through the lab 
grounds and around the base of Mount Dragon.


Anyway, Harper continued, they looked everywhere for signs ofMondragn. About 
fifty yards from the dead cayuse, they found his expensive doublet lying on the 
ground. But no matter how hard they looked, they never foundMondragns body or 
the mule laden with gold. A priest sprinkled the base of Mount Dragon with holy 
water, to cleanse the spot ofMondragns evil, and they erected a cross at the 
top of the hill. The place became known asLa Cruz deMondragn, the Cross 
ofMondragn. Later, when American traders came down the Spanish Trail, they 
simplified the place-name to Mount Dragon. He finished his beer and exhaled 
contentedly.


I heard a lot of buried-treasure stories growing up, Carson said. They were 
as common as blue ticks on a red heeler. And all equally false.


Harper laughed. Blue ticks on a red heeler! Someone else with a sense of humor 
around here.


Whats a red heeler? Vanderwagon asked.


Harper laughed louder. Why, Andrew, you poor damned ignorant Yankee, its a 
kind of dog used to herd cattle. Chases their heels, so they call it a heeler. 
Like when you heel a calf with a rope. He pantomimed the whirling of a lasso; 
then he looked at Carson. Im glad theres someone around here who isnt just 
another greenhorn.


Carson grinned. When I was a kid, we used to go out looking for the Lost Adams 
Diggings. This states supposedly got more buried gold than Fort Knox. That is, 
if you believe the stories.


Vanderwagon snorted. Thats the key:if you believe the stories. Harpers from 
Texas, where the leading industry is the manufacture and distribution of bull 
shit. And now, I think its time for a swim. He twisted his beer bottle into 
the sand and stood up.


Me too, said Harper.


Come on, Guy! Singer called out as he followed the scientists to the tank, 
pulling off his shirt as he trotted.


In a minute, Carson said, watching them crowd up the wooden stairs and jump 
in, jostling each other as they did so. He finished his beer and set it aside. 
It seemed surreal to be sitting in the middle of the Jornada delMuerto desert, a 
mile from ground zero, watching several of the most brilliant biologists in the 
world splashing about in a cattle tank like children. But the very unreality of 
the place was like a drug. This was, truly, how it must have felt working on the 
Manhattan Project. He pulled off his jeans and shirt and lay back in his 
swimming trunks, closing his eyes, feeling relaxed for the first time in days.


After several minutes, the merciless heat roused him and he sat up, digging in 
the cooler for another beer. As he cracked it, he heardde Vacas laugh rise 
above the scattered conversations. She was standing on the far side of the tank, 
pulling her long hair back from her face and talking to some of the technicians, 
her white bikini in stark contrast to her tawny skin. If she saw Carson, she 
gave no sign.


As he watched, Carson saw another person joinde Vacas group. The odd hitch in 
the walk was familiar, and Carson realized it was Mike Marr, second-in-command 
of security. Marr began talking tode Vaca, his head thrown back, the wide 
languorous grin clearly visible. Suddenly he drew closer, whispered something 
inde Vacas ear. All at once,de Vacas expression grew dark, and she pulled away 
roughly. Marr spoke again, and in an instantde Vaca had slapped him hard across 
the face. The sharp sound reached across the desert sands to Carson. Marr jerked 
backward, his black cowboy hat falling in the dust. As he stooped to retrieve 
it,de Vaca spoke quickly, a scornful curl to her lip. Though Carson could not 
make out exactly what she was saying to Marr, the group of technicians burst 
into laughter.


The look that came over Marr, however, was alarming. His eyes narrowed, and the 
easy, amiable expression fled his features in an instant. With great 
deliberation, he placed the cowboy hat back on his head, his eyes onde Vaca. 
Then he turned quickly on his heels and strode away from the group.


Shes a firecracker, isnt she? Singer chuckled as he returned with the 
others and noticed the direction of Carsons gaze. Carson realized Singer hadnt 
really witnessed the little scene that had just played out. You know, she 
originally came out here to work in the medical department the week before you 
arrived. But then Myra Resnick, Burts assistant, left. With Susanas strong 
background, I thought shed make you a perfect assistant. Hope I wasnt wrong. 
He tossed a small pebble into Carsons lap.


Whats this? The pebble was green and slightly transparent.


Atomic glass, said Singer. The Trinity bomb fused the sand near ground zero, 
leaving a crust of this stuff. Most of its gone, but once in a while you can 
still find a piece.


Is it radioactive? Carson asked, holding it gingerly.


Not really.


Harper guffawed. Notreally ,he repeated, clearing a water-clogged ear with 
the tip of his little finger. If you plan to have children, Carson, Id get 
that thing away from your gonads.


Vanderwagon shook his head. Youre a vulgar sod, Harper.


Singer turned to Carson. Theyre best friends, although youd never know it.


How did you get started at GeneDyne, anyway? Carson asked, tossing the pebble 
back to Singer.


I was the Morton Professor of Biology at CalTech. I thought I was at the top of 
the profession. And then Brent Scopes came along and made me an offer. Singer 
shook his head at the memory. Mount Dragon was going civilian, and Brent wanted 
me to take over.


Quite a change fromacademia, said Carson.


It took me a while to adjust, Singer said. Id always looked down on private 
industry. But I soon came to realize the power of the marketplace. Were doing 
extraordinary work here, not because were smarter, but because we have so much 
more money. No university could afford to run Mount Dragon. And the potential 
returns are so much greater. When I was at CalTech, I was doing obscure research 
on bacterial conjugation. Now Im doing cutting-edge stuff that has the 
potential to save millions of lives. He drained his beer. Ive been 
converted.


Iwas converted, Harper said, when I saw the kind of dough an assistant 
professor makes.


Thirty thousand, said Vanderwagon, after six or eight years of graduate 
education. Can you believe it?


I remember when I was at Berkeley, said Harper. All my research proposals had 
to go through this decrepit bureaucrat, the chairman of the department. The 
fossilized SOB was always grousing about cost.


Working for Brent, Vanderwagon said, is like night and day. He understands 
how science operates. And how scientists work. I dont have to explain or 
justify anything. If I need something, I e-mail him and it happens. Were lucky 
to be working for him.


Harper nodded. Damn lucky.


At least they agree on something, thought Carson.


Were happy to have you aboard, Guy, Singer said at last, nodding and raising 
his beer in salute. The others followed.


Thanks, Carson smiled broadly, thinking about the quirk of fate that had 
suddenly landed him amongst the pride of GeneDyne.


 





 


Levine sat in his office, the door open, listening in silent fascination to a 
telephone conversation, his secretary Ray was having in the outer office.


Im sorry, baby, Ray was saying, I swear I thought you said theBoylston 
Street Theater, not the Brattle


There was a silence.


I swear, I heard you sayBoylston . No, I was there, at the front door, waiting 
for you. At the Boylston Theater, of course! No wait, hold on. Baby, no


Ray cursed and hung up the phone.


Ray? Levine said.


Yes? Ray appeared in the door, smoothing his hair.


Thereis no Boylston Street Theater.


Comprehension dawned on Rays face. Guess thats why she hung up.


Levine smiled, shaking his head. Remember the call I got from that woman at the 
Sammy Sanchez show? I want you to call her back, tell her they can book me after 
all. Ill appear at their earliest convenience.


Me? What aboutToni Wheeler? She wont like


Toniwouldnt approve. Shes a stick-in-the-mud about those kinds of television 
shows.


Ray shrugged. Okay, you got it. Anything else?


Levine shook his head. Not for now. Just work on your excuses. And shut the 
door, please.


Ray returned to the outer office. Levine checked his watch, picked up the 
telephone for the tenth time that day, and listened. This time, he heard what he 
had been waiting for: the dial tone had changed from the usual steady tone to a 
series of rapid pulses. Quickly he hung up the phone, locked the office door, 
and connected his computer to the wall jack. Within thirty seconds, the familiar 
log-in device was on his screen once again.


 


Well, dust my broom, if it aint the good professor-man, came the words on his 
screen.Hows my mean mistreatin papa?


 


Mime, what are you talking about?Levine typed.


 


Arent you a fan of Elmore James?


 


Never heard of him. I got your signal. What news?


 


Good and bad. Ive spent several hours poking around the GeneDyne net. Its 
quite a place. SixtyKworth of terminal IDs, connected above and below. You know, 
satellites and dedicated land lines, fiber-optic networks for asynchronous 
transfer videoconferencing. The architecture is impressive. Im something of an 
expert in it now, of course. I could give tours.


 


Thats good.


 


Yes. The bad news is that its built like a bank vault. Isolated-ring design, 
with Brent Scopes at the center. Nobody except Scopes can, see beyond their own 
profile, and he can see everything. Hes Big Brother, he can walk the system at 
will. To paraphrase Muddy Waters, hes got hismojoworking, but it just wont 
work for you.


 


Surely that isnt a problem for the Mime, Levine typed.


 


Have mercy! What a thought. I can stay cloaked without much effort, sipping a 
few milliseconds of CPU time here, a few there. But its a problem for YOU, 
professor. Setting up a secure channel into Mount Dragon is a non-trivial 
undertaking. It means duplicating part of Scopess own access. And that way 
danger lies, professor.


 


Explain.


 


Must I spell it out? If he happens to contact Mount Dragon while youre in the 
channel, his own access may be blocked. Then hell probably run a bloodhound 
program back over the wire, and itll bay up the good professor, not Mime. 
ISHTTOETOOYLS.


 


Mime, you know I dont understand your acronyms.


 


I should have thought that obvious even to one of your lame sensibilities. You 
wont be able to dawdle, professor. Well have to keep your visits short.


 


What about the Mount Dragon records? Levine typed. If I could get at those, it 
would speed things up considerably.


 


NFW. Locked up tighter than Queen Marys corset.


 


Levine took a deep breath. Mime was unreadable, immovable, infuriating. Levine 
wondered what he would be like in person: no doubt the typical computer hacker, 
a nerdy guy with thick glasses, bad at football, no social life, onanistic 
tendencies.


 


Why, Mime, that doesnt sound like you, he typed.


 


Remember me? Im the Monsieur Rick of cyberspace: I stick my neck out for no 
one. Scopes is too clever. You remember that pet project of his I was telling 
you about? Apparently, hes been programming some kind of virtual world for use 
as a network navigator. He gave a lecture on it at the Institute for Advanced 
Neurocybernetics about three years ago. Naturally, I broke in and stole the 
transcripts and screen shots. Very girthy, very girthy indeed. Groundbreaking 
use of 3-D programming. Anyway, since then Scopes has clamped the lid down 
tight. Nobody knows exactly what his program is now, or what it can do. But even 
back then, he was showing off some heavy shit at that lecture. Believe me, this 
dude is no computer-illiterate CEO. I found his private server, and was tempted 
to take a peek inside. But my discretion bested my curiosity. And thats unusual 
for me.


 


Mime, its vitally important that I gain access to Mount Dragon. You know my 
work. You can help me to ensure a safer world.


 


No mind trips, my man! If theres one thing Ive learned, only Mime matters. The 
rest of the world means no more to me than a dingleberry on a dogs ass.


 


Then why are you helping me at all? Remember that it was you who approached me 
in the first place.


 


There was a pause in the on-line conversation.


 


My reasons are my own, Mime responded. But I can guess yours. Its the GeneDyne 
lawsuit. Not just for money this time, is it? Scopes is trying to hit you where 
you live. If he succeeds, youll lose your charter, your magazine, your 
credibility. You were a little hasty there with your accusations, and now you 
need some dirt to prove them retroactively. Tut, tut, professor.


 


Youre only half right, Levine typed back.


 


Then I suggest you tell me the other half.


 


Levine hesitated at the keyboard.


 


Professor? Dont force me to remind you of the two planks our deep and 
meaningful phriendship is built on. One: I never do anything that will expose 
myself. And two: my own hidden agenda must remain hidden.


 


Theres a new employee at Mount Dragon, Levine typed at last.A former student of 
mine. I think I can enlist his help.


 


There was another pause.Ill need his name in order to set up the channel , Mime 
responded at last.


 


Guy Carson, Levine typed.


 


Professor-man, came the response,youre a sentimentalist at heart. And thats a 
major flaw in a warrior. I doubt youll succeed. But I shall enjoy watching you 
try; failure is always more interesting than success.


 


The screen went blank.


 





 


Carson stood impatiently in the hissing chemical shower, watching the poisonous 
cleansing agents run down his faceplate in yellow sheets. He tried to remind 
himself that the feeling of choking, of insufficient oxygen, was just his 
imagination. He stepped through into the next chamber and was buffeted by the 
chemical drying process. Another air-lock door popped open and he walked into 
the blinding white light of the Fever Tank. Pressing the global intercom button, 
he announced his arrival: Carson in. Few if any scientists were around to hear 
him, but the procedure was mandatory. It was all becoming routinebut a routine 
he felt he would never get used to.


He sat down at his desk and turned on hisPowerBook with a gloved hand. His 
intercom was quiet; the facility was almost deserted. He wanted to get some work 
done and collect whatever messages might be waiting for him beforede Vaca came.


When he had finished logging on, a line popped on the screen.


 


GOOD MORNING, GUY CARSON.


YOU HAVE 1 UNREAD MESSAGE.


 


He moused the e-mail icon, and the words came rushing onto the screen.


 


GuyWhats the latest on the inoculations? Theres nothing new in the 
system.Please page me so we can discuss .Brent.


 


Carson paged Scopes through GeneDynes WAN service. The Gene Dyne CEOs response 
was immediate, as if he had been waiting for the message.


 


Ciao Guy! Whats going on with your chimps?


 


So far so good. All six are healthy and active. John Singer suggested we cut the 
waiting period down to one week under the circumstances. Ill discuss it with 
Rosalind today.


 


Good. Give me any updates immediately, please. Interrupt me no matter what Im 
doing. If you cant find me, contact Spencer Fairley.


 


I will.


 


Guy, have you had a chance to complete the white paper on your protocol? As soon 
as were sure of success, Id like you to get it distributed internally, with an 
eye toward eventual publication.


 


Im just waiting for some final confirmations, then Ill e-mail a copy to you.


 


As they chatted, more people began to arrive in the lab, and the intercom became 
a busy party line, each person announcing his or her arrival.De Vaca in, he 
heard, and Vanderwagon in; then Brandon-Smith! loud and in-your-face, as 
usual; and then the murmur of other arrivals and other conversations.


De Vacasoon appeared in the hatchway, silently, and logged on to her machine. 
The bulkyblesuit hid the contours of her body, which was fine with Carson. He 
didnt need any more distractions.


Susana,Id like to run a GEF purification on those proteins we discussed 
yesterday, he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.


Certainly, saidde Vaca crisply.


Theyre in the centrifuge, labeled M-one through M-three.


There was one thing he was glad of:de Vaca was a damn good technical assistant, 
maybe the best in the entire lab. A true professionalas long as she didnt lose 
her temper.


Carson made the final additions to the write-up that documented his procedure. 
It had taken him the better part of two days, and he was pleased with the 
result; though he thought Scopes might be a bit hasty in requesting it, he was 
secretly proud. Near noon,de Vaca returned with photographic strips of the 
gels. Carson took a look at the strips and felt another flush of pleasure: one 
more confirmation of imminent success.


Suddenly Brandon-Smith was in the door.


Carson, you got a dead ape.


There was a shocked silence.


You mean, X-FLU? Carson said, finding his voice. It wasnt possible.


You bet, she announced with relish, unconsciously smoothing her generous 
thighs with thickly gloved hands. A pretty sight, I assure you.


Which one? Carson asked.


The male, Z-nine.


It hasnt even been a week, Carson said.


I know. You made pretty short work of him.


Where is he?


Still in the cage. Come on, Ill show you. Besides the rapidity, there are some 
other unusual aspects youd better see.


Carson rose shakily and followed Brandon-Smith to the Zoo. It was impossible 
that the cause had been X-FLU. Something else must have happened. The thought of 
reporting this development to Scopes came into his head like a dull pain.


Brandon-Smith opened the hatchway to the Zoo and motioned Carson inside. They 
entered the room, the incessant drumming and screaming again penetrating the 
thick layers of Carsons suit.


Fillson sat at the far end of the Zoo at a worktable, setting some instrument. 
He stood up and glanced over at them. Carson thought he could detect a flicker 
of amusement on the handlers knobby face. He unsealed the door to the 
inoculation area and ushered them in, pointing upward.


Z-nine was in the topmost row, in a cage marked with a yellow-and-red biohazard 
label. Carson was unable to see inside the animals cage. The other five 
inoculated chimps, in cages on the first and second tiers, seemed to be 
perfectly healthy.


What was strange, exactly? Carson asked, reluctant to see the damage 
firsthand.


Look for yourself, said Brandon-Smith, rubbing her gloves up and down her 
thighs again with a slow, deliberate motion.Unpleasant mannerism , Carson 
thought. It reminded him of the habitual movements of a severely retarded 
person.


A metal ladder, encased entirely in white rubber, was attached to the upper 
rack of cages. Carson mounted it gingerly while Fillson and Brandon-Smith waited 
below. He peered inside the cage. The chimp lay on its back, limbs splayed in 
obvious agony. The animals entire brain case had split open along the natural 
sutures, large folds of gray matter pushing out in several places. The bottom of 
the cage was awash in what Carson assumed was cerebrospinal fluid.


Brain exploded, said Brandon-Smith unnecessarily. Mustve been a particularly 
virulent strain you invented there, Carson.


Carson began to descend. Brandon-Smith had her arms crossed and was looking up 
at him. Through her visor, he could see a faint sarcastic smile playing about 
her lips. He paused on the step. Somethinghe wasnt sure what seemed wrong. 
Then he realized: a cage door on the second tier had come ajar, and three hairy 
fingers were curling around its frame, pushing the faceplate away.


Rosalind! he cried, fumbling with his intercom button. Get away from the 
cages!


She looked at him, uncomprehending. Fillson, standing next to her, glanced 
around in alarm. Suddenly things began to happen very quickly: a hairy arm 
lashed out, and there was an odd tearing noise. Carson saw the chimps hand, 
strangely human, waving a swatch of rubber material. Looking toward 
Brandon-Smith, Carson could see, to his horror, a ragged hole in her suit, and 
through the hole a pair of scrubs riding over an exposed roll of fat. Across the 
scrubs were three parallel scratches. As he watched, blood began to well up in 
long crimson lines.


There was a brief, paralyzing silence.


The ape burst from its cage, shrieking with triumph at the top of its lungs, 
brandishing the piece of biohazard suit like a trophy. It bounded into the Zoo 
and out the open hatchway, disappearing down the corridor.


Brandon-Smith began to scream. With her intercom off, the sound was muffled and 
strange, like someone being strangled at a great distance. Fillson stood 
immobile, riveted in horror.


Then she found the intercom button and hysterical screams erupted into Carsons 
suit, so loud they saturated the system and dissolved into a roar of static. 
Carson, at the top of the ladder, punched his intercom to global. Stage-two 
alert, he yelled over the noise. Integrity breach, Brandon-Smith, 
animal-quarantine unit.


A stage-two alert. Human contact with a deadly virus. It was the thing they most 
feared. Carson knew there was a very strict procedure for dealing with such 
emergencies: lockdown, followed by quarantine. He had been through the drill 
time and again.


Brandon-Smith, realizing what was in store for her, disconnected her air hose 
and began to run.


Carson jumped off the ladder after her, stopping briefly to disconnect his own 
air supply, and brushed past the frozen Fillson. He caught up with her outside 
the exit air lock, where she was screaming and pounding on the door, unable to 
force it open. Lockdown had already taken place.


De Vacacame up behind him. What happened? he heard her ask. A moment later, 
the corridor was filled with scientists.


Open the door, Brandon-Smith screamed on the global channel. Oh God, 
please,open the door !She sank to her knees, sobbing.


A siren began to wail, low and monotonous. There was a sudden movement down the 
hall, and Carson turned quickly, craning for a glimpse over the helmets of the 
other scientists. Suited forms Carson knew to be security guards were appearing 
out of the access tube from the lower levels, moving quickly toward the mass of 
scientists huddled by the air lock. There were four of them, wearing red suits 
that looked even more bulky than the normal gear, and Carson realized they must 
contain extended air supplies. Though he had known there was a security 
substation in the lower levels of the Fever Tank, the rapidity with which the 
guards arrived was astonishing. Two of them held short-barreled shotguns, while 
the others held strange curved devices equipped with rubber handles.


Brandon-Smiths reflexes were lightning fast. She leapt up and, scattering the 
scientists against the sides of the corridor, plowed past the guards in an 
attempt to escape. One of the guards was knocked to the ground, grunting in 
pain. Another spun around and tackled Brandon-Smith as she was about to push 
past. They hit the floor heavily, Brandon-Smith screaming and clawing at the 
guard. As they wrestled, one of the other guards approached cautiously and 
pressed the end of the device he was holding to the metal ring of her visor. 
There was a blue flash, and Brandon-Smith jerked and lay still, her screams 
stopping instantly. As the intercom cleared, a welter of voices could be heard.


One of the security officers stood up, his hands fumbling over his suit in a 
panic. The fat bitch ripped my suit! Carson heard him shout. I cant believe 
it


Shut up, Roger, said one of the others, breathing heavily.


No fucking way am I gonna go into quarantine. It wasnt my faultJesus, what 
the hell are you doing?


Carson watched the other security officer level his shotgun. Both of you are 
going, he said. Now.


Wait, Frank, youre not going to


The guard pumped a shell into the chamber.


Son of a bitch, Frank, you cant do this to me, the guard named Roger wailed.


Carson saw three more security guards appear from the direction of the ready 
room. Get them both to quarantine, the guard named Frank said.


Suddenly, Carson heardde Vacas voice. Look. Shes thrown up in her suit. She 
might be suffocating. Get her helmet off.


Not until we get her to quarantine, the officer said.


The hell with that,de Vaca shouted back. This woman is badly injured. She 
needs hospitalization. Weve got to get her out.


The guard looked around and spotted Carson at the front of the crowd. You! Dr. 
Carson! he called. Get your ass over here and help!


Guy, camede Vacas voice, suddenly calm. Rosalind could die if shes left in 
here, and you know it.


By now the few scientists remaining in the far corners of the Fever Tank had 
arrived and were crowding the narrow corridor, watching the confrontation. 
Carson stood motionless, looking from the security guard tode Vaca.


With a sudden, swift movement,de Vaca shoved the security officer aside. She 
bent over Brandon-Smith and lifted her head, peering into her faceplate.


Vanderwagon suddenly spoke up. Im for getting them out of here, he said. We 
cant put them in quarantine like apes. Its inhuman.


There was a tense silence. The security officer hesitated, uncertain how to 
handle the confrontation with thescientists . Vanderwagon moved forward and 
began unbuckling Brandon-Smiths helmet.


Sir, I order you to stand fast, the officer finally said.


Fuck you, saidde Vaca, helping Vanderwagon remove the visor, then clearing 
Brandon-Smiths mouth and nose of vomit. The scientist gasped once, and her eyes 
fluttered and rolled.


You see that? She would have suffocated. And youd be in deep shit.De Vaca 
looked at Carson. Are you going to help us get her out? she asked.


Carson spoke very quietly.Susana, you know the drill. Think a moment. She may 
well have been exposed to the virus. She could already be contagious.


We dont know that!de Vaca blazed, turning to stare up at him. Its never 
been demonstrated in vivo.


Another scientist stepped forward. It could be any one of us lying there. Ill 
help.


Brandon-Smith was reviving from the electrical stun, streaks of vomit clinging 
to her generous chin, her head almost comically small in the bulky suit. 
Please, Carson could hear her say. Please. Get me out. In the distance, 
Carson could see another guard approaching down the corridor, carrying a 
shotgun.


Dont worry, Rosalind,de Vaca replied. Thats where youre going. She looked 
at Carson. Youre no better than a murderer. Youd leave her here in the hands 
of these pigs, to die.Hijo de puta.


Singers voice broke over the intercom. Whats going on in the Fever Tank? Why 
havent I been briefed? I want an immediate


His voice was abruptly cut off by a global override. The clipped English tones 
of a voice Carson knew must be Nyes crackled over the intercom.


In a stage-two alert the security director may, at hisdiscretion , temporarily 
relieve the director of command. I hereby do so.


Mr. Nye, until I see the emergency for myself Im not relinquishing authority 
to you or anyone else, said Singer.


Disconnect Dr. Singers intercom, Nye ordered coolly.


Nye, for Chrissakes came Singers voice, before it was abruptly cut off.


Get the two individuals to quarantine immediately, Nye said.


The command seemed to break the indecision of the guards. One stepped forward 
and proddedde Vaca aside with the butt of his shotgun. She shoved back with a 
curse. Suddenly, the newly arrived guard stepped forward, ramming her viciously 
in the gut with the butt of his shotgun. She writhed to the floor, her wind 
knocked out. The guard raised the butt of the shotgun, poised to strike again. 
Carson stepped forward, balling his fists, and the guard swiveled his barrel 
toward Carsons midsection. Carson stared back, and was shocked to see the face 
of Mike Marr staring back at him. A slow smile broke across Marrs features, and 
his hooded eyes narrowed.


Nyes voicecame on again. Everyone will remain where they are while the 
security officers bring the two individuals to quarantine. Any further 
resistance will be met with lethal force. You will not be warned again.


Two guards helped Brandon-Smith to her feet and began leading her down the hall, 
while another took charge of the guard with the torn suit. The remaining guards, 
including Marr, positioned themselves along the corridor, watching the crowd of 
scientists and technicians carefully.


Soon the two detainees and their party had disappeared down the tube leading to 
the lower levels. Carson knew their destination: a cramped series of rooms two 
decks below the animal-quarantine unit. There they would spend the next 
ninety-six hours, having their blood constantly tested for X-FLU antibodies. If 
they were clear, they would be released to the infirmary for a week of 
observation; if notif antibodies showed up, indicating infectionthey would be 
required to spend the rest of their short lives in the quarantine area as the 
first human casualties of the rogue flu.


Nyes brisk voice broke through again. Mendel, get down to quarantine with a 
new helmet and reseal the suits. Dr. Grady will administer first aid and draw 
the blood samples. We will not evacuate Level-5 until everyoneI repeat, 
everyonehas had his suit pressure-checked for breach.


Fascist asshole, saidde Vaca on global.


Anyone disobeying the orders of the security officers will be imprisoned in 
quarantine for the duration of the emergency, came the cool answer. Hertz, 
find the renegade animal and kill it.


Yes, sir.


The site physician, Dr. Grady, appeared at the far end of the hall, wearing a 
red emergency suit and carrying a large metal suitcase. He disappeared down the 
access tube toward quarantine.


We will now check everyone in alphabetical order, came Nyes voice. As soon 
as you are cleared to leave the facility, please go directly to the main 
conference room for debriefing. Barkley, step into the exit air lock.


The scientist named Barkley glanced around at the assembled people, then 
stepped quickly through the hatch.


Carson next, said Nye sixty seconds later.


No, said Carson. This isnt right. Our suits will run out of air in a few 
minutes. The women should go first.


Carson is next, the voice repeated, calm but with a threatening undertone.


Dont be a sexist idiot, saidde Vaca, who was sitting up and cradling her 
stomach. Get your ass in there.


Carson hesitated a moment, then stepped into the air lock. A suited figure 
waiting in the access chamber visually inspected his suit, then attached a 
small hose to his air valve.


Im going to test your suit for leaks, the man said. There was a hiss of stale 
air and Carson felt the air pressure within the suit rise, causing his ears to 
pop.


Clean, said the man, and Carson moved to the chemical shower beyond. As he 
emerged into the ready room, he noted that Barkley had soiled his suit, and he 
turned his back while grappling with his own.


As he was stowing his gear,de Vaca emerged from the Fever Tank. She pulled off 
her helmet.


Wait, Guy, she said. I just want to say


Carson shut the door on her sentence and headed for the conference room.


 





 


Within an hour, everyone had assembled. Nye stood near a large videoconferencing 
screen, Singer at his side. Mike Marr slouched against one wall, booted legs 
crossed, chewing the ever-present rubber band as he lazily surveyed the group. 
Fear and resentment hung like a pall of smoke. Without a word, the room 
darkened, and the face of Scopes appeared on the screen.


I dont need a debriefing, he said. Everything was captured on videotape. 
Everything.


There was a silence while Scopess eyes moved back and forth behind his thick 
glasses as if looking around the room.


I am very disappointed in some of you, he said at last. You know the 
procedures. Youve rehearsed them dozens of times.


He turned to Singer. John, you know the rules better than anyone. Mr. Nye was 
on top of the situation and you were not. He was perfectly correct to assume 
responsibility during the emergency. In a situation like this, theres no room 
for confusion in the chain of command.


I understand, Singer said, his face expressionless.


I know you do.Susana Cabeza de Vaca?


What, saidde Vaca defiantly.


Why did you ignore protocol and try to release Brandon-Smith from Level-5 ?


So she could receive medical attention in a hospital,deVaca said, instead of 
being locked in a cage.


There was a long silence while Scopes gazed at her. And if she by chance had 
been infected with X-FLU? he asked at last. What then? Would medical attention 
save her life?


There was a long silence. Scopes sighed heavily.Susana, youre a 
microbiologist. I dont need to give you a lesson in epidemiology. If you had 
succeeded in springing Rosalind from Level-5, and if she were infected, you 
might have started an epidemic unprecedented in the history of mankind.


She remained stubbornly silent.


Andrew? Scopes said, turning his eyes on Vanderwagon. In such an epidemic, 
little children, teenagers, mothers, working men and women, rich and poor, 
doctors and nurses, farmers and priests, all would have died. Thousands of 
people, maybe millions, and maybeHe pausedeven billions. Scopess voice had 
grown very soft. He allowed another long silence to pass.


Somebody tell me if Im wrong.


There was another excruciating silence.


Damn it! he barked. There are reasons why we have safety rules in Level-5. 
You all are working with the most dangerous pathogen in existence. The whole 
world depends on you not fucking up. And you almost fucked up.


Im sorry, Vanderwagon blurted out. I acted without thinking. All I could 
think of was that it could be me


Fillson! Scopes said abruptly.


The animal handler approached the screen, his hands twitching nervously, his 
pendulous lower lip moist.


By failing to latch the cage properly, you caused incalculable harm. And you 
also failed to keep the quarantined animals nails trimmed, as per explicit 
instructions. You are, of course, fired. Furthermore, I have instructed our 
lawyers to initiate a civil lawsuit against you. If Brandon-Smith should die, 
her blood will be on your hands. In short, your unforgivable carelessness will 
haunt you legally, financially, and morally for the rest of your life. Mr. 
Marr, please see that Fillson is immediately escorted out of the premises and 
dropped off at Engle, to make his own way home.


Mike Marr pushed himself away from the wall, a smile playing about his lips, 
and sauntered over.


Mr. ScopesBrentplease,Fillson began as Marr grasped him roughly by the arm 
and pulled him through the door.


Susana?Scopes said.


De Vacaremained silent.


Scopes shook his head. I dont want to fire you, but if you cant see the 
mistake you made, Ill have to. Its too dangerous. More than one life was at 
stake back there. Do you understand?


De Vacadropped her head. Yes. I understand, she said finally.


Scopes turned to Vanderwagon. I know that you andSusana both were motivated by 
decent human emotions. But youmust have more discipline when dealing with a 
danger as great as this virus. Remember the phrase: If thy right eye offends 
thee, pluck it out. You cant let such emotions, no matter how well intended, 
get the better of your reason. You are scientists. We will examine the 
consequences, if any, of this incident on your bonus package at a later time.


Yes, sir, said Vanderwagon.


And you too,Susana. Youre both on probation for the next six weeks.


She nodded.


Guy Carson?


Yes, Carson said.


Im more sorry than I can say that your experiment failed.


Carson said nothing.


But I am proud of the way you acted this morning. You could have joined the 
rush to free Brandon-Smith, but you didnt. You stayed cool and used your head.


Carson remained silent. He had done what he thought was right. Butde Vacas 
withering insult, her branding him a murderer, had struck home. Somehow, 
hearing himself praised by Scopes like this, in front of everyone, made him 
uncomfortable.


Scopes sighed. Then he addressed the entire group. Rosalind Brandon-Smith and 
Roger Czerny are receiving the best medical treatment possible, their suits have 
been resealed, and they are resting comfortably. They must remain in the 
quarantine unit for ninety-six hours. You all know the procedure and the 
reasons behind it. Level-5 will remain closed except to security and medical 
personnel until the crisis period is over. Any questions?


There was a silence. If they test X-FLU-positive? someone began.


A look of pain crossed Scopess face. I dont want to consider that 
possibility, he said, and the screen went black with a pop of static.


 





 


Get some sleep, Guy. Theres nothing more you can do here.


Singer, looking drawn and haggard, sat at one of the rolling chairs in the 
Monitoring Station, his eyes glancing over a bank of black-and-white video 
screens. Over the last thirty-six hours Carson had returned time and again to 
the station, gazing at the images on the video screens, as if the sheer force of 
his will could bring the two scientists out of quarantine. Now he picked up his 
laptop, said a reluctant good-bye to Singer, and left the subdued blue glow of 
the station for the empty halls of the operations building. Sleep was 
impossible, and he allowed his feet to take him to one of the aboveground labs 
beyond the inner perimeter.


Sitting at a long table in the deserted lab, he went over the failed experiment 
again and again in his head. Hed recently been told that the escaped chimp had 
tested positive for X-FLU. He could hot forget, even for a moment, that if he 
had been successful this would not have been the case. To make things worse, the 
paternal, encouraging messages from Scopes had ceased. He had let everyone down.


And yet the inoculationshould have worked. There was no flaw that he could find. 
All the preliminary tests had shown the virus altered in precisely the way he 
intended.


He powered up his computer and began listing the possible scenarios:


 


Possibility 1: An unknown mistake was made.


Answer: Repeat experiment.


Possibility 2: Dr. Burt got the gene locus wrong.


Answer: Find new locus, repeat experiment.


Possibility 3: Chimps already had dormant X-FLU when inoculated.


Answer: Monitor successive inoculatees for results.


Possibility 4: Viral product exposed to heat or some other mutagen.


Answer: Repeat experiment, taking paramount care with viral culture between gene 
splicing and in vivo trial.


 


It all boiled down to the same thing: repeat the damned experiment. But he knew 
hed get the same results, because there was nothing that could be done any 
differently. Wearily, he called up Burts notes and began going through the 
sections that dealt with the mapping of the viral gene. It was superb work, and 
Carson could hardly see where Burt had gone wrong, but it was worth going over 
again anyway. Maybe he should remap the entire viral plasmid from scratch 
himself, a process that he knew would take at least two months. He thought of 
spending two more months locked up in the Fever Tank. He thought of 
Brandon-Smith, somewhere in quarantine at this very moment, deep in the Tank. 
He remembered the blood welling from her raked side, the expression of fear and 
disbelief on her face. He remembered standing there, watching, while the guards 
dragged her away.


He worked in front of a large picture window that looked out over the desert. It 
was his only consolation. From time to time he stared out, watching the 
afternoon sun grow golden on the yellow sands.


Guy? he heard a voice say behind him. It wasde Vaca. He turned and found her 
standing in the door, in jeans and T-shirt, her lab coat slung over her arm.


Need any help? she asked.


No, he said.


Look, she said, Im sorry about my comment in the Fever Tank.


He turned away silently. Talking with this woman only ended in grief.


He heard a rustle as she moved closer.


I came to apologize, she said.


He sighed. Apology accepted.


I dont believe it, she said. You still sound mad.


Guy turned toward her. Its not just the comment in the Fever Tank. You bitch 
about everything I say.


You say a lot of stupid things,de Vaca said, flaring up.


Thats just what I mean. You didnt come to apologize. You came to argue.


There was a silence in the empty lab.


De Vacastood up. We can at least maintain a professional relationship. Weve 
got to. I need that bonus for my clinic. So the experiment failed. Well try 
again.


Carson looked at her, standing illuminated in the picture window, her violet 
eyes darting at him, her long black hair flowing wild down her back and 
shoulders. He found himself holding his breath, she was so beautiful. It took 
all the steam out of his anger.


Whats going on with you and Mike Marr? he asked.


She looked at him quickly. That son of a bitch? Hed been coming on to me since 
day one. I guess he thought no woman could resist big black boots and a 
ten-gallon hat.


You seemed to be resisting pretty well at the Bomb Picnic.


A rueful expression crossedde Vacas face. Yes, and hes not a man who likes to 
be crossed. He comes across all smiles and aw-shucks, but thats not how he 
really is, at all. You saw how he planted the butt of his shotgun in my gut, 
back there in the Fever Tank. Theres something about him that scares the hell 
out of me, if you want to know the truth. She pulled her hair back brusquely 
with one finger. Come on, lets get to it.


Carson exhaled deeply. Okay. Take a look at my ideas, see if you can think of 
any other reasons for the failure. He pushed thePowerBook over, and she took 
the next stool at the lab table, reading the information on the screen.


I have another idea, she said after a moment.


Whats that?


She typed:


 


Possibility 5: Viral product contaminated with other strains of X-FLU or plasmid 
fragments.


Answer: Repurify and test results.


 


What makes you think it was contaminated? Carson asked.


Its a possibility.


But those samples were run with GEF. Theyre all cleaner than a Vatican joke.


I just said its apossibility ,de Vacarepeated. You cant always believe a 
machine. These X-FLU strains are very similar.


OK, OK, Carson sighed. But first, I want to double-check Burts notes on the 
mapping of the X-FLU plasmid. I know it all by heart, but I want to go through 
it once more, just to be certain.


Let me help you, saidde Vaca. Maybe between us, we can find something.


They began to read in silence.


 





 


Roger Czerny lay on his bed in the quarantine room, looking at Brandon-Smith 
sitting, against the far wall. Pouting, as usual. He loathed the sight of her 
more deeply, more thoroughly, than he ever had any other person in his life. He 
loathed the fat dough-boy biohazard suit she wore, loathed the whining sarcastic 
voice, loathed the very sound of her breathing and whimpering through the 
intercom. Because of her, he might die. He was furious that he had to share the 
quarantine room with her. With all the money GeneDyne had, why hadnt they built 
two quarantine rooms? Why stick him in with this fat, ugly woman who bitched and 
moaned all day long? He was forced to watch her every bodily function, her 
eating, her sleeping, her emptying her shit bag, everything. It was intolerable. 
And everything was so complicated, just taking a piss or trying to eat dinner 
while maintaining the sterile environment. When he got out of here, he thought, 
unless they did something really nice for hima hundred-grand bonus at leasthe 
was going to sue their asses. They should have given him a rip-proof suit. It 
should have been part of the procedure. It didnt matter that theyd given them 
both fresh bluesuits. They had locked him in with his own would-be murderer. 
They were liable as hell, and they were going to pay.


On top of everything else, they wouldnt tell him the results of the frequent 
blood tests. The only way hed know anything was when the ninety-six hour 
waiting period was up. If they let him out, he was clean. If not ...


Shit, he thought, it was going to take two hundred to make up for this. 
Two-fifty. Hed get himself a good lawyer.


It was ten oclock. The lighting was dim, so he knew it had to be evening, not 
morning. That was the only way he could tell in this prison. He thought, once 
again, of his one visit to a hospital, ten years earlier. Emergency 
appendectomy. This was like a hospital, only worse. Much worse. Here he was, a 
hundred feet below the ground, sealed in a small room, no way out, with a 
roommate thatHe opened and closed his mouth several times, hyperventilating, 
trying to ease the panic that came bubbling toward the surface.


Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. He shifted on his bed and pointed a 
remote at the television that hung from the ceiling. Three Stooges reruns. 
Anything to get his mind out of there.


A soft beep sounded and a blue light began blinking high on the wall. There was 
a hiss of compressed air escaping; then the doctor, Grady, squeezed through the 
hatchway, the bulky red emergency suit hindering his movements. That time 
again, he said cheerfully into the intercom. He took Brandon-Smiths blood 
first, inserting the needle through a special rubber-sealed grommet in the upper 
arm of her suit.


I dont feel good, Brandon-Smith whined. It was what she said every time the 
doctor came. I think Im feeling a little dizzy.


The doctor checked her temperature, using the thermometer inserted in her suit.


Ninety-eight point six! he piped. Its the stress of the situation. Try to 
relax.


But I have aheadache ,she said again, for the twentieth time.


Its not time yet for another shot of Tylenol, the doctor said. Another two 
hours.


But I have a headachenow .


Perhaps a half dose, said the doctor, fumbling in his suitcase with gloved 
hands and administering the injection.


Just tell me, please,please , if I have it, she pleaded.


Twenty-four more hours, the doctor said. Just one more day. Youre doing 
fine, Rosalind, youre doing beautifully. As I told you, Im not being given any 
more information than you are.


Youre a liar, Brandon-Smith snapped. I want to talk to Brent.


Relax. Nobodys a liar. Thats just the stress speaking.


The doctor came over to Czerny, who presented the side of his suit in resigned 
anticipation of having his blood drawn.


Anything I can do for you, Roger? the doctor asked.


No, said Czerny. Even if he pushed past the doctor, he knew there were two of 
his fellow guards stationed directly outside the quarantine area.


The doctor drew the blood and left. The blue light stopped blinking as the 
hatchway was sealed. Czerny went back to the Three Stooges, while Brandon-Smith 
lay down, falling at last into a fitful sleep. At eleven, Czerny turned off the 
lights.


He awoke suddenly at two. Even though it was pitch black, he felt, with a shiver 
of horror, a presence hovering above his bed.


Who is it? he cried, sitting up. He fumbled for the light, then dropped his 
arm again when he realized the form at the end of his bed was Brandon-Smith.


What do you want? he said.


She did not answer. Her large frame was trembling slightly.


Leave me alone!


My right arm, said Brandon-Smith.


What about it?


Its gone, she said. I woke up and it was gone.


In the dark, Czerny pawed at his sleeve, found the global emergency button and 
punched it savagely.


Brandon-Smith took a small step forward, bumping his bedframe.


Get away from me! Czerny shouted. He felt the bed vibrate.


Now my left arms going, she whispered, her voice strangely slurred. Her whole 
body began to shake. This is strange. Theres something crawling inside my 
head, like tapeworms. She fell silent. The trembling continued.


Czerny backed up against the wall. Help me! he cried into his intercom. 
Somebody get the hell in here!


Two recessed bulbs in the ceiling snapped on, soaking the chamber in a dim 
crimson light.


Suddenly Brandon-Smith screamed. Where are you? I cant see you! Please dont 
leave me!


Over his intercom, Czerny heard a peculiar wet sound that was almost instantly 
smothered by the dying buzz of a short circuit. Looking up in sudden horror, he 
saw wrinkled gray brain matter thrusting against the inside glass of 
Brandon-Smiths faceplate. And yet she remained standing for the longest time, 
still twitching, before she slowly began to topple forward onto his bed.


PART TWO





 


 


The horse barn stood at the edge of the perimeter fence, a modest metal building 
with six stalls. Four of the stalls held horses. It was an hour before dawn, and 
Venus, the morning star, shone brightly on the eastern horizon.


Inside the barn, Carson watched the horses drowsing in their stalls, heads 
drooping. He whistled softly and the heads jerked upward, ears perked.


Which one of you ugly old cayuses wants to go for a ride? he whispered. One 
horse nickered in return.


He looked them over. They were a motley lot, obviously locally purchased, ranch 
rejects. A goose-rumped Appaloosa, two old quarterhorses, and one grade horse of 
indeterminate breeding.Muerto, Nyes magnificent Medicine Hat paint gelding, was 
gone, apparently taken out by the Englishman on one of his mysterious rides even 
earlier that morning. Guesshes had enough of the place ,too , Carson thought. 
Though it seemed a strange time for the security director to be leaving the 
grounds. Carson, at least, had an excuse: the Level-5 facility was still closed, 
and would remain so until anOSHA inspector arrived the following day. Carson 
couldnt work if he wanted to.


But even if the Fever Tank had been open for business, there was no way Carson 
was working this day. He grimaced in the dark, overripe air of the stable. Just 
when hed decided it was irrational to blame himself for Brandon-Smiths 
accident, shed died of exposure to X-FLU. Then Czerny had been removed in an 
ambulance, virus-free but incoherent. The entire Fever Tank had been 
decontaminated, then sealed. Now there was nothing to do but wait, and Carson 
had grown tired of waiting in the hushed, funereal atmosphere of the residency 
compound. He needed time to think about the X-FLU problem, to figure out what 
went wrong, andperhaps most importantto recover his equilibrium. He knew no 
better tonic than a long ride on horseback.


The grade horse caught Carsons eye. He was a liver-colored bay with a head the 
size of a coffin. But he was young and tough-looking. He eyed Carson through a 
straggly lock of mane.


Carson stepped inside the stall and ran his hand along the horses flank. The 
fur was tight and coarse, the skin tough as tripe. The horse didnt jerk or 
tremble; he merely turned his head and smelled Carsons shoulder. He had a calm, 
alert gleam in his eye that Carson liked.


He picked up the front leg. The hooves were good although the shoeing job was 
abysmal. The horse stood calmly while Carson cleaned the hoof with a penknife. 
He dropped the leg and patted the horse on the neck.


Youre a damn fine horse, Carson said, but you sure are one ugly son of a 
bitch.


The horse nickered his appreciation.


Carson eased a halter over the animals head and led him to a hitching post 
outside. It had been two years since hed ridden, but already the old instincts 
were coming back. He went into the tack room and looked over Mount Dragons 
saddle collection. It was obvious that most of the other residents were 
uninterested in riding. One of the saddles had a broken tree; another was just a 
screwed-together affair that would probably disintegrate the moment the horse 
broke into a trot. There was one old Abiquiu saddle with a high cantle that 
might do. Carson picked it up, grabbed a blanket and pad, and carried everything 
out to the hitching post. He buckled on his old spurs, noting that during the 
years of disuse one of the rowels had broken.


Whats your name? he murmured softly while brushing out the horses coat.


The horse stood there in the gathering light, saying nothing.


Well then, Im going to call you Roscoe. He folded the blanket, placed it on 
the horses back, then added the pad and saddle. He looped thelatigo through the 
rigging and tightened it, feeling the horse swell his belly with air in an 
attempt to trick Carson into leaving the cinch too loose.


Youre a rascal, said Carson. He hitched the breast collar and loosely buckled 
the flank cinch. When the horse wasnt paying attention he jabbed his knee in 
its belly and jerked thelatigo tight. The horse flattened his ears.


Gotcha, said Carson.


The light was now brighter in the east, and Venus had grown pale, almost 
invisible. Carson tied on the saddlebags containing his lunch, looped a gallon 
canteen over the horn, and swung up into the saddle.


No guard was on duty at the rear gate in the perimeter fence. Approaching the 
keypad, Carson leaned over and punched in the code, and the gate swung open.


He trotted out into the desert and took a deep breath. After almost three weeks 
of incarceration inside the lab, he was finally free. Free of the claustrophobic 
Fever Tank, free of the horror of the last few days. Tomorrow, theOSHA inspector 
would arrive and the grind would begin again. Carson was determined to make this 
day count.


Roscoe had a rough, fast trot. Carson turned the horse southward and rode toward 
the old Indian ruin that poked above the horizon, a few wrecked walls amid piles 
of rubble. Hed been a little curious since hed first seen it from Singers 
window.


He rode past at a distance. Most of the ruin was covered with windblown sand, 
but here and there he could make out the low outlines of collapsed walls and 
small room blocks. It looked like many of the old ruins that had dotted the 
landscape of his youth. Soon, it was nothing but a diminishing point behind 
him.


When he was several miles from the lab, Carson dropped the horse into a walk and 
looked around. Mount Dragon had shrunk to a white cluster to the north. The 
vegetation of the Jornada desert had changed subtly, and he found himself 
surrounded by creosotebush that marched toward the horizon with almost 
mathematical precision.


He continued south again, enjoying the familiar rocking of the horse. A 
pronghorn antelope paused on a rise and looked in his direction. It was joined 
by another. Suddenly, as if on cue, they wheeled about and fled; they had caught 
his scent. He rode through a curious stand of soapweed yucca, looking uncannily 
like a crowd of bowing people, and he remembered a story passed down in his 
family about how Kit Carson and a wagon train had circled and fired at a group 
ofhostiles for fifteen minutes before realizing they were shooting at just such 
a yucca grove.


By noon, Carson reckoned he was about fifteen miles from Mount Dragon. He could 
just make out the cinder cone itself, a dark triangle on the northern horizon, 
but the laboratory had long sunk out of view. A low range of hills had appeared 
in the west, and he turned his horse toward them, eager to explore.


He came to the edge of a vast lava flow, black jagged rubble piled on the desert 
floor, covered with blooming ocotillo. This, Carson knew, was part of the vast 
lava formation known asEl Malpas , the Bad Country, which covered hundreds of 
square miles of the Jornada desert. The western hills were closer now, and 
Carson could see that, much like Mount Dragon, they were a chain of dead cinder 
cones.


Carson rode along the edge of the lava, winding in and out, following the 
irregular pattern of the flow. The lava had spread amoebalike across the desert, 
leaving a complicated maze of coves, islands, and lava caves.


As Carson rode, he watched a summer thunderstorm rapidly build over the hills. 
A great thunderhead began to rear against the tropopause, its bottom as flat and 
dark as an anvil. He smelled a change in the air, a freshening of the breeze, 
bringing with it the smell of ozone. The spreading cloud covered the sun, and a 
cathedral-like hush fell on the landscape. In a few minutes the cloud was 
dropping a column of rain the color of blued steel. Carson urged Roscoe into a 
trot, scanning the edge of the lava, figuring he could weather the coming storm 
in one of the caves that were usually found at the edges of the flows.


The column of rain thickened, and the wind began to push skeins of dust along 
the ground. Lightning flickered inside the cloud, the rumbling of thunder 
rolling across the desert like the sound of a distant battle. As the storm 
approached, a low moaning filled the air and the smell of wet sand and 
electricity became stronger.


Carson rounded a point of lava and saw a promising-looking cave among the mounds 
of twisted basalt. He dismounted, removed his saddlebags, and tied Roscoe to a 
rock by his lead rope. He climbed over the lava to the cave entrance.


The mouth was dark and cool, with a soft floor of windblown sand. He stepped 
inside just as the first heavy drops of rain slapped the ground. He could see 
Roscoe, on the long lead rope, turn his butt to the wind and hunker down. The 
saddle would get soaked. He should have brought it into the cave with him, but 
such a saddle didnt deserve special treatment. He would oil it when he got 
back.


The desert was suddenly engulfed in sheets of rain. The hills disappeared and 
the line of black lava faded into the gray torrent. Carson lay on his back in 
the dimness of the cave. His thoughts turned inevitably to Mount Dragon. Even 
here, he could not escape it. It still seemed unreal to him, this laboratory 
lost in the desert. And yet the death of Brandon-Smith was real enough. Once 
again, he tortured himself with the thought that if his genetic splicing had 
succeeded, she would be alive. In one sense, his overconfidence had killed her. 
Part of him realized this train of thought was irrational, and yet it kept 
returning to haunt him, again and again. He had done his best, he knew; 
Fillsons and Brandon-Smiths own inattention were responsible. Still, he 
couldnt shake the feeling of guilt.


He closed his eyes and forced himself to listen to the rain and wind. Finally, 
he sat up and stared out the cave opening. Roscoe stood silently, unafraid. He 
had seen it all before. Although Carson felt sorry for him, he knew it had been 
the lot of horses since time immemorial to stand in the rain while their masters 
took refuge in caves.


He eased back and absentmindedly ran his hands through the sand on the cave 
floor, waiting for the storm to pass. His fingers closed over something cool and 
hard, and he pulled it from the sand. It was a spearpoint, made from gray chert, 
as light and balanced as a leaf. He remembered finding a similar arrowhead once, 
out riding the range. When he brought it home his great-uncle Charley had become 
very excited by the find, saying that it was a powerful sign of protection and 
that he should carry it always. His great-uncle had made him a buckskin medicine 
bag for the spearpoint; then he had chanted and sprinkled pollen over it. His 
father had been disgusted by the whole proceeding. Later, Carson had thrown away 
the bag and told his great-uncle he had lost it.


He slid the spearpoint into his pocket, stood up, and walked to the cave 
entrance. Somehow, the find made him feel better. He would get through this; he 
would succeed in neutralizing X-FLU, if only to ensure that Brandon-Smiths 
death had not been in vain.


The storm eased, and Carson stepped out of the lava tube. Looking around, he saw 
a great double rainbow arching over the hills to the south. The sun began to 
break through the clouds. He collected Roscoes lead rope, patted him and 
apologized, then wiped the seat dry and remounted.


Roscoes hooves sank into the wet sand as Carson nosed the horse once again in 
the direction of the hills. In minutes the heat returned, the desert began 
steaming, and he felt thirsty. Not wanting to exhaust his water supply, he dug 
into his pocket for a stick of gum.


Topping a rise, he froze, the gum halfway to his mouth. Tracks crossed the sand 
directly before him: a mounted horse, showing evidence of the same poor shoeing 
job as Roscoe. The tracks were fresh, made after the rain.


Popping the gum into his mouth, Carson followed. At the top of a second rise he 
saw, in the distance, the horse and rider posting between two cinder cones. He 
immediately recognized the absurd safari hat and dark suit. There was nothing 
absurd, however, about the way the man handled his horse. Pulling Roscoe below 
the rise, Carson dismounted and peered over the top.


Nye was trotting at right angles to Carson, riding English. Suddenly he reined 
his horse to a stop and fished a piece of paper out of his breast pocket. He 
flattened it on the pommel and took out a sighting compass, orienting it on the 
paper and taking a bearing directly at the sun. He turned his horse ninety 
degrees, nudged him back into a trot, and soon disappeared behind the hills.


Carson remounted, curious. Confident in his own tracking skills, he let Nye gain 
some distance before easing his horse forward.


Nye was leaving a very peculiar trail. He rode in a straight line for a half 
mile, made another abrupt ninety-degree turn, rode another half mile, then 
continued the process, zigzagging across the desert in a checkerboard pattern. 
At each turn Carson could see, from the hoofprints in the sand, that Nye halted 
for a moment before continuing.


Carson continued tracking, fascinated by the puzzle. What the hell was Nye 
doing? This was no pleasure ride. It was getting late; clearly, the man was 
planning to spend the night out here, in these godforsaken volcanic hills twenty 
miles from Mount Dragon.


He dismounted again to examine the track. Nye was moving faster now, riding at 
a slow lope. He was riding a good horse, in better physical condition than 
Roscoe, and Carson realized he would not be able to follow indefinitely without 
exhausting his own horse. With a little exercise, Roscoe might be the equal of 
Nyesmount, but he was barn sour and they were still many miles from the lab. 
Even if Carson turned back, he would not get back before midnight. It was time 
to give up the chase.


He was preparing to mount when he heard a sharp voice behind him. Turning, he 
saw Nye approaching.


What the bloody hell do you think youre doing? the Englishman said.


Out for a ride, same as you, Carson replied, hoping his voice didnt betray 
his surprise. Nye had obviously noticed he was being followed and doubled back 
in a classic move, tracking the tracker.


You lying git, you were stalking me.


I was curious Carson began.


Nye moved his horse closer and with invisible knee pressure turned him expertly 
on the forehand, at the same time laying his right hand on the butt of a rifle 
sheathed beside the saddle.


A lie, he hissed. I know what youre up to, Carson, dont play stupid with 
me. If I ever catch you following me again Ill kill you, you hear me? Ill bury 
you out here, and no one will ever know what happened to your stinking pishogue 
of a carcass.


Carson quickly swung up on his horse. Nobody talks to me that way, he said.


Ill talk to you any bloody way I like. Nye began to slide the rifle out of 
its scabbard.


Carson jabbed his horse in the flank and surged forward. Nye, taken off guard, 
jerked the rifle free and tried to swing it around. Roscoe slammed intoMuerto 
and threw the security director sideways in the saddle; at the same instant, 
Carson dropped his reins and grabbed the barrel of the rifle with both hands, 
yanking it out of Nyes grasp with a sharp downward tug.


Keeping an eye on Nye, Carson opened the breech and removed the magazine, 
tossing it into the sand. Then he extracted the wad of gum from his mouth and 
jammed it deep into the chamber. He snapped the breech shut and winged the gun 
far down the hill.


Dont ever unship a rifle in front of me again, he said quietly.


Nye sat on his horse, breathing hard, his face red. He moved toward the rifle 
but Carson spun his horse, blocking him.


For an Englishman, youre a rude son of a bitch, Carson said.


Thats a three-thousand-dollar rifle, Nye replied.


All the more reason not to wave it in peoples faces. Carson nodded down the 
hill, If you try to use that gun now, itll misfire and blow off your little 
ponytail. By the time youve cleaned it, Ill be gone.


There was a long silence. The late-afternoon sun refracted through Nyes eyes, 
giving them a strange dark gold color. Looking into those eyes, Carson saw that 
the fiery tints were not completely a trick of the sun; the mans eyes had a 
reddish cast, like the inward flames of a secret obsession.


Without another word Carson turned his horse and headed north at a brisk trot. 
After several minutes he stopped, looking back. Nye remained motionless on his 
mount, silhouetted against the rise, gazing after him.


Watch your back, Carson! came the distant voice. And Carson thought he heard a 
strange laugh drift toward him across the desert, before being whisked away by 
the wind.


 





 


The portable CD player sat on an outspreadWall StreetJournal on a white table in 
the control room, exploded into twenty or thirty pieces. A figure wearing a 
dirty T-shirt was bent over it, the picture of concentration. The T-shirts 
legend,VISIT BEAUTIFUL SOVIET GEORGIA , was proudly emblazoned over a picture of 
a grim, fortresslike government structure, the epitome of Stalinesque 
architecture.


De Vacastood to one side of the immaculate control room, wondering if the 
T-shirt was a joke. You said youve never fixed a CD player before, she said 
nervously.


Da, the figure muttered without looking up.


Well, then how do you ...? She let the sentence hang.


The figure muttered again, then popped a chip out of a circuit board, holding it 
up with a pair of plastic-coated tweezers.Hmmmph, he said, and tossed it 
carelessly on the newspaper. Working the tweezers again, he popped out a second 
chip.


Maybe this wasnt such a good idea, saidde Vaca.


The figure eyed her over a pair of reading glasses fallen halfway down his nose. 
But is not fixed yet, he protested.


De Vacashrugged, sorry she had ever brought the CD player to Pavel Vladimirovic. 
Though shed been told he was some kind of mechanical genius, shed seen no 
evidence of it so far. And the man had even admitted he had never even seen a CD 
player before, let alone fixed one.


Vladimirovic sighed heavily, dropped the second chip, and sat down heavily, 
pushing the glasses back up his nose.


Isbroke  he announced.


I know, saidde Vaca. Thats why I brought it to you.


He nodded and indicated with his palm for her to sit in a chair.


Can you fix it or not?de Vaca said, still standing.


He nodded. Da, dont worry! I can fix. Is problem with chip that controls laser 
diode.


De Vacatook a seat. Do you have a replacement? she asked.


Vladimirovic nodded and rubbed his sweaty neck. Then he stood up, moved to a 
cabinet, and returned with a small box, green circuit boards peeping from its 
open top. I put back together now, he nodded


De Vacawatched while, in a burst of activity, he cannibalized parts from the 
box full of circuit boards. In less than five minutes he had assembled the 
player. He plugged it in, inserted the CD thatde Vaca had brought, and waited. 
The sound of the B-52s came roaring out of the speakers.


Aiee! he cried, turning it off. Nekulturny. What is that noise! Must still be 
broke. He roared with laughter at his own joke.


Thank you,de Vaca said, real delight in her voice. I use this just about 
every evening. I was afraid Id have to spend the rest of my time here without 
music. Howd you do it?


Here, many extra pieces from the fail-safe mechanism, Vladimirovic said. I 
use one of those. Is nothing, very simple little machine. Not like this! he 
gestured proudly at the rows of control panels, CRT screens and consoles.


What do they all do?de Vaca asked.


Many things! he cried, lumbering over to a wall of electronics. Here, is 
control for laminar airflow. Air intake here, furnace is controlled by all 
these. He waved his hand vaguely. And then all these control cooldown.


Cooldown?


Da. You wouldnt want one-thousand-degree air going back in! Has to be cooled, 
the air.


Why not just suck in fresh air?


If suck in fresh air, must vent old air. No good. This isclosed system. We are 
only laboratory in world with such system. Goes back to fail-safe mechanism of 
military days, shunt hot air to Level-5.


You mentioned that fail-safe system before,de Vaca asked. I dont remember 
hearing about it.


For stage-zero alert.


There is no stage-zero alert. Stage one is the worst-case-scenario.


Back then, was stage-zero alert. He shrugged. Maybe terrorists in Level-5, 
maybe accident with total contamination. Inject one-thousand-degree air into 
Level-5, make complete sterilization. Not only sterilization. Blow place up 
realkharasho !Boom!


I see, saidde Vaca, a little uncertainly. It cant go off by accident, this 
state-zero alert, can it?


Pavel chuckled. Impossible. When civilians took over, system was deactivated. 
He waved his hand at a nearby computer terminal. Only work if put back on 
line.


Good, saidde Vaca, relieved. I wouldnt want to be fried alive because 
someone tripped over the wrong switch up here.


True, Pavel rumbled. Its hot enough outside without making more heat,nyet 
?Zharka ! He shook his head, eyes staring absently at the newspaper. Then he 
stiffened. He picked up the rump end of theJournal and stabbed his finger at it.


You see this? he asked.


No, saidde Vaca. She glanced over at the columns of tiny numbers, thinking 
that he must have stolen the paper from the Mount Dragon library, which had 
subscriptions to a dozen or so newspapers and periodicals that were not 
available on-line. They were the only printed materials allowed on the site.


GeneDyne stock down half point again! You know what this mean?


De Vacashook her head.


We losing money!


Losing money?de Vaca asked.


Da! You own stock, I own stock, and this stock go down half point! I lose three 
hundred fifty dollars! What I could have done with that money!


He buried his head in his hands.


But isnt that to be expected?de Vaca asked.


Shto?


Doesnt the stock go up and down every day?


Da, every day! Last Monday I made six hundred dollars.


So what does it matter?


Makes even worse! Last Monday, six hundred dollars richer I was. Now its all 
gone! Poof! He spread his hands in despair.


De Vacatried to keep from laughing. The man must watch the movement of the stock 
every day, feeling elated on the days it went upthinking how he was going to 
spend the moneyand horrified on the days it went down. It was the price of 
employee ownership: giving stock to people who had never invested before. And 
yet, she was sure overall he must have made a large profit on his employee plan. 
She hadnt checked since arriving at Mount Dragon, but she knew the GeneDyne 
stock had been soaring in recent months, and that they all were getting richer.


Vladimirovic shook his head again. And in last few days, worse, much worse. 
Down many points!


De Vacafrowned. I didnt know that.


You not heard talk in canteen! Its that Boston professor, Levine. Always, he 
talking bad about GeneDyne, about Brent Scopes. Now he say something worse, I 
dont know what, and stock go down. He muttered under his breath. KGB would 
know what to do with such a man.


He sighed deeply, then handed her the CD player.


After hearing decadent counterrevolutionary music, Im sorry I fixed it, he 
said.


De Vacalaughed and said good-bye. She decided the T-shirt had to be a joke. 
After all, the man must have had top secret clearance to work at Mount Dragon in 
the old days. Shed have to search him out in the canteen some evening and get 
the whole story, she decided.


 





 


The first heat of summer lay like a sodden blanket over Harvard Yard. The 
leaves hung limply on the great oaks and chestnut trees, and cicadas droned in 
the shadows. As he walked, Levine slipped out of his threadbare jacket and slung 
it over his shoulder, inhaling the smell of freshly cut grass, the thick 
humidity in the air.


In the outer office, Ray was at his desk, idly picking at his teeth with a paper 
clip. He grunted atLe vinesapproach.


You got visitors, he said.


Levine stopped, frowned. You mean, inside? He nodded toward his closed office 
door.


Didnt like the company out here, Ray explained.


As Levine opened the door,Erwin Landsberg, the president of the university, 
turned toward him with a smile. He held out his hand.


Charles, its been a long time, he said in his gravelly voice. Much too 
long. He indicated a second man in a gray suit. This is Leonard Stafford, our 
new dean of faculty.


Levine shook the limp hand that was offered, stealing a furtive glance around 
the office. He wondered how long the two had been there. His eyes landed on the 
laptop, open on one corner of the desk, telephone cord dangling from its side. 
Stupid, leaving it out like that. The call was due in just five minutes.


Its warm in here, said the president. Charles, you should order an air 
conditioner from Central Services.


Air conditioners give me head colds. I like the heat. Levine took a seat at 
his desk. Now, whats this about?


The two visitors sat down, the dean glancing around at the disorderly piles with 
distaste. Well, Charles, the president began. Weve come about the lawsuit.


Which one?


The president looked pained. We take these matters very seriously. When Levine 
said nothing, he continued. The GeneDyne suit, of course.


Its pure harassment, Levine said. Itll be dismissed.


The dean of faculty leaned forward. Dr. Levine, Im afraid we dont share that 
view. This is not a frivolous suit. GeneDyne is alleging theft of trade secrets, 
electronic trespass, defamation and libel, and quite a bit else.


The president nodded. GeneDyne has made some serious accusations. Not so much 
about the foundation, but about your methods.Thats what concerns me most.


What about my methods?


Theres no need to get excited. The president adjusted his cuffs. Youve been 
in hot water before, and weve always stuck by you. It hasnt always been easy, 
Charles. There are several trusteesvery powerful trusteeswho would much prefer 
if wed left you outside for the vigilantes. But now, with the ethics of your 
methods being called into question ... well, we have to protect the university. 
You know whats legal, and what isnt. Stay within those bounds. I know you 
understand. The smile faded slightly. And thats why Im not going to warn 
you again.


Dr.Landsberg, I dont think you evenbegin to appreciate the situation. This is 
not some academic tiff. Were talking about the future of the human race. 
Levine glanced at his watch. Two minutes.Shit .


Landsbergraised a quizzical eyebrow. The future of the human race?


Were at war here. GeneDyne is altering the germ cells of human beings, 
committing a sacrilege against human life itself. Extremism in the defense of 
liberty is no vice. Remember? When they came to clear the ghettos, it was no 
time for worrying about ethics and the law. Now theyre messing with the human 
genome itself. I have the proof.


Your comparison is offensive,Landsberg said. This is not Nazi Germany, and 
GeneDyne, whatever you think of it, is not the SS. You undermine the good work 
youve done in the name of the Holocaust by making such trivial comparisons.


No? Tell me the difference, then, between Hitlers eugenics and what GeneDyne 
is doing at Mount Dragon.


Landsbergsat back in his chair with an exasperated sigh. If you cant see the 
difference, Charles, youve got a warped moral view. I suspect this has more to 
do with your personal feud against Brent Scopes than with some high-flown worry 
about the human race. I dont know what happened between you two twenty years 
ago to start this thing, and I dont care. Were here to tell you to leave 
GeneDyne alone.


This hasnothing to do with a feud


The dean waved his hand impatiently. Dr. Levine, youve got to understand the 
universitys position. We cant have you running around like a loose cannon, 
involved in shady activities, while were litigating a 
two-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit.


I consider this to be interference with the autonomy of the foundation, Levine 
said. Scopes is putting pressure on you, isnt he?


Landsbergfrowned. If you call a two-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit pressure, 
then, hell, yes!


A telephone rang, then a hiss sounded as a remote computer connected to 
Levines laptop. His screen winked on, and an image came into view: a figure, 
balancing the world on its fingertip.


Levine leaned back casually in his chair, obscuring their view of his computer 
screen. Ive got work to do, he said.


Charles, I get the feeling that this isnt sinking in, the president said. We 
can pull the foundations charter any time we like. And we will, Charles, if you 
press us.


You wouldnt dare, Levine said. The press would hammer you like a nail. 
Besides, I have tenure.


PresidentLandsberg abruptly stood up and turned to leave, his face livid. The 
dean rose more slowly, smoothing a hand over his suit front. He leaned toward 
Levine. Ever heard the phrase moral turpitude? Its in your tenure contract. 
He moved toward the door, then stopped, looking back speculatively.


The miniature globe on the screen began to rotate faster, and the figure 
balancing the earth began to scowl impatiently.


Its been nice chatting with you, Levine said. Please shut the door on your 
way out.


 





 


When Carson entered the Mount Dragon conference room, the cool white space was 
already packed with people. The nervous buzz of whispered conversations filled 
the air. Today, the banks of electronics were hidden behind panels, and the 
teleconferencing screen was dark. Urns of coffee and pastries were arrayed along 
one wall, knots of scientists gathered around them.


Carson spotted Andrew Vanderwagon and George Harper standing in one corner. 
Harper waved him over. Town meetings about to start, he said. You ready?


Ready for what?


Hell if I know, Harper said, ruffling a hand through his thinning brown hair. 
Ready for the third degree, I suppose. They say if he doesnt like what he 
finds here he might just shut the place down.


Carson shook his head. Theyd never do that over a freak accident.


Harper grunted. I also heard that this guy has subpoena power and can even 
bring criminal charges.


I doubt it, said Carson. Whered you hear these things?


The Mount Dragon rumor mill, of course: the canteen. Didnt see you there 
yesterday. Until they reopen Level-5 theres nothing else to do, unless you want 
to sit in the library or play tennis in the hundred-degree heat.


I went for a ride, Carson said.


A ride? You mean, on that hot young assistant of yours? Harper cackled.


Carson rolled his eyes. Harper could be irritating. He had already decided not 
to mention meeting Nye to anyone. It would just create more problems.


Harper turned to Vanderwagon, who was chewing his lip and staring 
expressionlessly into the crowd. Come to think of it, I didnt see you in the 
canteen, either. Spend the day in your room again, Andrew?


Carson frowned. It was obvious that Vanderwagon was still upset about what had 
happened in the Fever Tank, and about his dressing down by Scopes. By the look 
of his bloodshot eyes, he hadnt had much sleep. Sometimes Harper had the tact 
of a hand grenade.


Vanderwagon turned and eyed Harper as a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Four 
people had entered the room: Singer, Nye, Mike Marr, and a slight, stooped man 
in a brown suit. The stranger carried an oversized briefcase that bumped against 
his legs as he walked. His sandy hair was graying at the temples, and he wore 
black-rimmed glasses that made his pale skin look sallow. He radiated ill 
health.


That must be theOSHA man, whispered Harper. He doesnt look like much of a 
terror to me.


More like a junior accountant, Carson replied. Hes going to get a nasty 
burn with that skin.


Singer went to the lectern, tapped the microphone, and held up his hand. His 
normally pleasant, ruddy face looked bone-tired. As you all know, he said, 
tragic accidents such as the one that occurred last week must be reported to 
the proper authorities. Mr. Teece here is a senior investigator from the 
Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Hell be spending a little time 
with us at Mount Dragon, looking into the cause of the accident and reviewing 
our safety procedures.


Nye stood next to Singer, silent, his eyes traveling over the assembled 
scientists. A knot in his jaw was working away, his powerful frame rigid in the 
tailored suit. Marr stood next to him, nodding his closely cropped head and 
smiling broadly beneath a hat brim so low it hid his eyes. Carson knew that in 
some ways, as director of security, Nye was ultimately responsible for the 
accident. He was obviously all too aware of it. The security directors gaze met 
Carsons for a moment before it moved on.Perhaps that explains his paranoia out 
in the desert , Carson thought.But what the hell was he up to? Whatever it was 
must have been damn important, keeping him out overnight before a meeting like 
this.


Because industrial secrets of GeneDyne are involved, the specifics of our 
research will remain secret regardless of the outcome of the investigation. None 
of this will be reported to the press. Singer shifted at the podium. I want to 
emphasize one thing: everyone at Mount Dragon will be expected to cooperate 
fully with Mr. Teece. This is an order that comes directly from Brent Scopes. I 
assume thats sufficiently clear.


There was a silence in the room. Singer nodded.


Good. I think Mr. Teece would like to say a few words.


The frail-looking man walked up to the microphone, still carrying his briefcase.


Hello, he said, his thin lips forming a fleeting smile. Im Gilbert 
Teeceplease call me Gil. I expect to be here for the next week or so, poking 
and prying about. He laughed; a brief, dry chuckle. This is standard procedure 
in a case such as this. I will be speaking to most of you individually, and of 
course Ill need your help understanding exactly what happened. I know this is 
very painful for all concerned.


There was a silence, and it seemed that Teece had already run out of things to 
say. Any questions? he finally asked.


There were none. Teece shuffled back.


Singer stepped back up to the lectern. Now that Mr. Teece has arrived and 
decontamination is complete, weve agreed to reopen Level-5 without delay. As 
difficult as it will be, I expect to see everyone back at work tomorrow morning. 
Weve lost a lot of time, and we need to make it up. He drew a hand across his 
forehead. Thats all. Thank you.


Teece suddenly stood up, his finger in the air. Dr. Singer? May I have another 
word?


Singer nodded, and Teece stepped up to the podium again. The reopening of 
Level-5 was not my idea, he said, but perhaps it will aid the investigation, 
after all. I must say Im a little surprised that we were not joined today by 
Mr. Scopes. It was my understanding he likes to be presentin an electronic 
sense, at leastat meetings of this sort. He paused expectantly, but neither 
Singer or Nye said a word.


That being the case, Teece continued, theres one question Ill offer up 
generally. Perhaps youll offer me your thoughts on it when we do meet 
individually.


He paused.


Im curious to know why Brandon-Smiths autopsy was conducted in secrecy and 
her remains cremated with such unseemly haste.


There was another silence. Teece, still gripping his briefcase, gave another 
quick, thin-lipped smile and followed Singer out the door.


 





 


Although Carson took his time arriving at the ready room the following morning, 
he was not surprised to find most of the bluesuits still on their racks. Nobody 
was anxious to go back into the Fever Tank.


As he dressed, he felt a knot tighten slowly in his stomach. It had been almost 
a week since the accident. As much as hed been haunted by itthose gashes in 
Brandon-Smiths suit, the red blood welling up through the rents in her 
scrubshed blocked the Fever Tank itself from his mind.


Now it came back to him in a rush: the cramped spaces, the stale air of the 
suit, the constant sense of danger. He closed his eyes a moment, forcing fear 
and panic from his mind.


As he was about to duck his head into his helmet, the outer door hissed open 
andde Vaca entered through the air lock. She looked at Carson.


Youre not looking particularly chipper, she said.


Carson shrugged.


Me neither, I suppose, she said.


There was an awkward silence. They had not spoken much since Brandon-Smiths 
death. Carson suspected thatde Vaca, sensing his guilt and frustration, had 
given him a wide berth.


At least the guard survived, saidde Vaca.


Carson nodded. The last thing he wanted to do now was discuss the accident. The 
stainless-steel door with its oversized biohazard label loomed at the far end 
of the room. It reminded Carson of what he imagined a gas chamber to look like.


De Vacabegan suiting up. Carson hung back, waiting for her, eager to get past 
the initial ordeal but somehow unable to go through the door.


I went riding the other day, he said. Once you get out of sight of Mount 
Dragon, its actually very nice out there.


De Vacanodded. Ive always loved the desert, she said. People say its ugly, 
but I think it can be the most beautiful place in the world. Which horse did you 
take?


The liver-colored gelding. He turned out to be a pretty good horse. One of my 
spurs was broken, but it turned out I didnt even need to use them. Good luck 
getting a spur rowel fixed around here.


De Vacalaughed, slinging her hair. You know that old Russian-guy, Pavel 
Vladimiro-something? Hes the mechanical engineer, runs the sterilizing furnace 
and laminar-flow system. He can fix anything. I had a broken CD player that he 
opened up and fixed, just like that. He claimed hed never seen one before.


Hell, said Carson, if he can fix a CD player, he could fix a rowel. Maybe I 
should go see him.


Any idea when that investigators going to get around to us?de Vaca asked.


Nope, said Carson. Probably wont take him long, considering ... He 
stopped.Considering I was instrumental to the cause of death .


Yamashito, the video technician, said the investigator was planning to spend 
the day watching security tapes, she said, twisting into the arms of her suit.


They donned their helmets, checked each others suits, and went through the air 
lock. Inside decontam, Carson took a big swallow of air and fought down the 
nausea that inevitably rose as the poisonous yellow liquid cascaded down his 
faceplate.


Carson had hoped the elaborate decontamination procedures after the accident 
would have rearranged the interior spaces of the Fever Tank, made them look 
somehow different. But the lab seemed just as Carson had left it the minute 
Brandon-Smith walked in to announce the chimps death. His seat was pulled away 
from the desk at the same angle, and hisPowerBook was still open, plugged into 
the WAN socket and ready for use. He moved toward it mechanically and logged on 
to the GeneDyne network. The log-in messages scrolled past; then the word 
processor came up, displaying the procedure write-up hed been finishing. The 
cursor came into focus at the end of an unfinished line, blinking, waiting with 
cruel detachment for him to continue. Carson slumped in his chair.


Suddenly, the screen went blank. Carson waited a moment, then hit a few keys. 
Getting no response, he swore under his breath. Maybe the battery had gone dead. 
He glanced over to the wall plug and noticed that the laptop was plugged 
in.Strange .


Something began to materialize on the screen.Must be Scopes , Carson thought. 
The GeneDyne CEO was known to play with other peoples computers. Probably a 
prepared pep talk, some way to ease the transition back into the Fever Tank.


A small picture came into focus: the image of a mime, balancing the Earth on his 
finger. The Earth was slowly revolving. Mystified, Carson punched the Escape 
key without success.


The small figure suddenly dissolved into typed words.


 


Guy Carson?


 


Here, Carson typed back.


 


Am I speaking with Guy Carson?


 


This is Guy Carson, who else?


 


Well, looky here, Guy! Its about time you logged in. Ive been waiting for you, 
partner. But first, I need you to identify yourself. Please enter your mothers 
birthday.


 


June 2, 1936. Who is this?


 


Thank you. This is Mime speaking. I have an important message from an old 
homeboy of yours.


 


Mime? Is that you, Harper?


 


No, it is not Harper. I would suggest that you clear your immediate area so that 
no one inadvertently sees the message I am about to transmit. Let me know when 
youre ready.


 


Carson glanced over atde Vaca, who was busy on the other side of the lab.


 


Who the hell is this?he typed angrily.


 


My, my! You had best notdisthe Mime, or I mightdisyou back. And you wouldnt 
like that. Not one bit.


 


Listen, I dont like


 


Do you want the message or not?


 


No.


 


I didnt think so. Before I send it, I want you to know that this is an 
absolutely secure channel, and that I, Mime, and none other, have hacked into 
the GeneDyne net. No one at GeneDyne knows about this or could possibly 
intercept our conversation. I have done this to protect you, cowboy. If anyone 
should happen by while you are reading the following message, press the command 
key and a fake screen of genetic code will pop up, hiding the message. 
Actually, it wont be genetic code, it will be the lyrics to Professor 
Longhairs Ball the Wall, but the patterns will be correct. Press the command 
key again to return to the message. Whoopie-ki-yi-yo, and all that sort of 
thing. Now sit tight.


 


Carson again glanced inde Vacas direction. Perhaps this was one of Scopess 
jokes. The man had an odd sense of humor. On the other hand, Scopes hadnt sent 
a single message to the laptop in Carsons quarters since the accident. Perhaps 
Scopes was pissed off at him, and was testing his loyalty with some kind of 
game. Carson looked uneasily back at the laptop.


The screen went black for a moment, then a message appeared:


 


Dear Guy,


This is Charles Levine, your old professor. Biochem 162, remember? Ill get 
right to the point, because I know you must feel compromised at the moment.


 


Jesus, thought Carson.Understatement of the year . Dr. Levine, penetrating the 
GeneDyne network? It didnt seem possible. But if it was Levine, and if Scopes 
found out ... Carsons finger moved quickly to the Escape key again, punching it 
several times without result.


 


Guy,Ive heard rumors from a source in the regulatory agency .Rumors of an 
accident at Mount Dragon .The lids been shut down tight ,though ,and all Ive 
been able to learn is that someone was accidentally infected with a virus 
.Apparently its quite a deadly virus ,one that people are scared to death of.


Guy,listen to me .I need your help .I need to know whats going on out there at 
Mount Dragon .What is this virus? What are you trying to do with it? Is it 
really as dangerous as the rumors imply? The people of this country have a right 
to know .If its true if you really are out in the middle of nowhere,messing 
with something far more dangerous than an atomic bomb then none of us are safe.


I remember you well from your days here,Guy. You were a truly independent 
thinker .A skeptic .You never accepted what I told you as given; you had to 
prove it for yourself. That is a rare quality ,and I pray you havent lost it .I 
would beg you now to turn that natural skepticism on your work at Mount Dragon 
.Dont accept everything they tell you .Deep inside ,you know that nothing is 
infallible ,that no safety procedure can ensure one hundred percent protection 
.If the rumors are true ,youve learned this firsthand .Please ask yourself:Is 
it worth it?


I will be in contact with you again through Mime,who is an expert in matters of 
network security .Next time ,perhaps we can talk on line: Mime wasnt willing to 
risk a live conversation initially.


Think about what Ive said,Guy .Please.


Best regards,


Charles Levine


 


The screen went blank. Carson felt his heart pounding as he fumbled with the 
power switch. He should have turned the thing off immediately. Could it really 
have been Levine? His instincts told him that it was. The man must be insane to 
contact him like this, endangering his career. As Carson thought about it, anger 
began to take the place of shock. How the hell could Levine be so sure the 
channel was secure?


Carson remembered Levine well: stomping across the lectern, speaking 
impassionedly, suit lapels flapping, chalk screeching on the blackboard. Once he 
had been so engrossed in writing a long chemical formula that he shuffled off 
the edge of the lectern and fell to the floor. In many ways, he had been an 
outstanding professor: iconoclastic, visionary; but, Carson remembered, also 
excitable, angry, and full of hyperbole. And this was going too far. The man 
had obviously become a zealot.


He switched thePowerBook back on and logged in a second time. If he heard from 
Levine again, hed tell him exactly what he thought of his methods. Then hed 
turn the machine off before Levine had a chance to reply.


He turned back to the screen and his heart stopped.


 


Brent Scopes is paging.


Press the command key to chat.


 


Fighting back dread, Carson began typing. Had Scopes picked up the message?


 


Ciao, Guy.


 


Hello, Brent.


 


I just wanted to welcome you back. You know what T.H. Huxley said: The great 
tragedy of science is the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact. 
That is what has happened here. It was a beautiful idea, Guy. Too bad it didnt 
work out. Now, youve got to move on. Every day we go without results costs 
GeneDyne almost a million dollars. Everyone is waiting for the neutralization 
of the virus. We cannot continue until that step has been accomplished. 
Everyones depending on you.


 


I know, Carson wrote.I promise Ill do my best.


 


Thats a start, Guy. Doing you best is a start. But we need results. Weve had 
one failure, but failure is an integral part of silence, and I know you can come 
through. Im counting on you to come through. Youve had almost a week to think 
about it. I hope you have some new ideas.


Were going to repeat the test, see if by chance we overlooked something. Were 
also going to remap the gene, just in case.


 


Very well, but do it quickly. I also want you to try something else. You see, we 
learned something crucial from this failure. Ive got the autopsy results on 
Brandon-Smith in front of me. Dr. Grady did an excellent job. For some reason 
the strain you designed was even more virulent than the usual X-FLU strain. And 
more contagious, if our pathology tests are correct. It killed her so fast that 
antibodies to the virus had only been in her bloodstream a few hours when she 
died. I want to know why. We had the strain cultured from Brandon-Smiths brain 
matter prior to cremation, and Im having it sent down to you. Were calling 
this new strain X-FLU II. I want you to dissect that virus. I want to know how 
it ticks. In trying to neutralize the virus, you fortuitously stumbled on a way 
to enhance its deadliness instead.


 


Fortuitously? Im not sure I understand


 


Jesus Christ, Guy, if you figure out what made it more deadly, maybe you can 
figure out how to make it LESS deadly. Im a little surprised you didnt think 
of this yourself. Now get to work.


 


The communications window on the screen winked shut. Carson sat back, exhaling 
slowly. Clinically, it made sense, but the thought of working with a virus 
cultured from Brandon-Smiths brain chilled his blood.


As if on cue, a lab assistant stepped through the entranceway, carrying a 
stainless-steel tray loaded with clear plastic bioboxes. Each biobox was marked 
with a biohazard symbol and a simple label: X-FLU II.


Present for Guy Carson, he said with a macabre chuckle.


 





 


The late-afternoon sun, streaming in the west-facing windows, covered Singers 
office in a mantle of golden light. Nye sat on the sofa, staring silently into 
the kiva fireplace, while the director stood behind his workstation, back 
turned, looking out at the vast desert.


A slight figure with an oversized briefcase appeared in the doorway and coughed 
politely.


Come in, Singer said. Gilbert Teece stepped forward, nodding to them both. His 
thinning wheat-colored hair imperfectly covered a scalp that gleamed a painful 
red, and his burnt nose was already peeling. He smiled bashfully, as if aware of 
his own inadequacy to the hostile environment.


Sit down anywhere. Singer waved his hand vaguely over the office furniture.


Despite the empty wing chairs, Teece moved immediately toward Nyes sofa and sat 
down with a sigh of contentment. The security director stiffened and shifted, 
moving himself away.


Shall we get started? said Singer, sitting down. I hate to be late for my 
evening cocktail. Teece, busy with his briefcase latch, looked up and flashed 
a quick smile. Then he slipped his hand inside the case and removeda 
microcassette player, which he laid carefully on the table in front of him.


Ill keep this as short as possible, he said.


At the same time, Nye brandished his own recorder, laying it next to Teeces.


Very good, said Teece. Always a good idea to get things down on tape, dont 
you think, Mr. Nye?


Yes, came the clipped reply.


Ah! said Teece, as surprised as if he had not heard Nye speak before. 
English?


Nye slowly turned to look at him. Originally.


Myself as well, said Teece. My father was Sir Wilberforce Teece, Baronet, of 
Teecewood Hall in the Pennines. My older brother got the title and the money and 
I got a ticket to America. Do you know it? Teecewood Hall, I mean.


No, Nye said.


Indeed? Teece arched his eyebrows. Beautiful part of the country. The Halls 
in Hamsterley Forest, but Cumbrias so near by, you know. Lovely, especially 
this time of year. Grasmere, Troutbeck ... Windermere Lake.


The atmosphere in the office grew suddenly electric. Nye turned toward Teece and 
focused his eyes on the mans smiling face. I suggest, Mr. Teece, that we cut 
out the civilities and proceed with the interview.


But, Mr. Nye, Teece cried, the interviewhas started! As I understand it, you 
were once chief of safety operations at the Windermere Nuclear Complex. Late 
seventies, I believe. Then there was that dreadful accident. He shook his head 
at the memory. I keep forgetting whether there were sixteen or sixty 
casualties. Anyway, before joining GeneDyne UK, you couldnt find work in your 
chosen field for nearly ten years. Am I right? Instead, you were employed by an 
oil company in a remote portion of the Middle East. The details of your job 
description there are, unfortunately, rather vague. He scratched the tip of his 
peeling nose.


This has nothing whatsoever to do with your assignment, said Nye slowly.


But it has a lot to do with the strength of your loyalty to Brent Scopes, 
Teece said. And that loyalty, in turn, may have a bearing on this 
investigation.


This is a farce, Nye snapped. I intend to report your conduct to your 
superiors.


What conduct? Teece said with a faint smile. And then without waiting for an 
answer, he added, And what superiors?


Nye leaned toward him and spoke very softly. Stop playing coy. You know 
perfectly well what happened at Windermere. You dont need to ask these 
questions, and youll learn bugger-all from me about it.


Now, wait a moment, Singer said with false heartiness. Mr. Nye, we 
shouldnt


Teece held up his hand. Im sorry. Mr. Nye is right. Ido know everything about 
Windermere. I just like to verify my facts. These reportshe patted his massive 
briefcaseare so often inaccurate. Government workers write them, and you never 
know what some witless bureaucrat might say about you, now do you, Mr. Nye? I 
thought you might appreciate the chance to set the record straight, erase any 
existing calumnies, that kind of thing.


Nye sat in rigid silence.


Teece shrugged, pulleda manila envelope out of his briefcase. Very well, Mr. 
Nye. Lets proceed. Could you tell me, in your words, what happened on the 
morning of the accident?


Nye cleared his throat. At nine-fifty, I received word of a stage-two alert 
from the Level-5 facility.


Lots of numbers. What do they all mean?


That an integrity breach had occurred. Someones bio-hazard suit had been 
compromised.


And who made this report?


Carson. Dr. Guy Carson. He reported it over the global emergency channel.


I see, Teece nodded. Proceed.


I went immediately to the security station, assessed the situation, then 
assumed command of the facility for the duration of the stage-two alert.


Did you, now? Before informing Dr. Singer? Teece looked toward the director.


That is the protocol, said Nye flatly.


And Dr. Singer, when you heard that Mr. Nye had put himself in charge you 
cheerfully agreed, naturally?


Naturally.


Dr. Singer, said Teece a little more sharply. I spent this afternoon 
reviewing videotapes of the accident. Ive listened to most of the 
communications that took place. Now, would you care to answer the question 
again?


There was a silence. Well, Singer said at last, the truth is, I wasnt too 
happy about it, no. But I went along.


And Mr. Nye, Teece continued, you say that assuming temporary command was 
company protocol. But according to my information, youre only supposed to do so 
if, in your judgment, the director is unable to appropriately discharge his 
duties.


That is correct, said Nye.


Therefore, I can only conclude that you had prior reason to think the director 
was not discharging his duties properly.


There was another long pause. That is correct, Nye repeated.


Thats absurd! Singer cried out. There was no need for it. I had complete 
control of the situation.


Nye sat rigidly, his face a stone mask.


So what was it, Teece continued placidly, that led you to think Dr. Singer 
here wouldnt have been able to handle the emergency?


This time, Nye didnt hesitate. I felt Dr. Singer had allowed himself to 
become too close to the people he was supposed to be supervising. He is a 
scientist, but he is overly emotional and poor at handling stress. If the 
emergency had been left in his hands, the outcome might have been quite 
different.


Singer jumped to his feet. Whats wrong with being a little friendly? he 
snapped. Mr. Teece, it should be obvious even on such short acquaintance what 
kind of man youre talking to here. Hes a megalomaniac. Nobody likes him. He 
disappears into the desert practically every weekend. Why Scopes keeps him on is 
a mystery to everyone.


Ah! I see. Teece cheerfully consulted his folder, letting the uncomfortable 
silence lengthen. Singer returned to his original position at the window, his 
back to Nye. Teece took a pen from his pocket and made a few notations. Then he 
waggled it in front of Nye. I understand these things arestreng verboten around 
here. Good thing Im exempt. I hate computers. He replaced the pen carefully.


Now, Dr. Singer, he continued, lets proceed to this virus youre working on, 
X-FLU. The documents Ive been given are rather uninformative. What, exactly, 
makes it so deadly?


Once were learned that, Singer said, well be able to do something about 
it.


Do something about it?


Make it safe, of course.


Why are you working with such a terrifying pathogen to begin with?


Singer turned to face him. It wasnt our intention, believe me. The virulence 
of X-FLU is an unexpected side effect of our gene-therapy technique. The virus 
is in transition. Once the product is stabilized, this will no longer be a 
concern. He paused. The tragedy is that Rosalind was exposed to the virus at 
this early stage.


Rosalind Brandon-Smith. Teece repeated the name slowly. Were not entirely 
happy with the way her autopsy was conducted, as you know.


We followed all the standard guidelines, Nye interjected. The autopsy was 
conducted within the Level-5 facility, in security suits, and was followed by 
incineration of the corpse and decontamination of all laboratories within the 
secure perimeter.


Its the brevity of the pathologists report that concerns me, Mr. Nye, Teece 
said. And brief as it is, there are several things that puzzle me. For example, 
as best as I can fathom, Brandon-Smiths brain essentially exploded. And yet at 
the time of death she was locked in the quarantine chamber, far from any medical 
help.


We didnt know that she had contracted the disease, said Singer.


How can that be? She was scratched by an infected chimpanzee. Surely she would 
have shown antibodies in her bloodstream.


No. From the time the antibodies appear until time of deathwell, it can 
obviously be very short.


Teece frowned. Disturbingly short, it appears.


Youve got to remember, this is the first time a human being has been exposed 
to the X-FLU virus. And hopefully the last. We didnt know what to expect. And 
the X-FLU strain was particularly virulent. By the time the blood tests came 
back positive, she was dead.


The blood. Thats another strange thing in this report. Apparently, there was 
significant internal bleeding before death. Teece looked in his folder, and 
caressed the paragraph with his finger. Look here. Her organs were practically 
awash in blood. Leakage from the blood vessels, it says.


No doubt a symptom of the X-FLU infection, said Singer. Not unheard of. The 
Ebola virus does the same thing.


But the pathology reports I have on the X-FLU chimpanzees dont show any such 
symptom.


Obviously the disease affects humans differently from chimps. Nothing 
remarkable about that.


Perhaps not. Teece flipped pages. But there are other curious things about 
this report. For example, her brain shows high levels of certain 
neurotransmitters. Dopamine and serotonin, to be exact.


Singer spread his hands. Another symptom of X-FLU, Id expect.


Teece closed the folder. Again, the infected chimps show no such elevated 
levels.


Singer sighed. Mr. Teece, whats your point? Weve all too aware of the 
dangerousness of this virus. Our efforts have been directed toward neutralizing 
it. We have a scientist, Guy Carson, devoted to nothing else.


Carson. Yes. The one who replaced Franklin Burt. Poor Dr. Burt, currently 
residing in Featherwood Park sanatorium. Teece leaned forward and lowered his 
voice. Now, thats another really odd thing, Doctor. I talked to a David 
Fossey, Franklin Burts attending physician. Burt also has leaky blood vessels. 
And his levels of dopamine and serotonin are wildly elevated.


There was a shocked silence in the room.


Jesus, said Singer. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if he was 
calculating something.


Teece held up a finger. But! Burt exhibits no X-FLU antibodies, and its been 
weeks since he was at Mount Dragon. So he cant have the disease.


There was a noticeable decrease of tension. A coincidence, then, Nye said, 
sitting back in the sofa.


Unlikely. Are you working on any other deadly pathogens here?


Singer shook his head. We have the usual stuff on iceMarburg, Ebola 
Zaire,Lassabut none of those would cause insanity.


Quite right, said Teece. Nothing else?


Absolutely not.


Teece turned toward the security director. What exactly did happen to Dr. 
Burt?


Dr. Singer recommended his removal, Nye said simply.


Dr. Singer? Teece prompted.


He was becoming confused, agitated. Singer hesitated. We were friends. He was 
an unusually sensitive person, very kind and concerned. Though he didnt talk 
about it much, I think he missed his wife a great deal. The stress here is 
remarkable. ... You need a certain kind of toughness, which he didnt have. It 
did him in. When I began to notice signs of incipient paranoia, I recommended he 
be taken to Albuquerque General for observation.


The stress did him in, Teece murmured. Forgive my saying so, Doctor, but what 
you describe doesnt sound like a garden-variety nervous breakdown to me. He 
glanced down at his open briefcase. I believe Dr. Burt got his M.D./Ph.D. 
degree from Johns Hopkins in five yearshalf the time it normally takes.


Yes, said Singer. He was ... is ... a brilliant man.


Then, according to the background sheet I was given, Dr. Burt did one of his 
medical rotations in the emergency room at the HarlemMeer Hospital, 944 East 
155th Street. Ever seen that neighborhood?


No, said Singer.


The police call people who live around there Dixie Cups. A macabre reference to 
the disposability of life in that neck of the woods. Dr. Burts rotation was 
what interns call a thirty-six special. He was on call in the emergency room 
thirty-six hours straight, off for twelve, then back on for another thirty-six. 
Day after day, for three months.


I didnt know that, Singer said. He never talked much about his past.


Then, during his first two years of residency, Dr. Burt managed to write a 
four-hundred-page monograph,Metastization . A superb piece of work. At the time 
he was also involved in a bitter divorce with his first wife.


Teece paused again, then spoke loudly. And youre telling me this man couldnt 
handlestress ? He barked a laugh, but his face had lost its expression of mirth 
even before the sound of his laughter died.


Nobody spoke. After a moment, the inspector stood. Well, gentlemen, I think 
Ive taken up enough of your time for the present. He stuffed the cassette 
recorder and folder into his briefcase. No doubt well have more to talk about 
once Ive met with your staff. He scratched his peeling nose and grinned 
sheepishly.


Some people tan, some burn, he said. I guess Im a burner myself.


 





 


Night had fallen on the white clapboard house that stood at the corner of Church 
Street and Sycamore Terrace in the Cleveland suburb of RiverPointe. A soft May 
breeze rustled the leaves, and the distant barking of a dog and a lonely train 
whistle added a sense of mystery to the quiet neighborhood.


The light emanating from the gabled second-story window was not the warm yellow 
light found in the windows of other houses along the street. It was a subdued 
blue, similar to the glow of a television but unwavering in color or intensity. 
A passerby, stopping beneath the open window, could have heard a soft beeping 
sound, along with the faint slow clicking of computer keys. But no pedestrians 
were strolling along the quiet lane.


Inside the room sat a small figure. Behind the figure was a bare wall, into 
which a plain wooden door was set; the other walls were crowded with metal 
racks. Within the racks, rows of electronic circuit boards rose toward the 
ceiling with aching regularity. Among the circuit boards could be seen 
monitors, RAID fixed-disk systems, and equipment that numerous small 
governments would have liked to acquire: network sniffers, fax interception 
devices, units for the remote seizure of computer screen images, dedicated 
password breakers, cellular telephone scanner-interceptors. The room smelled 
faintly of hot metal and ozone. Thick bundles of cables hung drooping between 
the racks like jungle snakes.


The figure shifted, causing the wheelchair in which it sat to creak in protest. 
A withered limb rose toward the custom-made keyboard set along one arm of the 
wheelchair. A single crooked finger flexed itself in the blue light, then began 
pressing the soft-touch pads of the keyboard. There was the faint rapid tone of 
high-speed dialing. In one of the metal racks, a CRT sprang to life. A burst of 
computer code scrolled across the screen, followed by a small corporate logo.


The finger moved up to a row of oversized, color-coded keys and selected one.


Silent seconds stretched into minutes. The figure in the wheelchair did not 
believe in breaking into computer systems by methods as crude as brute-force 
attacks or algorithm reversals. Instead, his program inserted itself at the 
point where the external Internet traffic entered the corporations private 
network, piggybacking onto the header packets entering at the gate machine and 
circumventing the password routines completely. Suddenly the screen flashed and 
a torrent of code began scrolling by. The withered arm raised itself again and 
began typing first slowly, and then somewhat more rapidly, tapping out chunks of 
hexadecimal computer code, pausing every so often to wait for a response. The 
screen turned red, and the words GeneDyne Online SystemsMaintenance 
Subsection appeared, followed by a short list of options.


Once again, he had penetrated the GeneDyne firewall.


The undeveloped arm raised a third time, initiating two programs that would work 
symbiotically. The first would place a temporary patch on one of the operating 
system files, masking the movements of the second by making it look like a 
harmless network maintenance agent. The second, meanwhile, would create a 
secure channel through the network backbone to the Mount Dragon facility.


The figure in the wheelchair waited patiently as the programs bypassed the 
network bridges and pipelines. At last came a low beep, then a series of routing 
messages scrolled across the screen.


The arm reached out to the keyboard again, and the hissing shriek of a modem 
filled the room. A second screen popped to life and a sentence, rapidly typed by 
an unseen hand, appeared on it.


 


You said youd call an hour ago! Its not easy, keeping my schedule clear while 
I wait to hear from you.


 


The shriveled finger pressed out a response on the padded keyboard:I love it 
when you get all righteous on me, professor-man. Testify! Write that funky 
formula for me one time!


 


Its too late, he must have left the lab by now.


 


The finger tapped another message.


 


O yeof little faith! No doubt Dr. Carson has another computer in his room. We 
should be able to gain his undivided attention there. Now remember the ground 
rules.


 


Right. Lets go.


 


The finger pressed a button, and another waiting subroutine began executing, 
sending an anonymous page across the Mount Dragon WAN to Guy Carson. Based on 
the previous encounter, Mime decided-to dispense with his standard greeting 
card; Carson might turn off his-computer if he saw Mimes introductory logo 
again. A moment passed; then a response appeared, out of the New Mexico desert:


 


Guy here. Whos this?


 


The finger pressed a single color-coded key, sending a pre-typed message across 
the network.


 


What it is! Let me introduce myself again: I am Mime, bearer of tidings. I give 
you Professor Levine.With the push of another key, the finger patched Levine 
into the secure channel.


 


Forget it, came Carsons response.Get off the system now.


 


Guy, please, this is Charles Levine. Wait a minute. Let me talk.


 


No way. Im rebooting.


 


Mime pressed another button, and another message flashed on the screen.


 


Just a dern minute, pardner! This is Mime youre dealing with. We control the 
vertical, we control the horizontal. Ive put a little snare on your network 
node, and if you cut our connection now youll trigger the internal alarms. Then 
youd have some fast talking to do to your dear Mr. Scopes. Im afraid the only 
way to get rid of the Mime is to hear the good professor out. Now listen, 
cowboy. At the professor-mans request, I have set up a means by which you can 
call him. Should you ever wish to reach him, simply send a chat request to 
yourself. Thats correct: to yourself. This will initiate a communications 
daemon Ive hidden inside the net. The daemon will dial out and connect you with 
the good professor, as long as his trusty laptop is on-line. I now yield the 
floor to Professor Levine.


 


If you think this is the way to persuade me, Levine, youre mistaken. Youre 
jeopardizing my whole career. I dont want anything to do with you and your 
crusade, whatever it is.


 


I have no choice, Guy. The virus is a killer.


 


We have the best safety precautions of any lab in the world


 


Apparently not good enough,


 


That was a freak accident.


 


Most accidents are.


 


Were working on a medical product that will produce incalculable good, that 
will save millions of lives every year. Dont tell me what were doing is wrong.


 


Guy, I believe you. Then why mess around with a deadly virus like this?


 


Look, thats the whole problem, were trying to neutralize the virus, make it 
harmless. Now get off the net.


 


Not yet. Whats this medical miracle you mentioned?


 


I cant talk about it.


 


Answer this: does this virus alter the DNA in human germ cells, or just in 
somatic cells?


 


Germ cells.


 


I knew it. Guy, do you really think you have the moral right to alter the human 
genome?


 


For a beneficial alteration, why not? If we can rid the human race of a terrible 
disease forever, Wheres the immorality?


 


What disease?


 


None of your business.


 


I get it. Youre using the virus to make the genetic alteration. This virus, is 
it a doomsday virus? Could it destroy the human race? Answer that question and 
Ill get off.


 


I dont know. Its epidemiology in humans is mostly unknown, but its been 100% 
lethal in chimpanzees. Were taking all precautions. Especially now.


 


Is it an airborne contagion?


 


Yes.


 


Incubation period?


 


One day to two weeks, depending on the strain.


 


Time between first symptoms and mortality?


 


Impossible to predict with any certainty. Several minutes to several hours.


 


Several minutes? Dear God. Mode of lethality?


 


Ive answered enough questions. Get off. Mode of lethality?


 


Massive increase in CSF, causing edema and hemorrhaging of the brain tissue.


 


That sure sounds like a doomsday virus to me. Whats its name?


 


Thats it, Levine. No more questions. Get the hell off the system and dont call 
again.


 


Back at the little house on the corner of Church and Sycamore, the arm gently 
pressed a few keys. One CRT screen showed the daemon program cutting 
communications and sneaking back out of the GeneDyne net. The other screen 
showed Levines frantic message:


 


Damn! We were cut off. Mime, I need more time!


 


The finger pressed out a response:


 


Chill, professor. Your zeal will do you in. Now, on to other business. Ready 
your computer, Im going to be sending you an interesting little file. As youll 
see, I was able to obtain the information you requested. Naturally. It posed a 
rather unique challenge, and youd be astonished at the phone charges I rang up 
in the process. A certain Mrs. Harriet Smythe of Northfield, Minnesota, is going 
to be rather upset when she gets her long-distance bill next month, Im afraid.


 


The finger pressed a few more keys and waited while the file was downloaded. 
Then both screens zapped to black. For a moment, the only sound in the room was 
the soft whine of the CPU fans, and, through the open window, a single cricket 
chirruping in the warm night. And then there came a low laugh, a rising wheeze 
of mirth that racked and rattled the wasted, shrunken body in the wheelchair.


 





 


The chef at Mount Dragonan Italian named Ricciolini always served the main 
course himself, in order to bask in the expected compliments, and as a result 
dinner service was execrably slow. Carson sat at a center table with Harper and 
Vanderwagon, battling a stubborn headache without success. Despite the pressure 
from Scopes, hed been able to accomplish almost nothing that day, his mind 
full of Levines message. He wondered how in hell Levine was able to get inside 
the GeneDyne net, and why Levine had picked him to contact. Atleast , he 
thought,nobody noticed . As far as he could tell.


The little chef laid the plates with a flourish at Carsons table and stepped 
back expectantly. Carson looked suspiciously at his serving. The menu called 
them sweetbreads but what arrived did not look like bread at all, but the 
mysterious inner part of some animal.


Wonderful! cried Harper, taking the cue. A masterpiece!


The Italian gave a quick half bow, his face a mask of delight.


Vanderwagon sat silently, polishing his silverware with a napkin.


What is it, exactly? inquired Carson.


Animella con marsalae funghi!the chef cried. Sweetbreads with wine and 
mushrooms.


Sweet bread? Carson asked.


A puzzled expression came over the mans face. Is not English? Sweetbreads?


What I mean is, exactly what part of the cow?


Harper clapped him on the back.  Tis better not to inquire too closely into 
some things, my friend.


The Italian gave a puzzled smile and returned to the kitchen.


They should clean these dishes better, Vanderwagon muttered, wiping his 
wineglass, holding it up to the light, and wiping again.


Harper shot a look across the room, where Teece was eating at a table by 
himself. His fastidious manners were almost a caricature of perfection.


Has he talked to you yet? Harper whispered to Carson.


No. You?


He buttonholed me this morning.


Vanderwagon turned. What did he ask?


Just a lot of sly questions about the accident. Dont be deceived by his looks. 
That guy is no fool.


Sly questions, Vanderwagon repeated, picking up his knife a second time and 
wiping it carefully. Then he laid it down and carefully squared it with his 
fork.


Why the hell cant we have a nice steak once in a while? Carson complained. I 
never know what Im eating.


Think of it as experiencing international cuisine, said Harper, slicing open 
the sweetbreads and stuffing a jiggling piece into his mouth. Excellent, he 
said, his mouth full.


Carson took a tentative bite. Hey, these arent bad, he said. Not very sweet, 
though. So much for truth inadvertis ing.


Pancreas, said Harper.


Carson laid down his fork with a clatter. Thanks a lot.


What kind of sly questions? Vanderwagon asked.


Im not supposed to say. Harper winked at Carson.


Vanderwagon turned sideways and gave Harper a penetrating stare. About me.


No, not about you, Andrew. Well, maybe a few, you know. You were, shall we say, 
in the thick of things.


Vanderwagon slid his uneaten plate away and said nothing.


Carson leaned over. This is from the pancreas of acow ?


Harper shoveled another mouthful in. Who cares? That Ricciolini can cook 
anything. Anyway, Guy, you grew up eating Rocky Mountain oysters, right?


Never touched em, Carson said. That was just something we served to the 
dudes as a joke.


If thy right eye offends thee, Vanderwagon said.


The others turned to look at him.


Getting religion? Harper asked.


Yes. Pluck it out, Vanderwagon said.


There was an uneasy silence.


You all right, Andrew? Carson asked.


Oh, yes, said Vanderwagon.


Remember Biology 101? Harper asked. The Islets ofLangerhans?


Shut up, Carson warned.


Islets ofLangerhans, Harper continued. Those clusters of cells in the 
pancreas that secrete hormones. I wonder if you can see them with the naked 
eye?


Vanderwagon stared at his plate, then slowly brought his knife up and sliced 
neatly through the sweetbreads. He picked up the piece of organ with his 
fingers, looked carefully at the incision hed made, then dropped the morsel 
again, sending sauce and pieces of mushroom flying onto the white tablecloth. 
He poured some water into his napkin, folded it, and carefully wiped his hands. 
No, he said.


No what?


Theyre not visible.


Harper snickered. If Ricciolini saw us playing with our food like this, hed 
poison us.


What? Vanderwagon said loudly.


I was just kidding. Calm down.


Not you, Vanderwagon said. I was talking tohim .


There was another silence.


Yes sir, I will! Vanderwagon shouted. He came to attention suddenly, knocking 
his chair over as he stood up. His hands were straight at his sides, fork in one 
and knife in the other. Slowly, he raised the fork, then swiveled it toward his 
face. Each movement was calculated, almost reverent. He looked as if he was 
about to take a bite from the empty fork.


Andrew, what are you up to now? Harper said, chuckling nervously. Look at 
this guy, will you?


Vanderwagon raised the fork several inches.


For Chrissakes, sit down, Harper said.


The fork inched closer, the tines trembling slightly in Vanderwagons hand.


Carson realized what the scientist was about to do the instant before it 
happened. Vanderwagon never blinked as he placed the tines of the fork against 
the cornea of one eye. Then he pressed his fist forward with slow, deliberate 
pressure. For a second, Carson could see, with horrifying clarity, the ocular 
membrane yielding under the tines of the fork; then there was the sound of a 
grape being stepped on and clear liquid sprayed across the table in a viscous 
jet. Carson lunged for the arm, jerking it back. The fork came out of the eye 
and clattered to the floor as Vanderwagon began to make a high, keening noise.


Harper leaped forward to help but Vanderwagon slashed with his knife and the 
scientist fell backward into his chair. Harper looked down in disbelief at the 
red stripe spreading across his chest. Vanderwagon lunged again and Carson moved 
in, bringing a fist up toward his gut. Vanderwagon anticipated the blow, jerked 
sideways, and Carsons hand glanced harmlessly off Vanderwagons hipbone. A 
moment later, Carson felt a stunning blow to the side of his skull. He stumbled 
backward, shaking his head, cursing himself for underestimating the man. As his 
vision cleared he saw Vanderwagon bearing down on him and he swung with his 
right, connecting with the scientists temple. Vanderwagons head snapped 
sideways and he crashed to the floor. Grabbing the wrist that held the knife, 
Carson slammed it to the floor until the knife came free. Vanderwagon arched 
forward, screaming incoherently, fluid streaming from his ruined eye. Carson 
gave him a short, measured blow to the chin and he rolled sideways and lay 
still, his flanks heaving.


Carson eased back carefully, hearing for the first time the tremendous hubbub of 
voices around him. His hand began to throb in time with the beat of his heart. 
The rest of the diners had come forward, forming a circle around the table. 
Medicals on the way, a voice said. Carson looked up at Harper, who nodded 
back. Im okay, he gasped, pressing a bloodied napkin against his chest.


Then there was a hand on Carsons shoulder and Teeces thin, peeling face passed 
his field of vision. The inspector knelt beside Vanderwagon.


Andrew?


Vanderwagons good eye slid around and located Teece.


Why did you do that? Teece asked sympathetically.


Do what?


Teece pursed his lips. Never mind, he said quietly.


Always talking ...


I understand, Teece said.


Pluck out ...


Who told you to pluck it out?


Get meout of here! Vanderwagon suddenly screamed.


Were going to do just that, said Mike Marr as he made his way through the 
circle of diners, pushing Teece aside. Two medical workers lifted Vanderwagon 
onto a stretcher. The investigator followed the group toward the door, leaning 
over the stretcher, crooning: Who? Tell me who?


But the medic had already sunk a needle in Vanderwagons arm and the scientists 
one good eye rolled up into his head as the powerful narcotic took effect.


 





 


The studios Green Room wasnt green at all, but a pale yellow. A sofa and 
several overstuffed chairs were lined up against the walls, and in the center a 
scratchedBauhaus coffee table was piled high with copies ofPeople ,Newsweek , 
andThe Economist . On a table in the far corner sat a pot of well-cooked coffee, 
a pile of Styrofoam cups, some elderly looking cream, and an untidy heap of 
sweetener packages.


Levine decided not to chance the coffee. He shifted on the sofa, glancing around 
again. Besides himself andToni Wheeler, the foundations media consultant, there 
was only one other person in the room, a sallow-faced man in a glen plaid suit. 
Feeling Levines eyes on him, the man glanced up, then looked away, dabbing his 
sweaty forehead with a silk handkerchief. He was clutching a book:The Courage to 
Be Different , by Barrold Leighton.


ToniWheeler was whispering into his ear, and Levine made an effort to listen.


a mistake, she was saying. We shouldnt be here, and you know it. This isnt 
the kind of forum you should be seen in.


Levine sighed. Weve already been through this, he whispered back. Mr. 
Sanchez is interested in our cause.


Sanchez is only interested in one thing: controversy. Look, whats the point of 
paying me if you never take my advice? We need to be shoring up your image, 
making you look dignified, patrician. A statesman in the crusade against 
dangerous science. This show is exactly what you dont need.


What I need is more exposure, Levine replied. People know I speak the truth. 
And Ive been making real progress in recent weeks. When they hear about 
thishe patted his breast pockettheyll learn what dangerous science really 
is.


Ms. Wheeler shook her head. Our focus group research shows youre beginning to 
be perceived as eccentric. The recent lawsuits, and especially this thing with 
GeneDyne, are throwing your credibility into question.


Mycredibility? Impossible. The perspiring man caught his eye again. Ill bet 
thats Barrold Leighton himself, Levine whispered. Here to promote his book, 
no doubt. Must be his first time on television.The Courage to Be Different , 
indeed. Hes a poor choice to be hawking courage to the world.


Dont change the subject. Your credibility is compromised. The Harvard chair, 
your work with the Holocaust Fund, just isnt enough anymore. We need to 
regroup, do damage control, alter your public perception. Charles, Im asking 
you again. Dont do this.


A woman poked her head in the door. Levine, please, she said in a flat voice.


Levine stood up, smiled and waved at his publicist, then followed the woman 
through the door and into Makeup.Damage control ,indeed , Levine thought as a 
cosmetician placed him in a barber chair and began working his jawline with a 
crayon.Toni Wheeler sounded more like a submarine captain than a media 
consultant. She was clever and savvy, but she was a spin doctor at heart. She 
still didnt understand that it wasnt his nature to back down in the face of a 
struggle. Besides, hed decided heneeded a vehicle like this. The press had 
barely touched his account of the Novo-Druzhina accident. They thought it was 
too long ago and far away. Sammy Sanchez at Seven was based in Boston, but its 
broadcast feed was picked up by a string of independent stations across the 
country. NotGeraldo, perhaps, but good enough. He felt inside his suit jacket 
for the two envelopes. He was confident, even buoyant. This was going to be 
very, very good.


 


Studio C was typical: a faux Victorian oasis of dark wallpaper and mahogany 
chairs surrounded by dangling lights, television cameras, and a hundred snaking 
cables. Levine knew the other two panelists well: Finley Squires, the 
pit-bull-in-a-suit of the pharmaceutical industry, and consumer activist Theresa 
Court. Theyd already had the first segment of the show to themselves, but 
Levine relished the disadvantage. He stepped across the concrete floor, picking 
his way carefully over the cables. Sammy Sanchez himself sat in a swivel chair 
at the far side of the round table, his lean predatory face gazing at Levine. He 
motioned him to a seat as the countdown to the second segment began.


As the live feed started, Sanchez briefly introduced Levine to the other 
panelists and the estimated two million viewers, then turned the discussion over 
to Squires. From the monitor in the makeup room, Levine had seen Squires holding 
forth on the benefits of genetic engineering. Levine couldnt wait: he felt like 
a boxer in top shape, advancing into the ring.


Do you have a baby with Tay-Sachs disease? Squires was saying, Or sickle-cell 
anemia? Or hemophilia?


He gazed into the camera, his face full of concern. Then he gestured at Levine 
without looking at him. Dr. Levine here would deny you the legal right to cure 
your child. If he has his way, millions of sick people, whocould be cured of 
these genetic diseases, will be forced to suffer.


He paused, voice dropping.


Dr. Levine calls his organization the Foundation for Genetic Policy. Dont be 
fooled. This is no foundation. This is alobbying organization, which is trying 
to keep the miraculous cures offered by genetic engineering from you. 
Denyingyour right to choose. Makingyour children suffer.


Sammy Sanchez swiveled in his chair, raising one eyebrow in Levines direction. 
Dr. Levine? Is it true? Would you deny my child the right to such a cure?


Absolutely not, Levine said, smiling calmly. Im a geneticist by training. 
After all, as I recently made public, I was one of the developers of the X-RUST 
variety of corn, though I have refrained from profiting by it. Dr. Squires is 
grossly distorting my position.


A geneticist by training, perhaps, but not by practice, Squires continued. 
Genetic engineering offers hope. Dr. Levine offers despair. What he terms a 
cautious, conservative approach is really nothing more than a suspicion of 
modern science so deep its practically medieval.


Theresa Court began to say something, then stopped. Levine glanced at her 
without concern; he knew shed side with the winner whichever way things shook 
out.


I think that what Dr. Levine is advocating is greater responsibility on the 
part of the companies engaged in genetic research, Sanchez said. Am I right, 
Doctor?


Thats part of the solution, Levine replied, content for the time being to 
press his usual message home. But we also need greater governmental oversight. 
Currently, corporations are seemingly free to tinker with human genes, animal 
and plant genes, viral genes, with little or no supervision. Pathogens of 
unimaginable virulence are being created in labs today. All it takes is one 
accident to cause a catastrophe with potentially worldwide implications.


At last, Squires turned his scornful gaze toward Levine. More government 
oversight. More regulation. More bureaucracy. More stifling of free enterprise. 
That is precisely what this country doesnot need. Dr. Levine is a scientist. He 
should know better. Yet he persists in fostering these untruths, frightening 
people with lies about genetic engineering.


It was time. Dr. Squires is attempting to portray me as deceitful, Levine 
said. He reached a hand inside his jacket, feeling for the inner pocket. Let me 
show you something.


He slipped out a bright red envelope, holding it up to the cameras. As a 
professor of microbiology, Dr. Squires is beholden to no one. Hes only 
interested in the truth.


Levine shook the sealed envelope slightly, hoping thatToni Wheeler was watching 
from the Green Room. The red color had been a stroke of genius. He knew the 
cameras had focused on the envelope, and that countless viewers were now waiting 
for it to be opened.


And yet, what if I told you that, in this envelope, I have proof that Dr. 
Squires has been paid a quarter of a million dollars by the GeneDyne 
Corporation? One of the worlds leading genetic engineering firms? And that he 
has kept this employment secret, even from his own university? Would that, 
perhaps, call his motives into question?


He laid the envelope in front of Squires.


Open it, please, he said, and show the contents to the camera.


Squires looked at the envelope, not quite comprehending the trap that was being 
set. This is preposterous, he said at last, brushing the envelope to the 
floor.


Levine could hardly believe his luck. He turned to the camera with a triumphant 
smile. You see? He knows exactly whats inside.


This is grossly unprofessional, snapped Squires.


Go ahead, Levine goaded. Open it.


The envelope was now on the floor, and Squires would have to stoop to pick it 
up. In any case, Levine thought, it was too late for Finley Squires. If he had 
opened it immediately he might have maintained his credibility.


Sanchez was looking from one scientist to the other. It began to dawn on Squires 
what was happening. This is the lowest form of attack I have ever witnessed, 
he said. Dr. Levine, you ought to be ashamed, of yourself.


Squires was on the ropes but still combative. Levine removed the second 
envelope from his pocket.


And in this envelope, Dr. Squires, I have some information about recent 
developments at GeneDynes secret genetic-engineering lab, the one known as 
Mount Dragon. These developments are extremely disturbing, and of interest to 
any scientist who has the greater interests of humanity at heart.


He laid the second envelope in front of Squires. If you wont open the other, 
at least open this. Be the one to expose GeneDynes dangerous activities. Prove 
that you have no interest in the company.


Squires sat very stiffly. I will not be intimidated by intellectual 
terrorism.


Levine felt his heart racing. It was almost too good to be true: the man 
wasstill putting his foot into every trap.


I cant open it myself, Levine said. GeneDyne has sued my foundation for two 
hundred million dollars in an effort to silence me. Someone else must do it.


The envelope sat on the table, cameras focused upon it. Sanchez swiveled in his 
chair, gazing back and forth between the panelists.


Court reached over and snatched it up. If no one else has the courage to open 
it,I will.


Good old Theresa, thought Levine; he knew she could not resist the opportunity 
to play a role in the drama.


Inside the envelope was a single sheet of white paper, containing a message in a 
simple, sober-looking typeface.


 


      NAME OF VIRUS:

      Unknown.


      INCUBATION PERIOD:

      One week.


      TIME BETWEEN FIRST SYMPTOMS


      AND DEATH:

      Five minutes to two hours.


      MODE OF DEATH:

      Aggravated cerebral edema.


      INFECTIOUSNESS:

      Spreads more easily than the common cold.


      MORTALITY RATE:

      100%allvictims die.


      DANGER FACTOR:

      A doomsday virus: if released, accidentally or intentionally, it could 
      destroy the human race.


      CREATOR:

      GeneDyne, Inc.


      PURPOSE:

      Unknown. It is a corporate secret protected by the privacy laws of the 
      United States. Work on this virus is continuing, with minimal government 
      oversight.


      HISTORY:

      Within the last 2 weeks, this virus infected an unidentified scientist or 
      technician at a remote GeneDyne testing facility. The technician was 
      apparently isolated before additional exposures could take place. The 
      technician was dead within three days. Had quarantine procedures been, 
      ineffective, the virus could have escaped to the populace at large. We 
      might all be dead.



 


Court read the document aloud, stopping several times to look incredulously at 
Levine. As she finished, Sanchez swiveled his chair toward Finley Squires.


Any comment? he asked.


Why would I comment? Squires said irritably. I have nothing whatsoever to do 
with GeneDyne.


Shall we open the first envelope? Sanchez said, a faint but wicked smile 
appearing on his cadaverous face.


Be my guest, said Squires. Whatevers inside willundoubtedly be a forgery.


Sanchez picked up the envelope. Theresa, you seem to be the one with the guts 
around here, he said, handing it to her.


She ripped it open. Inside was a computer printout indicating that the sum of 
$265,000 had been wired from GeneDyne Hong Kong to a numbered account at the 
Rigel Bancorp, Netherlands Antilles.


Theres no name on this account, said Sanchez, looking closer.


Hold the second page up to the cameras, said Levine.


The second page was fuzzy but readable. It was a screen print, covertly seized 
from a live image on a computer terminal by an expensive and prohibited device. 
The screen contained wiring instructions from Finley Squires regarding an 
account at the Rigel Bancorp, Netherland Antilles. The account had the same 
number.


There was a chill silence, and Sanchez wrapped the segment, thanking the 
participants and asking the audience at home to stay tuned for Barrold Leighton.


The moment the cameras shut off, Squires stood up. This charade will be met 
with massive legal reply, he said tersely, and strode off the set.


Sanchez swiveled toward Levine, his lips pursed appraisingly. Cute act, he 
said. I hope for your sake you can back it up.


Levine merely smiled.


 





 


Returning to his lab after retrieving some test results from Pathology, Carson 
moved awkwardly through the narrow crawl spaces of the Fever Tank. It was after 
six, and the facility was almost empty.De Vaca had left hours earlier to run 
some enzyme tests in the computer lab; it was time to close up shop and make the 
long slow trek toward the surface. But much as he hated the tight spaces of the 
Fever Tank, Carson found himself in no hurry to leave. Hed lost his dinner 
partners: Vanderwagon was gone, of course, and Harper would be in the infirmary 
for another day.


At the lab hatchway, he stopped short. A strange blue-suit was in his lab, 
poking around his worktable, turning over objects. Carson punched the intercom 
button on the sleeve of his suit. Looking for something? he asked.


The suit straightened up and swiveled toward him, and the painfully sunburnt 
face of Gilbert Teece came into view through the faceplate.


Dr. Carson! How nice to make your acquaintance. I wonderif I could have a few 
words with you. The figure extended its hand.


Why not, Carson said, feeling foolish as he shook the inspectors hand through 
several layers of rubber. Have a seat.


The figure looked around. I still havent figured out how to do that while 
wearing this bloody suit.


I guess youll have to stand, then, said Carson, moving forward and taking a 
seat at the worktable.


Just so, said Teece. Its quite an honor, you know, speaking to the 
descendant of Kit Carson.


Nobody else seems to think so, Carson said.


You have your own modesty to thank for that, Teece said. I dont think many 
people around here know. Its in your personnel file, of course. Mr. Scopes 
seemed very taken with the historical irony of it. Teece paused. Quite a 
fascinating character, your Mr. Scopes.


Hes brilliant. Carson looked appraisingly at the investigator. Why did you 
ask that question about Brandon-Smiths autopsy back in the conference room?


There was a brief silence. Then Carson heard Teeces laughter crackling over the 
speaker in his headset. You practically grew up among the Apache Indians, 
right? Then you may know one of their ancient sayings: Some questions are 
longer than others. That question I asked in the conference room was very 
long. He smiled. But youre a relatively recent arrival, and it was not aimed 
at you. Id rather we talked about Mr. Vanderwagon for a moment. He caught 
Carsons grimace. Yes, I know. Terrible doings. Did you know him well?


After I arrived here, we became fairly good friends.


What was he like?


He was from Connecticut. Very preppie, but I liked him. Underneath that serious 
exterior he had a wicked sense of humor.


Did you notice anything unusual prior to the incident in the dining room? Any 
strange behavior? Personality changes?


Carson shrugged. This last week, he seemed preoccupied, withdrawn. Youd speak 
to him and he wouldnt answer. I didnt think much about it, really, because we 
were all in shock after what happened. Besides, people often act a little 
strange around this place. The level of tension is unbelievable. Everyone calls 
it Mount Dragon fever. Like cabin fever, only worse.


Teece chuckled. Im feeling a bit of that myself.


After what happened, Andrew was publicly reprimanded by Brent. I think he took 
it pretty hard.


Teece nodded. If thy right eye offends thee, he murmured. According to the 
tapes I watched, Scopes quoted that to Vanderwagon during his dressing-down in 
the conference room. Still, poking ones eye out is a rather extreme reaction 
to stress, in my book. What did Cornwall say inKing Lear : Out, vile jelly. 
Where is thy lustre now? 


Carson was silent.


Do you know anything about Vanderwagons past history at GeneDyne? Teece 
asked.


I know he was brilliant, very highly thought of. This was his second tour here. 
University of Chicago grad. But you must know all this.


Did he speak to you about any troubles? Any worries?


None. Except the usual complaints about the isolation. He was a great skier, 
and there obviously isnt any skiing around here, so he used to complain about 
that. He was pretty liberal, and he and Harper used to argue politics a lot.


Did he have a girlfriend?


Carson thought a moment. He did mention someone. Lucy, I think. She lives in 
Vermont. He shifted in the chair. Look, where have they taken him, anyway? 
Have you learned anything yet?


Hes undergoing tests. So far, we know very little. Its very difficult here, 
with no open phones to the outside. But already there are some perplexing 
developments, which Id ask you to keep to yourself for the time being.


Carson nodded.


Preliminary tests show Vanderwagon suffering from unusual medical problems: 
overly permeable capillaries and elevated levels of dopamine and serotonin in 
the brain.


Permeable capillaries?


Leaky blood vessels. Somehow, a small percentage of his blood cells have 
disintegrated, releasing hemoglobin. This hemoglobin has leaked out of his 
capillaries and into various parts of his body. Naked hemoglobin, as you may 
know, is poisonous to human tissues.


Did that contribute to his breakdown?


Its too early to say, Teece replied. The elevated levels of dopamine, 
however, are very significant. What do you know about dopamine? Serotonin?


Not much. Theyre neurotransmitters.


Correct. At normal levels, theres no problem. However, too much of either in 
the brain would dramatically affect human behavior. Paranoid schizophrenics have 
elevated levels of dopamine. LSD trips are caused by a temporary increase in 
the same neurotransmitter.


What are you saying? Carson asked. That Andrew has elevated levels of these 
neurotransmitters in his brain because hes crazy?


Perhaps, Teece replied. Or vice versa. But there really isnt any point in 
speculating until we know more. Lets move on to my original purpose here, and 
talk about this X-FLU strain youre working on. Perhaps you can tell me how, 
while you thought you were neutralizing the virus, you instead managed to make 
it more deadly.


God, if I could answer that question ... Carson paused. We dont really 
understand yet how X-FLU does its dirty work. When you recombine genes, you 
never really know what will happen. Suites of genes work together in 
complicated ways, and removing one or putting a new one into the mix often 
causes unexpected effects. In some ways, its like an incredibly complex 
computer program that nobody fully understands. You never know what might happen 
if you plug in strange data or change a line of code. Nothing might happen. Or 
it might work better. Or the whole program might crash. He had the vague 
realization that he was being more frank with thisOSHA investigator than Brent 
Scopes might like. But Teece was sharp; there was no point dissembling.


Why not use a less dangerous virus as a vehicle for the X-FLU gene? asked 
Teece.


Thats difficult to explain. You must know that the body is composed of two 
types of cells: somatic cells and germ cells. In order for X-FLU to be a 
permanent cureone that would be passed on to descendantswe have to insert the 
DNA into germ-line cells. Somatic cells wont do. The X-FLU host virus is 
uniquely capable of infecting human germ cells.


What about the ethics of altering germ cells? Of introducing new genes into 
the human species? Has there been any discussion of that at Mount Dragon?


Carson wondered why this subject kept coming up. Look, he said, were making 
the tiniest change imaginable: inserting a gene only a few hundred base pairs 
long. It will make human beings immune to the flu. Theres nothing immoral in 
that.


But didnt you just say that making a small change in one gene can have 
unexpected results?


Carson stood up impatiently. Of course! But thats what phased testing is all 
aboutlooking for unexpected side effects. This gene therapy will have to go 
through a whole gamut of expensive tests, costing GeneDyne millions of 
dollars.


Testing on human beings?


Of course. You start with in vitro and animal tests. In the alpha phase you use 
a small group of human volunteers. The beta phase is larger. The tests will be 
done using an out-group monitored by GeneDyne. Everything is done with 
excruciating care. You know all this as well as I do.


Teece nodded. Forgive me for dwelling on the subject, Dr. Carson. But if there 
are unexpected side effects, wouldnt you be perpetuating these side effects 
in the human race if you introduce the X-FLU gene into the germ cells of even a 
few people? Creating, perhaps, a new genetic disease? Or a race of people 
different from the rest of humanity? Remember, it took just a single mutation in 
one personone personto introduce the hemophilia gene into the race. Now, there 
are countless thousands of hemophiliacs across the world.


GeneDyne would never have spent almost half a billion dollars without working 
out the details, Carson snapped, uncertain why he was feeling so defensive. 
Youre not dealing with a start-up company here. He walked around the side of 
his worktable to face the investigator. My job is to neutralize the virus. And 
believe me, thats more than enough. What they do with it once its neutralized 
is not my concern. There are suffocating government regulations covering every 
inch of this problem. You, of all people, should know that. You probably wrote 
half the damn regulations yourself.


Three tones chimed in his headset. Weve got to leave, Carson said. Theyre 
doing an early decontamination sweep tonight.


Right, Teece replied. Would you mind leading the way? Im afraid Id be lost 
within fifty feet.


* * *


Outside, Carson stood silently for a moment, shutting his eyes and letting the 
warm evening wind blow over him. He could almost feel the accumulated tension 
and dread dissipating on the desert breeze. He blinked his eyes open, noticed 
the unusual color of the sunset, and frowned. Then he turned to Teece.


Sorry if I was a bit brusque back there, he said. That place wears on me, 
especially by the end of the day.


Perfectly understandable. The investigator stretched, scratched his peeling 
nose, and glanced around at the white buildings, thrown into dramatic relief by 
the sunset. Its not so bad here, once that bloody great sun goes down. He 
looked at his watch. Wed better hurry if were going to catch dinner.


I guess. Carsons tone betrayed his reluctance.


Teece turned to look at him. You sound about as eager as I feel.


Carson shrugged. Ill be all right by tomorrow. I just dont feel all that 
hungry.


Me neither. The investigator paused. So lets go have a sauna.


Carson turned his head in disbelief. Awhat ?


A sauna. Ill meet you there in fifteen minutes.


Are you crazy? Thats the last thing I Carson stopped when he caught the 
expression on Teecesface. Realizing it was an order, not an invitation, he 
narrowed his eyes.


Fifteen minutes, then, he said, and headed for his room without another word.


 


When the plans for Mount Dragon were drawn up, the designers, realizing that 
the occupants would be virtually imprisoned by the vast desert around them, 
went to great lengths to add as many distractions and creature comforts as 
possible. The recreation facility, a long low structure next to the residency 
compound, was better equipped than most professional health spas, boasting a 
quarter-mile track, squash and racquetball courts, swimming pool, and weight 
room. What the designers hadnt realized was that most of the scientists at 
Mount Dragon were obsessed with their work, and avoided physical exertion 
whenever possible. Practically the only residents who made use of the 
recreation center were Carson, who liked to run in the evenings, and Mike Marr, 
who spent hours working with the free weights.


Perhaps the most unlikely feature of the recreation center was the sauna: a 
fully equipped Swedish model with cedar walls and benches. The sauna was popular 
during the cold high-desert winters at Mount Dragon, but it was shunned by 
everyone in the summer.


As he approached the sauna fromthe mens locker room, Carson saw by the external 
thermometer that Teece was already inside. He pulled the door open, turning 
involuntarily from the blast of hot air that emerged. Stepping in, he saw 
through smarting eyes the pallid form of Teece, sitting near the bank of coals 
at the far end of the chamber, a white towel wrapped around his skinny loins. 
His pasty white complexion was in hilarious contrast to his burnt face. Sweat 
was pouring from his forehead and collecting at the end of his sun-abused nose.


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 dont get your 
knickers in a twist. Ive asked you here for a very good reason.


Im 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.


Theres 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 dont 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 Carsons brain. It was commonly believed around 
Mount Dragon that any conversation taking place in the bluesuits was monitored. 
Obviously, Teece didnt 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 saunawith its 
corrosive heat and steamas the only place where they could talk.


Or did it? Why couldnt 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. Youre wondering why I asked you here, of all people. 
There are two reasons. First, Ive 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 thetragedy , who behaved rationally. I may 
need that kind of impartiality in the days ahead. Thats why I spoke with you 
last.


Youve talked to everyone? Teece had been on-site only a few days.


Its a small place. Ive 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 didnt 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. Whats happened to your 
unswerving faith in safety procedures? Relax. You arent the first to jump to 
that conclusion. But neither Burt nor Vanderwagon show any X-FLU antibodies. 
Theyre clean. Brandon-Smith, on the other hand, was riddled with them. So 
theres no commonality.


Then I cant explain it, Carson said, expelling a pent-up breath. Very 
strange.


Yes, isnt it? Teece murmured.


He added more water to the coals. Carson waited.


I assume you studied Dr. Burts 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 couldnt 
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 everyones business. A hidden journal is a logical response to that. 
Im sure Burt wasnt 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, GeneDynes 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 isnt pleasant. I understand its produced by a vat of 
genetically engineered bacteria that have had the human hemoglobin gene inserted 
into them. Its the same bacteria that exists by the trillions in ... His voice 
trailed off, and he added the word dirt almost soundlessly.


Carson laughed. Its called streptococcus. Yes, its the bacterium found in 
soil. The fact is, we at GeneDyne know more aboutstreptococcus than any other 
form of life. Its the only organism other thanE. coli whose gene we have 
completely mapped from beginning to end. So its a perfect host organism, just 
because it lives in dirt doesnt make it disgusting or dangerous.


Call me old-fashioned, then, said Teece. But Im straying from our subject 
here. The doctor whos 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 its 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. Ill 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. Thats why Ive 
spoken to you. You are the person closest to Hurts work. Ill be needing your 
full 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 couldnt imagine Scopes allowing the project to 
be terminated. Teece was getting up, wrapping his towel tighter.


I wouldnt advise it, Carson said.


Advise what?


Leaving tomorrow. Theres a big dust storm coming up.


I didnt hear anything about it on the radio, Teece frowned.


They dont broadcast the weather for the Jornada delMuerto desert on the radio, 
Mr. Teece. Didnt you notice the peculiar orange pall in the southern sky when 
we came out of the Fever Tank this evening? Ive seen that before and it means 
trouble.


Dr. Singers lending me a Hummer. Those things are built like articulated 
lorries.


For the first time, Carson thought he saw a look of uncertainty in Teeces 
face. He shrugged. Im not going to stop you. But if I were you, Id wait.


Teece shook his head. What Ive got to do cant 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 SierraMadre 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 oclock in the morning it entered the Jornada 
delMuerto 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 
fromplayas 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 oclock in 
the morning, fifty minutes after Gilbert Teece, seniorOSHA 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, initiatinga vidoconfrence 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 mans 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.


Dasist richtig. Das ist richtig.


This is where the Lodz Ghetto files currently reside, is it not?


Ja. Ja.


Excellent. I have a small problem, anhow does one say it?anarchival problem. 
The kind of problem you specialize in. I pay very well,Herr Saltzmann. One 
hundred thousandDeutschmarks.


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 theHerald this morning?


Fairley shook his head. Im aGlobe reader, he said.


Of course you are, said Scopes. You should try theHerald once in a while. 
Its much more lively than theGlobe .


No, thank you, said Fairley.


Its 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. Its 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. Heres my charity 
list for the week. Its short, only one item: a million to the Holocaust 
Memorial Fund.


Fairley looked up. Levines 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, 
its a worthy cause. And between you and me, theyre 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 Levines 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 Fairleys 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 oclock 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.


Hed 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 aboveche silent underground fastness of the Fever Tank.DeVaca 
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,theres 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 mans 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.


He heard the gate swing shut, then the sound of boots slowly crossing the 
sawdust floor of the barn. Squatting down, Carson peered through a knothole in 
the frame of the stall.


The security director was saturated, head to toe, in dun-colored dust. Only his 
black eyes and crusted mouth broke through the monotony of the powdery coat.


Nye stopped in front of the tack area and slowly untied his rifle boot and 
saddlebags, hanging them on a rack. He uncinched the saddle, jerked it off the 
horse, and set it on a carrier, slinging the saddle blankets on top. Every 
movement raised small mushroom clouds of gray dust.


Nye led the horse toward its stall, out of Carsons view. Carson could hear him 
brushing the horse down, murmuring soothing words. He heard the snip of a bale 
being cut, the thump of hay thrown into the stall and a hose filling the water 
bucket. In a few moments, Nye reappeared. Turning his back to Carson, he pulled 
out a heavy tack box from one corner of the barn and unlocked it. Then, moving 
to his saddle bags, he unbuckled one side and extracted what looked like two 
squares of clear stiff plastic, sandwiching a raggedand completely 
unauthorizedpiece of paper. Placing them on the floor of the tack area, Nye 
removed what looked like a wax pencil from the saddlebags, bent over the paper, 
and began making notations on the covering plastic. Carson pressed his eye to 
the crack, straining for a better view. The piece of paper looked old and well 
worn, and he could see a large, handwritten phrase across its upper border:Al 
despertar la hora el quiladelsol se levanta en una aguja del fuego, At dawn 
the eagle of the sun stands on a needle of fire. Beyond that he could make out 
nothing.


Suddenly, Nye sat up, alert. He looked around, craning his neck as if searching 
for the source of some noise. Carson shrank into the shadows at the back of the 
stall. He heard a shuffling sound, the click of a lock, the heavy clumping of 
feet. He peered out again to see the security director leave the barn, a gray 
apparition vanishing into the mist.


After a few moments, Carson got up and, eyeing the tack box curiously for a 
moment, moved over to the stall that heldMuerto, Nyes horse. It stood 
spraddle-legged, a string of brown saliva hanging from its mouth. He reached 
down and felt the tendons. Some heat, but no serious inflammation. The corona 
was hot but the hooves were still good, and the horses eye was clear. Whatever 
Nye had been doing, he had pushed the animal almost to its limit, maybe even as 
much as a hundred miles in the last twelve hours. The animal was still sound; 
there was no permanent damage and the horse would be back in form in a day or 
two. Nye had known when to quit. And he had a magnificent horse. A zero branded 
into its right jaw and a freeze brand high on its neck indicated it was 
registered with both the American Paint Horse Association and the American 
Quarter Horse Association. He patted its flank admiringly.


Youre one expensive piece of horseflesh, he said.


Carson left the stall and moved to the barn entrance, peering out into the dust 
that hung like smoke in the oppressive air. Nye was long gone. Closing the barn 
door quietly, Carson headed quickly for his room, trying to make sense of a man 
who would risk his life in a savage dust storm. Or a security director who would 
risk his job carrying around a piece of paper topped by a meaningless Spanish 
phrase at a place where paper was forbidden.


 





 


Carson passed through the canteen and out onto the balcony, the weathered banjo 
case knocking against his knees. The night was dark, and the moon obscured by 
clouds, but he knew that the figure sitting motionless by the balcony railing 
was Singer.


Since their first conversation on the balcony, Carson had often noticed Singer 
sitting out, enjoying the evening, fingering chords and runs on his battered 
guitar. Invariably, Singer had smiled and waved, or called out a cheerful 
greeting. But Singer seemed to change after the death of Brandon-Smith. He 
became quieter, more withdrawn. The arrival of Teece, and Vanderwagons sudden 
fit in the dining room, seemed only to deepen Singers mood. He still sat on the 
canteen balcony in the evenings, but now his head drooped in the desert silence, 
the guitar lying silent by his side.


During the first few weeks, Carson had often joined the director on the balcony 
for an evening chat. But as time went on and the pressure increased, Carson had 
found there was always more on-line research to be done, more lab notes to be 
recorded in the quiet solitude of his room after working hours. This evening, 
however, he was determined to find the time. He liked Singer, and didnt like to 
see him brooding, no doubt blaming himself unnecessarily for the recent 
troubles. Perhaps he could draw the man out of himself for a bit. Besides, the 
talk with Teece had left Carson with nagging doubts about his own work. He knew 
that Singer, with his unswerving faith in the virtues of science, would be the 
perfect tonic.


Whos there? Singer asked sharply. The moon passed out of the clouds, 
temporarily throwing the balcony into pale relief. Singer caught sight of 
Carson. Oh, he said, relaxing. Hello, Guy.


Evening. Carson took a seat next to the director. Although the balcony had 
been swept clean of its mantle of dust, fresh clouds of the stuff rose dimly 
into view as he settled his weight into the chair. Beautiful night, he said, 
after a pause.


Did you see the sunset? Singer asked quietly.


Incredible. As if to make up for the fury of the dust storm, the desert sunset 
that evening had been a spectacular display of color against the smoky haze.


Without speaking further, Carson leaned over, unsnapped the case, and pulled out 
his Gibson five-string. Singer watched, a spark of interest kindling in his 
tired eyes.


Is that an RB-3? he asked.


Carson nodded. Forty-holetone ring. 1932 or thereabouts.


Its a beauty, Singer said, squinting appraisingly in the moonlight. My God. 
Is that the original calfskin head?


Thats right. Carson drummed the dirty head lightly with the tips of his 
fingers. They dont like desert conditions, and this ones always going flat. 
Some day Ill break down and buy a plastic one. Here, take a look. He handed 
the instrument to Singer.


The director turned it over in his hands. Mahogany neck and resonator. Original 
Presto tailpiece, too. The flange is pot-metal, I suppose?


Yes. Its warping a little.


Singer handed it back. A real museum piece. Howd you come by it?


A ranch hand who worked for my grandfather. He had to leave our place in a 
hurry one day. This is one of the things he left behind. It sat for decades on 
top of a bookcase, collecting dust. Until I went to college, got the bluegrass 
bug.


As they spoke, Singer seemed to lose some of his funk. Lets hear how it 
sounds, he said, reaching over and picking up his old Martin. He strummed it 
thoughtfully, tuned a string or two, then swung into the unmistakable bass line 
of Salt Creek. Carson listened, nodding his head in time to the music as he 
vamped background chords. It had been months since hed picked up the 
instrument, and his chops werent what they had been at Harvard, but gradually 
his fingers limbered up and he tried some rolls. Then suddenly Singer was 
playing backup and Carson found himself taking a solo break, smiling almost with 
relief when he found that his pull-offs still sounded crisp and his 
single-string work was clean.


They finished with a shave-and-a-haircut tag and Singer launched immediately 
into Clinch Mountain Backstep. Carson swung into the tune behind him, 
impressed by the directors virtuosity. Singer, meanwhile, seemed wholly 
engrossed, playing with the abandon of a man suddenly freed of a terrific 
burden.


Carson followed Singer through the strong, ancient changes of Rocky Top, 
Mountain Dew, and Little Maggie, feeling more and more comfortable and at 
last allowing himself an up-the-neck break that brought a smile and a nod from 
the director. Singer moved into an elaborate ending tag, and they closed with a 
thunderousG chord. As the echoes died, Carson thought he heard the faint, brief 
sound of clapping from the direction of the residency compound.


Thank you, Guy, Singer said, putting aside the guitar and wiping his hands 
together with satisfaction. We should have done this a long time ago. Youre an 
excellent musician.


Im not in your league, Carson said. But thanks all the same.


A silence fell as the two men stared out into the night. Singer stood up and 
moved into the canteen to fix himself a drink. A disheveled-looking man walked 
by the balcony, counting imaginary numbers on his fingers and muttering loudly 
in what sounded like anguished Russian.That must be Pavel , Carson thought,the 
onede Vacatold me about . The man disappeared around a walkway corner into the 
night. A moment later, Singer returned from inside. His tread was slower now, 
and Carson sensed that whatever mantle of responsibility had temporarily been 
lifted was quickly settling again.


So howve you been keeping, Guy? Singer said, settling back into the chair. 
We havent really spoken for ages.


I suppose Teeces visit kept you busy, Carson said. The moon had once again 
vanished behind thickening clouds, and he sensed, rather than saw, the director 
stiffen at the investigators name.


What a nuisancethat turned out to be, Singer said. He sipped his drink while 
Carson waited. Cant say I think much of Mr. Teece. One of those people who act 
like they know everything, but wont reveal any of it to you. He seems to get a 
lot of his information by setting people against each other. Know what I mean?


I didnt speak with him for very long. He didnt seem too pleased with the work 
were doing, Carson said, choosing his words carefully.


Singer sighed. You cant expect everyone to understand, let alone appreciate, 
what were trying to do here, Guy. Thats especially true of bureaucrats and 
regulators. Ive met people like Teece before. More often than not, theyre 
failed scientists. You cant discount the jealousy factor in people like that. 
He took a swallow. Well, hell have to give us his report sooner or later.


Probably sooner, Carson replied, instantly sorry that hed spoken. He felt 
Singers eyes on him in the dark.


Yes. He left here in an awful hurry. Insisted on taking one of the Hummers and 
driving himself to Radium Springs. Singer took another swallow. You seem to be 
the last one he spoke to.


He said he wanted to save those closest to X-FLU for last.


Hmm. Singer finished his drink and placed the glass heavily on the floor. He 
looked back again at Carson. Well, hell have heard about Levine by now. That 
wont make things any easier for us. Hell be back with a fresh set of 
questions, Ill bet money on it.


Carson felt a cold wave pass through him. Levine? he asked as casually as 
possible.


Singer was still looking at him. Im surprised you havent heard, the rumor 
mill is full of it. Charles Levine, head of the Foundation for Genetic Policy. 
He said some pretty damaging things about us on national television a few days 
ago. GeneDyne stock is down significantly.


It is?


Dropped another five and a half points today. The company has lost almost half 
a billion dollars in shareholders equity. I neednt tell you what that does to 
our stock holdings.


Carson felt numb. He was not worried about the small amount of GeneDyne stock in 
his portfolio; he was worried about something entirely different. What else did 
Levine say?


Singer shrugged. It doesnt really matter. Its all lies, anyway, all shitty 
lies. The problem is, people eat up that sort of stuff. Theyre just looking for 
something else to use against us, something to hold us back.


Carson licked his lips. Hed never heard Singer swear before. He wasnt very 
good atit . So whats going to happen? A look of satisfaction surfaced briefly 
on Singers features. Brent will deal with it, he said. Thats just the kind 
of game he likes.


 





 


The helicopter approached Mount Dragon from the east, across the restricted 
airspace of the White Sands Missile Range, unmonitored by civilian air-traffic 
control. It was after midnight, the moon had disappeared, and the desert floor 
was an endless carpet of black. The helicopters blades were of a noise-baffled 
military design, and the engine was equipped with pink-noise generators to 
minimize the aircrafts sound signature. The running lights and tail beacon were 
off, the pilot using downward-pointing radar to search for its target.


The target was a small transmitter, placed in the center of a reflective sheet 
of Mylar held down by a circle of stones. Next to the transmitter sat a Hummer, 
its engine and headlights off.


The helicopter eased down near the Mylar, the rotor wash tearing and shredding 
the material into confetti. As the runners settled on the desert floor, the 
dark figure of a man stepped out of the Hummer and ran toward the helicopters 
hatch, an oddly shaped metal suitcase imprinted with the GeneDyne logo in one 
hand. The hatch opened, and a pair of hands reached out for the case. As soon as 
the hatch was secured, the helicopter lifted off, banked, and disappeared again 
into the blackness. The Hummer drove away, its shielded lights following the two 
tire tracks that had brought it. A single shred of Mylar, borne aloft in an 
updraft, curled and drifted away. Within moments, a bottomless silence had once 
again settled on the desert.


 





 


That Sunday, the sun rose to a flawless sky. At Mount Dragon, the Fever Tank was 
closed as usual for decontamination, and until the obligatory evening emergency 
drill, the science staff would be left to their own devices.


As his coffee brewed, Carson looked out his window at the black cone of Mount 
Dragon, just becoming visible in the predawn light. Usually, he spent his 
Sundays like the rest of the staff: isolated in his room, laptop for company, 
catching up on background work. But today, he would climb Mount Dragon. Hed 
been promising himself hed do just that since first arriving at the site. 
Besides, the balcony session with Singer had whetted his appetite to play again, 
and he knew the sharp nasal sounds of the banjo strings echoing through the 
quiet residency compound would incite half a dozen irate e-mail messages through 
the lab net.


Dumping the coffee and grounds into a thermos, he slung his banjo over his 
shoulder and headed to the cafeteria to pick up some sandwiches. The kitchen 
staff, usually almost unbearably chipper, were morose and silent. They couldnt 
still be upset about what had happened to Vanderwagon.Must be the early hour , 
Carson thought. Everyone seemed to be in a bad mood these days.


Checking out with the perimeter guard, he set off down the dirt road that wound 
northeastward toward Mount Dragon. Reaching the base, he began the climb toward 
the summit, leaving the road in favor of a steep, narrow trail. The instrument 
felt heavy on his back, and the cinders slid under his feet as he climbed. Half 
an hour of hard work brought him to the top.


It was a classic cinder cone, its center scooped out by the ancient eruption. A 
few mesquite bushes grew along the rim. On the far side, Carson could see a 
cluster of microwave and radio towers, and a small white shed surrounded by a 
chain-link fence.


He turned around, breathing hard, ready to enjoy the view hed worked hard for. 
The desert floor, at the precise instant of dawn, was like a pool of light, 
shimmering and swirling as if there were no surface at all, but merely a play of 
light and color. As the sun climbed fully over the horizon and flung a sheet of 
golden light across the ground, each solitary mesquite and creosotebush attached 
itself to shadows that ran endlessly toward the horizon. Carson could see the 
edge of light race across the desert, from east to west, etching the hills in 
light and the washes in darkness, until it rushed away over the curve of the 
earth, leaving a blanket of light in its wake.


Several miles away, he could see the wrecked outline of the old Anasazi 
pueblohe now knew it was called Kin Klizhinithrowing shadows like black 
slashes across the dusty plain. Still farther away, the desert floor became 
black and mottled: theMalpas lava flow.


He chose a comfortable spot behind a large block of tufa. Putting the banjo 
beside him, he stretched out and shut his eyes, enjoying the delicious solitude.


Shit, came a familiar voice several minutes later.


Startled, Carson looked up and sawde Vaca standing over him, hands on her hips.


What are you doing here? she demanded.


Carson grabbed the handle of his banjo case. His day was already ruined. What 
does it look like? he asked.


Youre in my spot, she said. I always come up here on Sundays.


Without another word, Carson heaved himself to his feet and started to walk 
away. This was one day he was going to avoid an argument with his lab assistant. 
Hed take Roscoe out a good ten miles, do his playing out there.


He halted when he saw the expression on her face.


Are you all right? he asked.


Why shouldnt I be?


Carson looked at her. His instincts told him not to strike up a conversation, 
not to ask, just to get the hell out of there.


You look a little upset, he said.


Why should I trust you?de Vaca asked abruptly.


Trust me about what?


Youre one of them, she said. Acompany man. Beneath the accusatory tones, 
Carson sensed genuine fright.


What is it? he asked.


De Vacaremained silent for a long time. Teece disappeared, she said at last.


Carson relaxed. Of course he did. I talked to him the night before last. He was 
taking a Hummer to Radium Springs. Hell be back tomorrow.


She shook her head angrily. You dont understand. After the storm, his Hummer 
was found out in the desert. Empty.


Shit. Not Teece. He must have gotten lost in the sandstorm.


Thats what theyre saying.


He turned toward her sharply. Whats that supposed to mean?


De Vacawouldnt look at him. I overheard Nye. He was talking to Singer, saying 
that Teece was still missing. They were arguing.


Carson was silent.Nye ... A vision came into his head: a vision of a man 
emerging from the sandstorm, encased in dust, his horse nearly dead from 
exhaustion.


What, you think he was murdered? he asked.


De Vacadid not reply.


How far from Mount Dragon was the Hummer?


I dont know. Why?


Because I saw Nye return with his horse after the dust storm. Hed probably 
been out searching for Teece. He told her the story of what hed seen in the 
stables two evenings before.


De Vacalistened intently. You think hed be outsearching in a dust storm? 
Returning from burying the body, more likely. He and that asshole, Mike Marr.


Carson scoffed. Thats ludicrous. Nye may be a son of a bitch, but hes not a 
murderer.


Marris a murderer.


Marr? Hes as dumb as a lump of busted sod. He doesnt have the brains to 
commit murder.


Yeah? Mike Marr was an intelligence officer in Vietnam. A tunnel rat. He worked 
in the Iron Triangle, probing all those hundreds of miles of secret tunnels, 
looking for Viet-cong and their weapons caches and frying anybody they found 
down there. Thats where he got his limp. He was down a hole, following a 
sniper. He triggered a booby trap and the tunnel collapsed on his legs.


How do you know this?


He told me.


Carson laughed. So youre friends, are you? Was this before or after he 
planted the butt of his shotgun in your gut?


De Vacafrowned. I told you, the scumbag tried to pick me up when I first got 
here. He cornered me in the gym and told me his life story, trying to impress me 
with what a bad dude he was. When that didnt work, he grabbed my ass. He 
thought I was just some kind of easyHispana whore.


He did? What happened?


I told him he was asking for a swift kick in thehuevos.


Carson laughed again. Guess it took that slap at the picnic to cool his ardor. 
Anyway, why would he or anybody else want to murder anOSHA inspector? Thats 
insane. Mount Dragon would be shut down in an instant.


Not if it looked like an accident,De Vaca returned. The storm provided a 
perfect opportunity. Why did Nye take ahorse out into the storm, anyway? And why 
havent we been told about Teeces disappearance? Maybe Teece found out 
something that he wasnt supposed to know.


Like what? For all we know, you could have misinterpreted what you heard. 
After all


I heard it, all right. Were you born yesterday,cabrn? There are billions at 
stake here. You think this is about saving lives, but it isnt. Its about 
money. And if that money is jeopardized ... She looked at him, eyes blazing.


But why kill Teece? We had a terrible accident on Level-5, but the virus didnt 
escape. Only one person died. Theres been no cover-up. Just the opposite.


 Only one person died, de Vaca echoed. You ought to hear yourself. Look, 
something else is going on around here. I dont know what it is, but people are 
acting strange. Havent you noticed? I think the pressure is driving people over 
the edge. If Scopes is so interested in saving lives, why this impossible 
timetable? Were working with the most dangerous virus ever created. One 
misstep, andadis muchachos. Already, peoples lives have been ruined by this 
project. Burt, Vanderwagon, Fillson the zookeeper, Czerny the guard. Not to 
mention Brandon-Smith. How many more lives?


Susana,you obviously dont belong in this industry, Carson replied wearily. 
All great advances in human progress have been accompanied by pain and 
suffering. Were going tosave millions of lives, remember? Even as he spoke the 
words, they sounded hollow andclichd in his ears.


Oh, it all sounds noble enough. But is this really an advance? What gives us 
the right to alter the human genome? The longer Im here, the more I see of what 
goes on, the more I believe what were doing is fundamentally wrong.Nobody has 
the right to remake the human race.


Youre not talking like a scientist. Were not remaking the human race, were 
curing people of the flu.


De Vacawas digging a trench in the cinders with short, angry movements of her 
heel. Were altering human germ cells. Weve crossed the line.


Were getting rid of one small defect in our genetic code.


Defect. What the hell is a defect exactly, Carson? Is having the gene for male 
pattern baldness a defect? Is being short a defect? Being the wrong skin color? 
Having kinky hair? What about being a little too shy? After we eradicate the 
flu, what comes next? Do youreally think science is going to refrain from making 
people smarter, longer-lived, taller, handsomer, nicer? Particularly when 
theres billions of dollars to be made?


Obviously, it would be a highly regulated situation, Carson said.


Regulation! And who is going to decide whats better? You? Me? The government? 
Brent Scopes? No big deal, lets just get rid of the unattractive genes, the 
ones nobody wants. Genes for fatness and ugliness and obnoxiousness. Genes that 
code for unpleasant personality traits. Take off your blinders for a moment, and 
tell me what this means for the integrity of the human race.


Were a long way from being able to do all that, Carson muttered.


Bullshit. Were doing it right now, with X-FLU. The mapping of the human 
genome is almost complete. The changes may start small, but theyll grow. The 
difference in DNA between humans and chimps is less than two percent, and look 
at the vast difference. It wont take big changes in the genome to remake the 
human race into something that wed never evenrecognize .


Carson was silent. It was the same argument he had heard countless times before. 
Only nowdespite his best efforts to resistit was starting to make sense. 
Perhaps he was just tired, and didnt have the energy to spar withde Vaca. Or 
perhaps it was the look on Teeces face when hed said,What Ive got to do cant 
wait.


They sat silently in the shadow of the volcanic rock, looking down toward the 
beautiful cluster of white buildings that were Mount Dragon, trembling and 
insubstantial in the rising heat. Even as he fought against it, Carson could 
feel something crumbling inside him. It was the same feeling hed had when, as a 
teenager, he had watched from a flatbed truck while the ranch was being 
auctioned off piece by piece. He had always believed, more firmly than he 
believed anything else, that the best hopes for mankinds future lay in science. 
And now, for whatever reason, that belief was threatening to dissolve in the 
heat waves rising from the desert floor.


He cleared his throat and shook his head, as if to dislodge the train of 
thought. If your mind is made up, what do you plan to do about it?


Get the hell out of here and let people know whats going on.


Carson shook his head. Whats going on is one-hundred-percent legal, 
FDA-regulated genetic research. You cant stop it.


I can if somebody was murdered. Somethings not right here. Teece found out 
what it was.


Carson looked at her as she sat with her back against the rock, her arms wrapped 
around her knees, the wind whipping her raven hair away from her forehead.Fuck 
it , he thought.Here goes.


Im not sure what Teece knew, he said slowly. But I know what he was looking 
for.


De Vacaseyes narrowed. What are you talking about?


Teece thinks Franklin Burt was keeping a private notebook. Thats what he told 
me the night he left. He also said that Vanderwagon and Burt had elevated levels 
of dopamine and serotonin in their bloodstreams. So did Brandon-Smith, to a 
lesser extent.


De Vacawas silent.


He thought that this journal of Hurts could shed light on whatever might be 
causing these symptoms, Carson added. Teece was going to look for it when he 
got back.


De Vacastood up. So. Are you going to help me?


Help you what?


Find Burts notebook. Learn the secret of Mount Dragon.


 





 


Charles Levine had taken to arriving at Greenough Hall very early, locking his 
office door, and leaving instructions for Ray that he was taking no calls and 
seeing no visitors. He had temporarily passed on his course load to two junior 
instructors, and hed canceled his planned lecture schedule for the coming 
months. Those had been the last pieces of advice fromToni Wheeler before she 
resigned as the foundations public-relations adviser. For once, Levine had 
decided to follow her suggestions. The internal pressure from the college 
trustees was growing, and the telephone messages left for him by the dean of 
faculty were becoming increasingly strident. Levine sensed danger, andagainst 
his naturehad decided to lay low for a while.


So he was surprised to find a man waiting patiently in front of his locked 
office door at seven oclock in the morning. Instinctively, Levine held out his 
hand, but the man only looked back at him.


What can I do for you? Levine said, unlocking the door and showing him in. The 
man sat down stiffly, gripping his briefcase across his lap. He had bushy gray 
hair and high cheekbones, and looked about seventy.


My name is JacobPerlstein, he said. I am a historian with the Holocaust 
Research Foundation in Washington.


Ah, yes. I know your work well. Your reputation is without peer.Perlstein was 
known around the world for the unflagging zeal with which he brought to light 
old records from Nazi death camps and the Jewish ghettos of eastern Europe. 
Levine settled into his chair, puzzled by the mans hostile air.


I will come to the point, the man said, his black eyes peering at Levine 
through contracted eyebrows.


Levine nodded.


You have claimed that your Jewish father saved Jewish lives in Poland. He was 
caught by the Nazis and murdered by Mengele at Auschwitz.


Levine did not like the wording of the question, but he said nothing.


Murdered through medical experimentation. Is that correct?


Yes, said Levine.


And how do you know this? the man asked.


Excuse me, Mr.Perlstein, but Im not sure I appreciate the tone of your 
questions.


Perlsteincontinued to stare at him. The question is simple enough. I would like 
you to tell me how you know this.


Levine strove to conceal his irritation. He had told this story in countless 
interviews and at innumerable fund-raisers. SurelyPerlstein had heard it before. 
Because I did the research myself. I knew my father had died at Auschwitz, but 
that was all. My mother died when I was very young. Ihad to know what happened 
to him. So I spent almost four months in East Germany and Poland, combing Nazi 
files. It was a dangerous time, and I was doing dangerous work. When I found 
outwell, you can imagine how I felt. It changed my view of science, of 
medicine. It gave me deeply ambivalent feelings about genetic engineering, which 
in turn


The files on your father, the man interrupted brusquely. Where did you find 
them?


In Leipzig, where all such files are kept. Surely you already know this.


And your mother, pregnant, escaped, and brought you to America. You took her 
name, Levine, rather than your fathers name, Berg.


Thats correct.


A touching story, saidPerlstein. Odd that Berg is not a commonly Jewish 
name.


Levine sat up. I dont like the tone of your voice, Mr.Perlstein. I must ask 
you to say whatever it is youve come to say, and leave.


The man opened his briefcase and took out a folder, which he laid distastefully 
on the edge of Levinesdesk. Please examine these documents. He pushed the 
folder toward Levine with the edge of his fingers.


Opening the folder, Levine found a thin sheaf of photocopied documents. He 
recognized them immediately: the faded gothic typeface, the stamped swastikas, 
brought back memories of those horrible weeks behind the Iron Curtain, sifting 
through boxes of paper in damp archives, when only an overwhelming desire to 
know the truth had kept him going.


The first document was a color reproduction of a Nazi ID. card, identifying 
oneHeinrich Berg as anObersturmfhrer in theSchutzstaffel the German 
SSstationed at the concentration camp of Ravensbrueck. The photograph still 
appeared to be in excellent shape, the family resemblance extraordinary.


He pawed through the rest of the papers quickly, in growing disbelief. There 
were camp documents, prison rosters, a report from the army company that 
liberated Ravensbrueck, a letter from a survivor bearing an Israeli postmark, 
and a sworn affidavit. The documents showed that a young woman from Poland 
named Miyrna Levine had been sent to Ravensbrueck for processing. While there, 
she had come into contact with Berg, become his mistress, and later been 
transferred to Auschwitz. There she had survived the war by informing on 
resistance movements within the camp.


Levine looked atPerlstein. The man was staring back, the eyes dry and 
accusatory.


How dare you peddle these lies, Levine hissed when he had at last found his 
voice.


Perlsteins breath rasped inward. So, you continue to deny. I expected as much. 
How dareyou peddleyour lies! Your father was an SS officer and your mother a 
traitor who sent hundreds to their deaths. You are not personally guilty of your 
parents sins. But the lie you are living compounds their evil, and makes a 
mockery of the work you do. You claim to be searching for truth for everyone 
else, yet the truth doesnt apply to you. Youwho allowed your fathers name to 
be carved among the righteous at Yad Vashem:Heinrich Berg, an SS officer! It is 
an insult to the true martyrs. And this insult shall be made known. The mans 
hands trembled as they clutched the leather case.


Levine struggled to remain calm. These documents are forgeries, and you are a 
fool to believe them. The East German communists were famous for faking


Since this was brought to my attention several days ago, the originals have 
been examined by three independent experts in Nazi documents. They are 
absolutely genuine. There can be no mistake.


Suddenly, Levine was on his feet. Get out! he screamed. Youre just a tool 
for the revisionists. Get out, and take this filth with you! He stepped 
forward, raising one arm threateningly above his head.


The elderly man tried to snatch the folder, ducking in alarm, and the contents 
spilled onto the floor. Ignoring them, he retreated to the outer office, then 
out into the corridor beyond. Levine slammed his office door and leaned against 
it, the pulse hammering in his head. It was an outrageous, vicious lie, and he 
would clear it up quickly ... he had certified copies of the real documents, 
thank God ... he would simply hire an expert to debunk the forgeries. The 
slander against his murdered father was like a stab through the heart, but this 
was not the first time he had been foully attacked and it would not be the last


His eye fell on the folder, its documents and their filthy lies lying scattered 
across the floor, and a sudden, terrible thought struck him.


He rushed to a locked filing cabinet, jammed in a key, and reached for a folder 
marked, simply, Berg.


The folder was empty.


Scopes,he whispered.


The next day, with a tone of infinite regret, the BostonGlobe carried the story 
on the front page of its second section.


 





 


Muriel Page, a volunteer for the Salvation Army store on Pearl Street, watched 
the young man with the slept-on hair pawing through a rack of sport coats. It 
was the second time he had come in that week, and Muriel couldnt help feeling 
sorry for him. He didnt look like a self-medicatorhe was clean and alertno 
doubt just a young man down on his luck. He had a boyish, slightly awkward face 
that reminded her of her own grown son, married now and living in California. 
Except this young man was sothin . He certainly wasnt eating right.


The young man flipped through the rack at high speed, glancing at the jackets as 
they went by.


He stopped suddenly and pulled one out, sliding it on over his black T-shirt as 
he walked toward a nearby mirror. Muriel, watching out of the corner of her eye, 
had to admire the mans taste. It was a very nice jacket, with narrow lapels and 
little overlapping triangles and squares in red and yellow floating on a field 
of black. Probably dated from the early fifties. Very stylish, but not 
somethingshe thought a little mournfully that most young men today would like. 
Clothes had been so much classier when she was a young lady.


The young man turned around, examined himself from various angles, and grinned. 
He came walking toward the counter, and Muriel knew she had a sale.


She removed the tag. Five dollars, she said with a cheerful smile.


The young mans face fell behind the black glasses. Oh, he said. I was hoping 
...


Muriel hesitated for just an instant. The five dollars probably represented 
several meals to him, and he looked hungry. She leaned forward and spoke 
conspiratorially. Ill let you have it for three, if you wont tell anyone. 
She fingered the sleeve. Thats real wool, too.


The man brightened, smoothing his unruly cowlick with a self-conscious hand. 
Very kind of you, he said, fishing in his pocket and removing three crumpled 
bills.


Its a lovely jacket, Muriel said. When I was a young lady, a man wearing a 
jacket like that... well! She winked. The young man stared back at her, and 
instantly she felt silly. Briskly, she wrote out a receipt and handed it to him. 
I hope you enjoy it, she said.


I will.


She leaned forward again. You know, just across the street we have a very nice 
place where you can get a bite of hot food. Its free and there are no strings 
attached.


The man looked suspicious. No religious harangues?


None at all. We dont believe in forcing religion on people. Just a hot, 
nourishing meal. All we require is that you be sober and drug-free.


Really? he asked. I thought the Salvation Army was a religious group of some 
kind.


We are. But a hungry person isnt likely to be thinking about spiritual 
salvation, just his next meal. Feed the body and you free the soul.


The man thanked her and exited. Taking a covert peek out the window, she was 
gratified to see him head directly for the soup kitchen, take a tray at the 
door, and get in line, striking up a conversation with the man in front of him.


Muriel felt a tear well up in her eye. That absentminded, slightly lost 
expression was so much like her sons. She hoped that whatever had gone wrong in 
his life would straighten itself out before too long.


The following morning, the Pearl Street Salvation Army store and soup kitchen 
received an anonymous donation in the amount of a quarter of a million dollars, 
and no one was more surprised than Muriel Page when she was told it was in honor 
of her work.


 





 


Carson andde Vaca walked silently down the trail and back to the Mount Dragon 
complex. Outside the covered walkway leading to the residency compound, they 
stopped.


So?de Vaca prompted, breaking the silence.


So what?


You still havent told me if youre going to help me find the notebook, she 
said in a fierce whisper.


Susana,Ive got work to do. So do you, for that matter. That notebook, if it 
exists, isnt going anywhere. Let me think about this a while. OK?


De Vacalooked at him for a moment. Then she turned without a word and walked 
into the compound.


Carson watched her walk away. Then, with a sigh, he climbed the staircase to the 
second floor, stepping through the doorway into the cool, dark corridor beyond. 
Maybe Teece had been right about Burts secret notebook. And maybede Vaca was 
right about Nye. In which case, what Teece thought didnt matter as much 
anymore. But what concernedCarson most was that horrible moment on top of Mount 
Dragon, when hed suddenly felt the strength of his convictions turn soft. Since 
his father died and the last ranch had failed, Carsons love of sciencehis 
faith in the good it could accomplishhad meant everything to him. Now, if ...


 


But he wouldnt think about it any more today. Maybe tomorrow, hed have the 
strength to face it again.


Back in his room, Carson stared at the drab white walls for a minute, summoning 
the energy to switch on his laptop and begin sorting through the X-FLU II test 
data. His eye fell upon the battered banjo case.


Hell with it, he thought. Hed play a little; without picks, to keep the noise 
down. Just five minutes, maybe ten. Get his mind off all this. Then hed get to 
work.


As he lifted the five-string from the case, his eye fell on a folded piece of 
paper lying on the yellowing felt beneath. Frowning, he picked it up and 
unfolded it on his knee.


 


Dear Guy,


Ive always hated this infernal instrument. For once, how-ever, I hope you 
practice with regularity. Youve apparently already left for the morning, and I 
cant delay my departure any further. This seems the bestindeed, onlyway to 
contact you.


As you know, Ill begone for a couple of days. Since we spoke, I have tried 
without success to learn where Burt might have hidden his notebook. You know the 
Mount Dragon complex, you know the surrounding area, andmost importantlyyou 
know Burts work. Its quite possible that, perhaps inadvertently, Burt left 
behind a clue to the whereabouts of the notebook. Would you please look through 
Burts electronic notes and see if you can find such a clue?


Do not, however, try to find the notebook yourself. Let me do that when I return 
from my journey. Meanwhile, please dont mention this to anyone.


Had I felt there was more time, I would not have burdened you with this. I have 
a feeling you are someone I can trust. I hope I am not mistaken.


Yours,


Gil Teece


 


Carson reread the hastily scrawled note. Teece must have come looking for him 
the morning of the dust storm and, not finding him, left the message in the one 
place Carson would be most likely to find it. When hed opened the case on the 
canteen balcony, the night had been dark and he hadnt seen the note. He felt a 
momentary anxious stab as he thought about how easily the paper could have 
fallen unnoticed to the floor of the balcony, to be discovered later by Singer. 
Or maybe Nye.


He angrily shook aside the thought. Anothercouple of days and Ill be as 
paranoid asde Vaca.Or even Burt . Shoving the note into his back pocket, he 
punchedde Vacas extension on the residency intercom.


 





 


 So this is where you live, Carson? It figures theyd give you one of the 
better views. All I see from my room is the back end of the incinerator.


De Vacamoved away from the window. They say the way a person decorates their 
own space is a good barometer of personality, she went on, scanning the bare 
walls. Figures.


She leaned over his shoulder while he booted up his residency laptop.


About a month before he left Mount Dragon, Burts entries began to grow 
shorter, Carson said as he logged in. If Teece is right, thats the time he 
started keeping the illegal journal. If there are any clues as to its 
whereabouts in Burts on-line notes, thats where I figure we should start 
looking.


He began paging through the log. As the formulas, lists, and data scrolled by, 
Carson was reminded irresistibly of the first time he had read the journal, a 
lifetime ago, on his first workday in the Fever Tank. His heart sank as he 
skimmed yet again the failed experiments, the recordings of hopes that were 
alternately lifted, then shattered. It all felt uncomfortably close to home.


As he scrolled on, the scientific notes were increasingly leavened by 
conversations with Scopes, personal entries, even dreams.


 


May 20


I dreamt lost night that I was wandering, lost, in the desert. I walked toward 
the mountains, and it grew darker and darker. Then a great light appeared, like 
a second dawn, and a vast mushroom cloud rose from behind the mountain range. I 
knew I was witnessing the Trinity explosion. I saw the wave of overpressure 
bearing down on me, and then I woke up.


 


Damn, Carson said, if he confides stuff like this to his on-line notes, why 
would he bother keeping a secret diary?


Keep going, urgedde Vaca.


He continued scanning.


 


June 2


When I shook out my shoes this morning, a little scorpion fell out and landed on 
the floor all in a tizzy. I felt sorry for him and brought him outside. ...


 


Keep going, keep going,de Vaca repeated impatiently.


Carson continued scrolling. Poetry began appearing among the data tables and 
technical notes. Finally, as Burts madness emerged, the log degenerated into a 
confusing welter of images, nightmares, and meaningless phrases. Then there was 
the last horrifying conversation with Scopes; a burst of apocalyptic mania; and 
the end-of-file marker was reached.


They sat back and looked at each other.


Theres nothing here, Carson said.


Were not thinking like Burt,de Vaca said. If you were Burt, and you wanted 
to plant a clue in the record, how would you do it?


Carson shrugged. I probably wouldnt.


Yes, you would. Teece was right: subconscious or conscious, its human nature. 
First, youd have to assume that Scopes was going to read everything. Right?


Right.


So what would Scopes beleast likely to read in here?


There was a silence.


The poetry, they both said at once.


They scrolled back to the point in the journal where the poems first appeared, 
then paged slowly forward. Most, but not all, were on scientific subjects: the 
structure of DNA, quarks and gluons, the Big Bang and string theory.


You notice that these poems start around the same time the journal entries get 
shorter? Carson asked.


No ones ever written poetry quite like this before,deVaca replied. In its 
own way, its beautiful. She read aloud:


 


There is a shadow on this glass plate.


A long exposure in the emission range


Of alpha hydrogen


Yields satisfactory results.


M82 was once ten billion stars,


Now it has returned to the slow lazy dust of creation.


Is this the mighty work


Of the same God who fires the Sun?


 


I dontget it, she said.


Messier 82 is a very strange galaxy in Virgo. The whole galaxy blew up, 
annihilating ten billion stars.


Interesting, saidde Vaca. But I dont think its what were looking for.


They scrolled on.


 


Block house in the sheeted sun


The ravens rise as you approach,


They circle and float, crying at the trespass,


Waiting for emptiness to return.


The Great Kiva


Is half-filled with sand,


But the sipapu


Lies open.


Itempties its silent cry into the fourth world.


When you leave


The ravens settle back,


Croaking with satisfaction.


 


Beautiful, saidde Vaca. And somehow familiar. I wonder what this black house 
is?


Carson suddenly sat up. Kin Klizhini, he said. Its Apache for Black House. 
Hes writing about the ruin just south of here.


You know Apache?de Vaca asked, looking at him curiously.


Most of our ranch hands were Apache, Carson said. I picked up some stuff from 
them when I was a kid.


There was a silence while they read the poem again.


Hell, said Carson. I dont see anything here.


Wait.De Vaca held up her hand. The Great Kiva was the underground religious 
chamber of the Anasazi Indians. The center of the kiva contained a hole, called 
thesipapu , that connected this world with the spirit world below. They called 
that world the Fourth World. We live in the Fifth World.


I know that, Carson said. But I still dont see any clues here.


Read the poem again. If the kiva was filled with sand, how could the sipapu be 
open?


Carson looked at her. Youre right.


She looked at Carson and grinned. At last,cabrn, you learn to speak the 
truth.


 





 


They decided to take the horses, in order to be back in time for the evening 
emergency drill. The sun had passed the meridian and the day was at its hottest.


Carson watchedde Vaca throw a saddle on the rat-tailed Appaloosa. I guess 
youve ridden before, he said.


Damn right,de Vaca replied, buckling the flank cinch and looping a canteen 
over the horn. You think Anglos have a monopoly? When I was a kid, I had a 
horse namedBarbarian . He was a Spanish Barb, the horse of the Conquest.


Ive never seen one, Carson said.


Theyre the best desert horse you can find. Small, stout, and tough. My father 
got some from an old Spanish herd on the Romero Ranch, Those horses had never 
interbred with Anglo horses. Old Romero said he and his ancestors always shot 
any damn gringo stallions that came sniffing around their mares. She laughed 
and swung herself into the saddle. Carson liked the way she sat a horse: 
balanced and easy.


He mounted Roscoe and they rode to the perimeter gate, punched in the access 
code, then reined toward Kin Klizhini. The ancient ruin reared up on the horizon 
about two miles away: two walls poking up from the desert floor, surrounded by 
mounds of rubble.


De Vacatilted her head back, gave her hair a shake. In spite of everything 
thats happened, I never get tired of the beauty of this place, she said as 
they rode.


Carson nodded. When I was sixteen, he said, I spent a summer on a ranch at 
the northern end of the Jornada, called the Diamond Bar.


Really? Is the desert up there like it is down here?


Similar. As you move northward, the FraCristbal Mountains come around in an 
arc. The rain shadow from the mountains falls across there and it gets a little 
greener.


What were you, a ranch hand?


Yeah, after my dad lost the ranch I cowboyed around for the summer before going 
to college. That Diamond Bar was a big ranch, about four hundred sections 
between the SanPascual Mountains and the SierraOscura. The real desert started 
at the southern edge of the ranch, at a place called Lava Gate. Theres a huge 
lava flow that runs almost to the foot of the FraCristbal Mountains. Between 
the lava flow and the mountains is a narrow gap, maybe a hundred yards across. 
The old Spanish trail used to go through there. He laughed. Lava Gate was like 
the gates of hell. You didnt want to go south from there, you might never come 
back. And now here I am, right in the middle of it.


My ancestors came up that trail withOate in 1598, saidde Vaca.


Upthe Spanish trail? Carson asked. They crossed the Jornada?


De Vacanodded, squinting against the sun.


How did they find water?


Theres that doubting look on your face again,cabrn. My grandfather told me 
they waited until dusk at the last water, and then drove their stock all night, 
stopping at about four in the morning to graze. Farther on, their Apache guide 
brought them to a spring called theOjo delguila. Eagle Spring. Its location is 
now lost. At least, thats what my grandfather said.


There was a question Carson had been curious about for some time, but had been 
afraid to ask. Where, exactly, did you get the nameCabeza de Vaca?


De Vacalooked at him truculently. Whered you get the name Carson?


You have to admit, Head of Cow is a little odd for a name.


So is Son of Car 


Forgive me for asking, Carson said, mentally reprimanding himself for not 
knowing better.


If you knew your Spanish history,de Vaca said, youd know about the name. In 
1212, a soldier in the Spanish army marked a pass with a cow skull, and led a 
Spanish army to victory over the Moors. That soldier was given a royal title and 
the right to use the nameCabeza de Vaca.


Fascinating, Carson yawned.And probably apocryphal , he thought.


Alonso Cabeza de Vacawas one of the first European settlers in America in 1598. 
We come from one of the most ancient and important European families in America. 
Not that I pay any attention to that kind of thing.


But Carson could see from the proud look on her face that she paid a great deal 
of attention to that kind of thing.


They rode for a while, saying nothing, enjoying the heat of the day and the 
gentle roll of the horses.De Vaca rode slightly ahead, her lower body moving 
with the horse, her torso relaxed and quiet, left hand on the reins and right 
hooked in her belt loop. As they approached the ruin, she stopped, waiting for 
him to catch up.


He drew alongside and she looked at him, an amused gleam in her violet eyes.


Last one there isapendejo , she said suddenly, leaning forward and spurring 
her horse.


By the time Carson could recover and urge Roscoe forward, she was three lengths 
ahead, the horse going at a dead run, its head down, ears flattened, hooves 
throwing gravel back into Carsons face. He urged Roscoe on with urgent, light 
heel jabs.


Carson edged up on her and the two horses raced alongside, leaping the low 
mesquite bushes, the wind roaring in their ears.- The ruin loomed closer, the 
great stone walls etched against the blue sky. Carson knew he had the better 
mount, yet he watched in disbelief asde Vaca leaned close to her horses ear, 
urging him forward in a low but electric voice. Carson jabbed and shouted in 
vain. They flashed between the two ruined walls,de Vaca now half a length ahead, 
her hair whipping like a black flame behind her. Ahead of them, Carson saw a low 
wall rise suddenly out of the brown sands. A group of ravens burst upward with a 
raucous crying as they both took the wall at a leap and were suddenly past the 
ruin. They slowed to a lope, then a trot, turning the horses back, cooling them 
off.


Carson looked over atde Vaca. Her face was flushed, and her hair wild. A fleck 
of foam from the sweaty horse lay across her thigh. She grinned. Not bad, she 
said. You almost caught me.


Carson flicked his reins. You cheated, he said, hearing the peevishness in his 
own voice. You got the jump on me.


You have the better horse, she said.


Youre lighter.


She smirked. Face it,cabrn, you lost.


Carson smiled grimly. Ill catch you next time.


Nobody catches me.


Reaching the ruin, they dismounted, tying their horses to a rock. The Great 
Kiva was usually in the very center of the pueblo, or else far outside its 
borders,de Vaca said. Lets hope it hasnt collapsed completely.


The ravens circled far overhead, their distant cries hanging in the dry air.


Carson looked around curiously. The walls were formed from stones of shaped 
lava, cemented together with adobe. Walls and room blocks rose on three sides of 
the U-shaped ruin, the fourth side opening onto a central plaza. Potsherds and 
pieces of flint littered the ground beneath their feet. Much of it was covered 
by sand.


They walked into the plaza, long overgrown with yucca and mesquite.De Vaca knelt 
down by a large fire-ant hill. The ants had fled inside to escape the noonday 
heat, and she carefully smoothed the gravel with her ringers, examining it 
closely.


What are you doing? Carson asked.


Instead of answering,de Vaca picked something off the mound and held it between 
thumb and forefinger. Take a look, she said.


She placed something in his palm, and he squinted at it: a perfect little 
turquoise bead, with a hole no wider than a human hair drilled through its 
center.


They polished their turquoises using blades of grass, she said. No one is 
really sure how they got the holes so small and perfect, without the use of 
metal. Perhaps by twirling a tiny sliver of bone against the turquoise for 
hours. She stood up. Come on, lets find that kiva.


They moved to the center of the plaza. Theres nothing here, Carson said.


Well separate and search beyond the perimeter,de Vaca replied. Ill take the 
northern semicircle, you take the southern.


Carson moved out beyond the edge of the ruin, tracing a widening arc, scanning 
the desert as he did so. The huge storm and drying winds had erased any signs of 
footprints; it was impossible to tell whether Burt had been there or not. 
Centuries before, the subterranean kiva would have had a roof flush with the 
desert floor, with only a smoke hole on the surface revealing its presence. 
While it was likely the roof had collapsed long ago, there was a chance that it 
had remained intact and was now completely concealed by the shifting sands.


Carson found the kiva about one hundred yards to the southwest. The roof had 
collapsed, and the kiva was now nothing but a circular depression in the desert, 
thirty feet across and perhaps seven feet deep. Its walls were of shaped rock, 
from which projected a few stubs of ancient roof timbers.De Vaca came running at 
his call, and together they stood at its edge. Near the bottom, Carson could 
make out places where the walls were still plastered in adobe mud and red paint. 
At the base, the wind had piled up a crescent of sand, completely burying the 
floor.


So wheres this sipapu? Carson asked.


It was always in the exact center of the kiva, saiddeVaca. Here, help me 
down. She scrambled down the side, paced off the center, then knelt, digging in 
the sand with her fingers. Carson dropped down and began to help. Six inches 
into the sand, their hands scraped against flatrock. De Vaca brushed the sand 
away excitedly, moving the stone aside.


There, in the sipapu hole, sat a large plastic specimen jar, its GeneDyne label 
still intact. Inside the jar was a small book with dented corners, bound in a 
stained, olive-colored canvas.


Madre de Dios,de Vacawhispered. She lifted the jar out of the sipapu, pried 
open the lid, and pulled out the journal, opening it as Carson looked on.


The first page was headedMay 18 . Below the date, the page was covered in dense, 
precise handwriting, so tiny that two lines were written in each ruled space.


Carson watched asde Vaca flipped through the pages incredulously. We cant 
bring this back to Mount Dragon, he said.


I know. So lets get started.


She turned to the beginning.


 





 


May 18


Dearest Amiko,


I write to you from the ruins of a sacred Anasazi kiva, not far from my 
laboratory.


When we were packing my things, that last morning before I flew to Albuquerque, 
I stuck this old journal into the pocket of my jacket, on impulse. Id always 
planned to use it for bird sightings. But I think now Ive found a better use 
for it.


I miss you so terribly. The people here are friendly, for the most part. Some, 
like the director, John Singer, I think I can even count as friends. But we are 
associates before we are friends here, all pushing toward one common goal. There 
is pressure upon us; tremendous pressure to move ahead, to succeed. I feel 
myself drawing inward under such pressure. The endless desolation of this awful 
desert magnifies my loneliness. It is as if we have stepped off the edge of the 
world.


Paper and pencil are forbidden here. Brent wants to keep track of everything we 
do. Sometimes, I believe he even wants to keep track of what we think. Ill use 
this small journal as my lifeline to you. There are things I want totell you, in 
good time. Things that will never appear in the on-line records at GeneDyne. 
Brent is, in many ways, still a boy, with boyish ideas; and one of those ideas 
is that he can control what others do and think.


I hope you will not worry when I tell you such things. But I forget; when you 
read this, it will be with me by your side. And these will be but memories. 
Perhaps the passage of time will allow me to laugh at myself and my petty 
complaints. Or feel pride at what we have accomplished here.


Its a long walk out to this kiva, and you know how poor a rider I am. But I 
think it does me good, to spend this time with you. The journal will be safe 
here, under the sand. Nobody leaves the facility except the security director, 
and he seems to have his own strange desert business to attend to.


I will come again, soon.


 


May 25


My darling wife,


It is a terribly hot day. I keep forgetting how much water one needs in this 
frightful desert. I will have to bring two canteens next time.


It is no wonder, in this waterless landscape, that the entire religion of the 
Anasazi was directed at the control of nature. Here, in the kiva, is where the 
rain priests called on the Thunderbird to bring the rain.


 


Oh, male divinity!


With your moccasins of dark cloud, come to us,


With the zigzaglightning flung out on high over your head, come to us soaring,


With these I wish the foam floating on the flowing water over the roots of the 
great corn,


Happily abundant dark clouds I desire,


Happily abundant dark mists I desire,


Happily may fair blue corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you.


 


This was how they prayed. It is a very ancient desire, this thirst for knowledge 
and power, this hunger to control the secrets of nature, to bring the rain.


But the rain did not come. Just as it does not come today.


What would they think if they could see us now, laboring day after day, in our 
warrens beneath the earth, working not only to control nature, but to shape it 
to our will?


I can write no more today. The problem Ive been given is demanding all my time 
and energy. Its hard to escape it, even here. But I will return soon, my love.


 


June 4


Dearest Amiko,


Please forgive my long absence from this place. Our schedule in the laboratory 
has been fiendish. Were it not for the requisite decontaminations, I believe 
Brent would have us working round the clock.


Brent. How much have I told you about him?


Its strange. I never knew that I could feel such profound respect for a man, 
and yet dislike him at the same time. I suppose I might even hate him. Even when 
hes not actually pushing me to work faster, I can still see his face, frowning, 
because the results are not as he would like. I hear him whispering in my 
ear:Just five more minutes. Just one more test series.


Brent is probably the most complex person Ive ever met. Brilliant, silly, 
immature, cool, ruthless. He has an enormous internal storehouse of witty 
aphorisms which he brings forth for any occasion, quoting them with great 
delight. He gives away millions while arguing bitterly over hundreds. He can be 
suffocatingly kind to one person and unbearably cruel to the next. His knowledge 
of music is extraordinary. He owns Beethovens last and finest piano, the one 
that supposedly prompted him to write his final three sonatas. I can only guess 
at the price.


Ill never forget the first time I spoke to him. It was when I was still working 
in GeneDyne Manchester, shortly after my breakthrough with GEF, the filtration 
system. Our preliminary results were excellent, and everyone was excited. The 
system promised to cut production time in half. The team in the transfection lab 
were beside themselves. They told me they were going to nominate me for 
president.


Thats when the call came from Brent Scopes. I assumed it was congratulatory; 
perhaps another bonus. But instead, he asked me to come to Boston, on the next 
plane. I had to drop everything, he said, to assume leadership of a critical 
GeneDyne project. He didnt even allow me to finish the final tests on GEF; I 
had to leave that to my staff at Manchester.


You remember my trip to Boston. Im sure I must have seemed evasive on my 
return, and for that I am sorry. Brent has a way of pulling you in behind his 
banner, of electrifying you with his own enthusiasm. But there seems no reason 
not to tell you about it now. It will be in all the newspapers in a matter of 
months, anyway.


My taskputting it simplywas to synthesize artificial blood. To use the vast 
resources of GeneDyne to genetically engineer human blood. The preparatory work 
had already been done, Brent said. But he wanted someone with my background, 
and my expertise, to see it through. My work on the GEF filtration process made 
me the perfect choice.


It was anoble idea, I admit, and Brents delivery was superb. Never again would 
hospitals suffer from blood shortages and emergencies, he said. No longer would 
people have to fear contaminated transfusions. No longer would people with rare 
blood types die for lack of a match. GeneDynes artificial blood would be free 
of contamination, would match all types, and would be available in limitless 
quantities.


And so I left ManchesterI left you, our home, everything I hold dearand came 
to this desolate place. To pursue a dream of Brent Scopes, and, with any luck, 
make the world a better place. The dream lives. But its cost is very high.


 


June 12


Dearest Amiko,


I have decided to use this journal to continue the story I began in my last 
entry. Perhaps that was my purpose all along. All I can tell you is that, after 
leaving this kiva on my last visit, I felt a tremendous sense of release. So I 
will continue, for my own sake if not for posterity.


I remember one morning, perhaps four months ago. I was holding a flask of blood. 
It was the blood of a human being, yet it had been manufactured by a form of 
life as far removed from human as possible:streptococcus , the bacterium that 
lives in the soil, among other places. I had spliced the human hemoglobin gene 
intostrep and forced it to produce human hemoglobin. Vast quantities of human 
hemoglobin.


Why usestreptococcus ? Because we know more aboutstrep than about almost any 
other form of life on the planet. We have mapped its entire genome. We know how 
to snip apart its DNA, tuck in a gene, and sew everything back together.


You will forgive me if I simplify the process. Using cells taken from the lining 
of a human cheek (my own), I removed a single gene located on the fourth 
chromosome, 16s rDNA, locus D3401. I multiplied it a millionfold, inserted the 
copies into thestrep bacteria, and grew them in large vats filled with a protein 
solution. Despite how it sounds, my dear, this part wasnt difficult. It has 
been done many times before with other genes, including the gene for human 
insulin.


We made this bacteriumthis extremely primitive form of lifeever so slightly 
human. Each bacterium carried a tiny, invisible piece of a human being inside 
it. This human piece, in essence, took over the functions of the bacterium and 
forced it to do one thing: produce human hemoglobin.


And that, to me, is the magicthe irreducible truth of genetics, the promise 
that will never grow stale.


But this is also where the difficult work really began.


Perhaps I should explain. The hemoglobin molecule consists of a protein group, 
calleda globin, with fourheme groups riding shotgun on it. It collects oxygen in 
the lungs, exchanges this oxygen with carbon dioxide in the tissues, and then 
dumps carbon dioxide into the lungs to be exhaled.


A very clever, very complicated molecule.


Unfortunately, hemoglobin by itself is deadly poisonous. If you injected naked 
hemoglobin into a human being, it would probably be fatal. The hemoglobin needs 
to be enclosed in something. Normally, this would be a red blood cell.


We therefore had to design something that would seal up the hemoglobin, make it 
safe. A microscopic sack, if you will. But something that would breathe, that 
would allow oxygen and carbon dioxide to pass through.


Our solution was to create these little sacks out of pieces of membrane from 
ruptured cells. I used a special enzyme called lyase.


Then came the final problem: to purify the hemoglobin. This may sound like the 
simplest problem of all.


It was not.


We grew the bacteria in huge vats. As the amount of hemoglobin produced by the 
bacteria built up, it poisoned the vat. Everything died. We were left with a 
soup of crap: molecules of hemoglobin mixed with dead and dying bacteria; bits 
of DNA and RNA; chromosomal fragments; rogue bacteria.


The trick was to purify this soupto separate the healthy hemoglobin from all 
the junkso that we would end up with pure human hemoglobin and nothing else. 
And it had to beextremely pure. Getting a blood transfusion is not like taking a 
tiny pill. Manypints of this substance might go inside a human being. Even the 
slightest impurities, multiplied by those quantities, could cause unpredictable 
side effects.


It was around this time that we got word of what was going on back in Boston. 
The marketing people were already studyingin great secrecyhow to market our 
genetically engineered blood. They assembled focus groups of ordinary citizens. 
They discovered that most people are terrified of getting a blood transfusion 
because they fear contamination: from hepatitis, from AIDS, from other diseases. 
People wanted to be reassured that the blood they were receiving was pure and 
safe.


So our unfinished product was dubbedPurBlood . And the decree came down from 
corporate headquarters: henceforth, in all papers, journals, notes, and 
conversations, the product would be called PurBlood. Anyone calling it by its 
trade name, Hemocyl, would be disciplined. In particular, the marketing decree 
stated, any use of the word genetic engineering or artificial wasverboten. 
The public did not like the idea of genetically engineeredanything . They didnt 
like genetically engineered tomatoes, they didnt like genetically engineered 
milk, and theyreally hated the phrase genetically engineered artificial human 
blood. I guess I cant blame them, really. The thought of having such a 
substance pumped into something as inviolate as ones own veins has to be 
disturbing to a layman.


My love, the sun is growing low in the sky, and I must leave. But I will return 
tomorrow. Ill tell Brent I need a day off. Its not a lie. If you only knew how 
pouring out my soul to you on these pages has lifted a great weight from my 
shoulders.


 


June 13


Dearest Amiko,


I come now to the most difficult part of my story. The part, in fact, that I was 
not sure until now I could bring myself to tell you. I may yet burn these pages, 
if my resolve weakens. But it is a secret I can no longer keep within myself.


... So I began the purification process. We fermented the solution to free the 
hemoglobin from its bacterial prison. We centrifuged it to clear out the refuse. 
We forced it through ceramic micron filters. We fractionated it. To no avail.


You see, hemoglobin is extremely delicate. You cannot heat it; you cannot use 
overly strong chemicals; you cannot sterilize or distill it. Each time I 
attempted to purify the hemoglobin, I ended up destroying it. The molecule lost 
its delicate structure: it denatured. It became useless.


A more delicate purification process was required. And so Brent suggested we try 
my own GEF filtration process.


I realized immediately that he was right. There was no reason not to. It must 
have been misplaced modesty on my part that kept it from occurring to me before.


The process Id been working on in Manchester was a type of modified gel 
electrophoresis, an electric potential that drew precisely the correct molecular 
weight molecule through a set of gel filters.


Setting up the process took time, howevertime during which Brent grew 
increasingly impatient. At last, I was able to purify six pints of PurBlood 
using the gel process.


The GEF process was successful beyond my wildest hopes. Using four of the six 
pints as samples, I was able to prove the mixture was pure down to sixteen parts 
per million. Thus, out of onemillion hemoglobin molecules, there were no more 
than sixteen foreign particles. And probably less.


This may sound pure. And it is pure enough for most drugs. But, in this case, it 
was not. The FDA had decided, with typical capriciousness, that 100 parts per 
billion would be safe. Sixteen parts per million was not. The number 16it will 
haunt me forever. In scientific terms, a purity of 1.6 X 10-7.


Please dont misunderstand. I believedand I still believethat PurBlood is 
much purer than that. I just couldntprove it. The difference is crucial. But to 
me, the distinction was unfair and artificial.


There was one test for puritythe ultimate testthat I had not performed, 
because it was discouraged under FDA regulations. I secretly performed that 
test. Please forgive me, my loveone night, in the low-security lab, I opened a 
vein in my arm and bled out a pint. Then I replaced it with a transfusion of 
PurBlood.


It was rash, perhaps. But PurBlood passed with flying colors. Nothing happened 
to me, and all medical tests proved it was safe. Naturally, I couldnt report 
the results of that test, but it satisfiedme that PurBlood was pure.


So I did something else. I infinitesimally diluted my last pint of PurBlood with 
distilled water, two hundred to one, and ran the array of tests that 
automatically calculated and recorded purity. The result was, of course, a 
purity of 80 parts per billion. Well within the FDA safety range.


That was all I had to do. I did not make a report, I did not change figures or 
falsify data. When Scopes downloaded the test results that night, he knew what 
they meant. The next day he congratulated me. He was beside himself.


The question I now ask myselfthe question you may ask meis why did I do it?


It wasnt for the money. I have never really cared that much about money. You 
know that, my darling Amiko. Money is more trouble than its worth.


It wasnt for fame, which is a terrific nuisance.


It wasnt to save lives, although I have rationalized that this was the reason.


I think perhaps it was pure, naked desire. A desire to solve this last problem, 
to take that final step to completion. It is the same desire that led Einstein 
to suggest the terrible power of the atom in a letter to Roosevelt; it is the 
same desire that ledOppenheimer to build the bomb and test it not thirty miles 
from here; it is the same desire that led the Anasazipriests to meet in this 
stone chamber and exhort the Thunderbird to send the rain. It was the desire to 
conquer nature.


Butand this is what haunts me, what has driven me to commit this all to 
paperthe success of PurBlood does not alter the fact that I cheated.


I am only too well aware of this. Especially now ... now that PurBlood has gone 
on to large-scale production, and I am banging my head against another, even 
more insoluble problem.


Anyway, dearest one, I hope you can find it in your heart to understand. Once I 
am free of this place, I will make it my lifes resolve never to be apart from 
you again.


And perhaps that will be sooner than you think. Im beginning to suspect 
certain people here of but more on that some other time. I had best end this 
for today.


You will never know what being able to speak this secret has done for me.


 


June 30


It took me a long time to get here today. I had to take a special route, a 
secret route. The woman who cleans my room has been looking at me strangely, and 
I dont want her following me. Shell talk to Brent about it, just as my lab 
assistant and the network administrator have done.


Its because Ive discovered the key. And now I must be ceaselessly vigilant.


You can tell them by the way they leave things on their desks. Their messiness 
gives them away. And they are polluted with germs. Billions of bacteria and 
viruses hiding in every crevice of their bodies. I wish I could speak of it to 
Brent, but I must continue as if nothing had happened, as if all were normal.


I dont think I had better come here again.


 





 


Carson was silent. The sun settled toward the horizon, its shape ballooning in 
the layers of air. The old stone walls of the ruin smelled of dust and heat, 
mingled with the faint scent of corruption. One of the horses whinnied with 
impatience, and the other answered.


At the sound of the horses,de Vaca started. Then she quickly stuffed the journal 
in the container, placed it into the sipapu, covered the hole with the flat 
rock, and smoothed the warm concealing sand over the spot.


She straightened up, brushing off her jeans. Wed better get back, she said. 
Therell be questions if we miss the emergency drill.


They climbed out of the ruined kiva, mounted their horses, and reined slowly in 
the direction of Mount Dragon.


Burt, of all people,de Vaca muttered as they rode. Faking his data.


Carson was silent, lost in thought.


And then using himself as guinea pig,de Vaca went on.


Carson roused himself, startled by a sudden realization. I guess thats what he 
meant by poor alpha,  he said.


What?


Teece told me that Burt has been raving about poor alpha, poor alpha. I 
guess he meant himself, as the alpha test subject. He shrugged. I wouldnt 
call him a guinea pig, though. Making himself the alpha was very much in 
character. A man like Burt wouldnt deliberately risk thousands of lives on 
unprovenblood. He was under incredible time pressure to prove its safety. So he 
tested it on himself. Its not unheard of. It isnt exactly illegal to do 
something like that, either. He looked atde Vaca. You have to admire the guy 
for putting his life on the line. And he had the last laugh. He proved the blood 
was safe.


Carson fell silent. Something was teasing the back of his mind; something that 
had surfaced as they read the journal. Now it remained just out of the reach of 
consciousness, like a forgotten dream.


Sounds like hes still having the last laugh. In a nuthouse somewhere.


Carson frowned. Thats a pretty callous remark, even for you.


Maybe so,de Vaca replied. Then she paused. I guess its just that everyone 
talks about Burt like he was larger than life. This is the guy who invented 
GeneDynes filtration process, synthesized PurBlood. Now we find he faked his 
data.


There it was again. Suddenly, Carson realized what it was in the journal that 
had raised an unconscious flag.Susana, what do you know about GEF?


She looked back at him, puzzled.


The filtration process Burt invented when he was working at Manchester, Carson 
went on. You just mentioned it. Weve always simplyassumed the filtration 
process works on X-FLU. What if it doesnt?


De Vacaslook of puzzlement turned to scorn. Weve tested X-FLU again and again 
to make sure that the strain coming out of the filter is absolutely pure.


Pure, yes. But is it thesame strain that went in?


How could the filtration process change the strain? It makes no sense.


Think about how GEF works, Carson replied- You set up an electrical field 
that draws the heavy protein molecules through a gel filter, right? The field is 
set precisely to the molecular weight of the molecule you want. All the other 
molecules are trapped in the gel, while what you want emerges from the other end 
of the filter.


So?


What if the weak electrical field, or the gel itself, causes subtle changes in 
the protein structure? What if what comes out is different from what went in? 
The molecular weight would be the same, but the structure would be subtly 
altered. A straightforward chemical test wouldnt catch it. All it takes is the 
tiniest change in the surface protein of a virus particle to create a new 
strain.


No way, saidde Vaca. GEF is a patented, tested process. Theyve already used 
it to synthesize other products. If there was anything wrong, it wouldve shown 
up a long time ago.


Carson reined in Roscoe and stood motionless. Have any of the tests for purity 
weve done looked at that possibility? Thatspecific possibility?


De Vacawas silent.


Susana,its the only thing we havent tried.


She look at him for a long moment.


All right, she said at last. Lets check it out.


 





 


The Dark Harbor Institute was a large, rambling Victorian house perched on a 
remote headland above the Atlantic. The institute counted one hundred and twenty 
honorary members on its rolls, although at any given time only a dozen or so 
were actually in residence. The responsibility of the people who came to the 
institute was to do only one thing: to think. The requirements for membership 
were equally simple: genius.


Members of the institute were very fond of the rambling Victorian mansion, which 
120 years of Maine storms had left without a single right angle. They especially 
liked theanonymity , since even the institutes closest neighborsmostly summer 
visitorsdid not have the vaguest idea of who those bespectacled men and women 
were who came and went so unpredictably.


Edwin Bannister, associate managing editor of theBoston Globe , checked out of 
his inn and directed the placing of his bags into the back of his Range Rover, 
his head still throbbing from the effects of the bad bordeaux hed been served 
at the previous evenings dinner. Tipping the porter, he walked around the 
Rover, eyeing as he did so the little town of Dark Harbor, with its fishing 
boats and church steeple and salt air. Very quaint. Too damn quaint. He 
preferred Boston, and the smoke-filled atmosphere of the Black Key Tavern.


He slid behind the wheel and consulted the hand-drawn map that had been faxed to 
him at the newspaper. Five miles to the institute. Despite the assurances, a 
part of him still doubted whether or not his host would really be there.


Bannister accelerated through a yellow light and swung onto County Road 24. The 
car lurched over one pothole, then another, as it left the tiny town behind. The 
narrow road headed due east to the sea, then ran along a series of high bluffs 
over the Atlantic. He rolled down the window. From below, he could hear the 
distant thunder of the surf, the crying of gulls, the dolorous clang of a bell 
buoy.


The road ran into a stand of spruce, then emerged at a high meadow covered with 
blueberry bushes. A log fence ran across the meadow, its rustic length 
interrupted by a wooden gate and shingled guardhouse. Bannister stopped at the 
gate and powered down his window.


Bannister. With theGlobe ,he said, not bothering to look at the guard.


Yes sir. The gate hummed open, and Bannister noted with amusement that the 
rustic logs of the gate were backed with bars of black steel.No car bombers 
crashing this party , he thought.


The mansions oak-paneled foyer seemed empty, and Bannister walked through to 
the lounge. A fire blazed in an enormous hearth, and a long series of casement 
windows looked out over the sea, sparkling in the morning light. The faint sound 
of music could be heard in the background.


At first, Bannister thought he was alone. Then, in a far corner, he spotted a 
man in a leather armchair, drinking coffee and reading a paper. The man was 
wearing white gloves. The newspaper rustled between them as its pages were 
turned.


The man looked up. Edwin! he said, smiling. Thank you for coming.


Bannister immediately recognized the unkempt hair, the freckles, the boyish 
looks, the retro sports jacket over black T-shirt. So hehad come, after all.


Good to see you, Brent, Bannister said, taking the proffered armchair. He 
automatically glanced around for a waiter.


Coffee? Scopes asked. He had not offered to shake hands.


Yes, please.


We help ourselves here, Scopes said. Its over by the bookcase.


Bannister hauled himself to his feet again, returning with a cup that promised 
to be less than satisfactory.


They sat in silence for a moment, and it dawned on Bannister that Scopes was 
listening to the music. He sipped his coffee and found it surprisingly good.


The piece ended. Scopes sighed with satisfaction, folded the newspaper 
carefully, and placed it next to an open briefcase beside his chair. He removed 
his ink-stained reading gloves and placed them on top of the paper.


BachsMusical Offering ,he said. Are you familiar with it?


Somewhat, said Bannister, hoping that Scopes wouldnt ask a question that 
would reveal the lie. Bannister knew next to nothing about music.


One of the canons of theOffering is entitled Quaerendo Invenietis. By 
seeking, you will discover. It was Bachs puzzle, asking the listener to see 
if he could tell what intricate canonical code was used to create the music.


Bannister nodded.


I often think of this as a metaphor for genetics. You see the finished 
organismsuch as a human beingand you wonder what intricate genetic code was 
used to create such a marvelous thing. And then you wonder, of course: If you 
were to change a tiny piece of this intricate code, how would that translate 
into flesh and blood? just as changing a single note in a canon can sometimes 
end up transforming the entire melody.


Bannister reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a tape recorder, and showed 
it to Scopes, who nodded his approval. Turning on the device, Bannister settled 
back in his chair, his hands folded.


Edwin, my company is in a bit of a predicament.


How so? Bannister already knew this was going to be good. Anything that 
brought Scopes out of his aerie had to be good.


You know about the attacks Charles Levine has been making against GeneDyne. I 
hoped that people would recognize him for what he is, but thats been slow to 
happen. By hiding under the skirts of Harvard University, he acquired a 
credibility I wouldnt have thought possible. Scopes shook his head. Ive 
known Dr. Levine for over twenty years. I was once a close friend of his, in 
fact. It pains me a great deal to see what has happened to him. I mean, all 
those claims about his father, and then it turns out he was an SS officer. Now, 
I dont begrudge a man for protecting the memory of his father, but did he have 
to lionize him with such an offensive story? It just shows that this man holds 
truth secondary to achieving his own ends. It shows that one must scrutinize 
every word he utters. The press hasnt really done that. Except for theGlobe , 
thanks to you.


We never publish anything without verifying the facts.


I know, and I appreciate that. And Im sure the people of Boston appreciate it, 
given that GeneDyne is one of the states larger employers.


Bannister inclined his head.


In any case, Edwin, I cant sit still and take these scurrilous attacks any 
longer. But I need your help.


Brent, you know I canthelp you, Bannister said.


Of course, of course, Brent waved his hand dismissively. Heres the 
situation.Obviously, were working on a secret project at Mount Dragon. It isnt 
secret because of any particular danger factor, but because we face tremendous 
competition. Were in a winner-take-all business. You know how it works. The 
first company to patent a drug makes billions, while the rest eat their R-and-D 
investments.


Bannister nodded again.


Edwin, I want to assure youas someone whose judgment I respectthat nothing 
uncommonly dangerous is going on at Mount Dragon. You have my word on that. We 
have the only Level-5 facility in existence, and our safety record is the best 
of any pharmaceutical company in the world. Those are facts of record. But dont 
take my word for it.


He slid a file out of his briefcase and placed it before Bannister.


This folder contains the entire safety record of GeneDyne. Normally, this 
information is proprietary. I want you to have it for your story. Just remember: 
It didnt come from me.


Bannister looked at the file without touching it. Thanks, Brent. You know, 
however, that I cant just take your word for it that you arent working on 
dangerous viruses. Dr. Levines charges


Scopes chuckled. I know. Thedoomsday virus. He leaned forward. And thats the 
primary reason Ive asked you here. Would you care to know just what this 
terrible, inconceivably deadly, virus is? The one that Dr. Levine says may end 
the world?


Bannister nodded, the many years of professionalism successfully concealing his 
eagerness.


Scopes was looking at him, grinning mischievously. Edwin, this is off the 
record, of course.


I would prefer Bannister began.


Scopes reached over and turned off the tape recorder. There is a Japanese 
corporation working on a very similar line of research. On this particular type 
of germ-line research, theyre actually ahead of us. If they realize its 
ramifications before we do, then were dead. Winner take all, Edwin. Were 
talking about a fifteen-billion-dollar annual market here. Id hate to see the 
Japanese increase their trade deficit with us, and have to close down GeneDyne 
Boston, all because Edwin Bannister at the Globe revealed what virus we were 
working with.


I see your point, Bannister said, swallowing hard. Sometimes it was necessary 
to work off the record.


Good. Its calledinfluenza .


What is? Bannister said.


Scopess grin widened. Were working with the flu virus. And that is theonly 
virus we are working with at Mount Dragon.That is Levines so-called doomsday 
virus.


Scopes sat back with a look of triumph.


Bannister felt the sudden, desperate emptiness of a lead story disappearing 
beneath his fingers. Thats it? Just flu viruses?


Thats right. You have my solemn promise. I want you to be able to write with a 
clear conscience that GeneDyne is not working with dangerous viruses.


But why theflu? 


Scopes looked surprised. Isnt it obvious? Countless dollars in productivity 
are lost every year because of flu. We are working on acure for the flu. Not 
like these flu shots that you have to take every year, and that dont work half 
the time. Im talking about a permanent, onetime cure.


My God, said Bannister.


Just think what that will do to our stock price if we succeed. Those who own 
GeneDyne stock are going to become rich. Especially considering how cheap the 
stock has become recently, thanks to our friend Levine. Not rich tomorrow, but 
in a few months, when we announce the discovery and go into phased FDA testing. 
Scopes smiled, and his voice dropped to a whisper. And weregoing to succeed. 
Then he reached over and switched on the tape recorder.


Bannister said nothing. He was trying to imagine just how large a number fifteen 
billion was.


We are taking vigorous action against Dr. Levine and his libelous statements, 
Scopes continued. Youve done an excellent job so far in reporting our 
lawsuits against Dr. Levine and Harvard. I have news on that front. Harvard has 
revoked the university charter for Levines foundation. Theyve been keeping the 
revocation under wraps, but its about to be made public. I thought you might be 
interested. We will be dropping our lawsuit against Harvard, of course.


I see, said Bannister, thinking quickly.There might be a way to salvage this, 
after all .


The Faculty Committee on Tenure is reviewing Dr. Levines contract. There is a 
clause in all university contracts allowing tenure to be revoked in cases of 
moral turpitude.  Scopes laughed softly. Sounds like something out of the 
Victorian Age. But its cooked Levines goose, I can tell you.


I see.


Were not yet sure how he did it, but certain grains of truth in his otherwise 
false allegations prove he used illegal, not to mention unethical, methods to 
gain confidential information from GeneDyne. Scopes slid another folder toward 
Bannister. Youll find the details in here. Im sure you will find out more in 
your own fashion. Obviously, my name must not appear in connection with any of 
this. Im only telling you this because youre the one reporter whose ethics I 
most respect, and I want to help you write a balanced, fair article. Let the 
other newspapers write down everything Levine says without fact-checking. I 
knowtheGlobe will be more careful.


Wealways check our facts, said Bannister.


Scopes nodded. Im counting on you to set the record straight.


Bannister stiffened slightly. Brent, all you can count on is a story that 
presents a strictly objective, accurate rendition of the facts.


Exactly, Scopes said. That is why Im going to be totally honest with you. 
There is one chargeLe vine made that is partially true.


And that is?


Therewas a death at Mount Dragon recently. We were keeping the matter quiet 
until the family could be notified, but Levine somehow found out about it. 
Scopes paused, his face growing serious at the memory. One of our best 
scientists was killed in an industrial accident. As youll see in the first 
folder I gave you, certain safety procedures were not followed. We immediately 
notified the necessary authorities, who dispatched inspectors to Mount Dragon. 
Its a formality, of course, and the lab remains open.


Scopes paused. I knew the woman well. She washow shall I say it?an original. 
Dedicated to her work. In certain ways, perhaps a bit difficult. But undeniably 
brilliant. You know, its very difficult to be a brilliant woman in science, 
even today. She had a rough time of it until she got to GeneDyne. I lost a 
friend as well as a scientist. He looked briefly at Bannister, then dropped his 
eyes. The CEO is ultimately responsible. This is something Ill have to live 
with for the rest of my life.


Bannister watched him, genuinely moved. How did she? he began,


She died of a head injury, Scopes said. Then he looked at his watch. Damn! 
Im running late. Anything else youd care to ask, Edwin?


Bannister picked up his tape recorder. Not at the moment


Good. I hope youll excuse me. Call me if you have any questions.


Bannister watched the thin, slight figure of Scopes walk out of the room, toes 
pointing toward the walls, lugging the briefcase that seemed three sizes too 
large for him. An amazing fellow. Worth an amazing amount of money.


As Bannister wound his way back along the Atlantic headlands, he kept returning 
to that fifteen-billion-dollar figure, and what such an announcement would do to 
the value of GeneDyne stock. He wondered what GeneDyne was trading at right now. 
Come to think of it, hed have to check that out. It wouldnt hurt to put in a 
call to his broker and stick his money in something a little more exciting than 
tax-free munis.


 





 


Carson glanced up, peering through his visor at the oversized clock on the lab 
wall. The amber LED display read 10:45P.M.


An hour earlier, the Fever Tank had been full of frenzied sound, as the shriek 
of the alert siren sounded the drill and the suited bodies tramped down the low 
corridors. Now the lab was once again deserted and almost preternaturally quiet, 
the only audible sound the whisper of air in Carsons bluesuit and the faint hum 
of the negative-airflow system. The chimpanzees, disturbed by the drill, had 
finally ceased their hooting and screaming and had fallen into troubled sleep. 
Outside his own brightly lit lab, the corridor glowed a subdued red, and the 
cramped spaces of the Fever Tank were full of shadows.


Because the Fever Tank was decontaminated each week-night and again over the 
weekend, Carson had rarely been inside this late. Although the red nocturnal 
illumination was creepy and a little disorienting, he preferred it to what had 
come just before. The full-scale stage-one alert drillswhich had begun to 
supplant the less severe stage-two and stage-three drills since Brandon-Smiths 
deathwere grim affairs. Nye was now personally supervising the drills, 
directing events from the security substation on the bottom level of the Fever 
Tank, and his brusque tones had rung irritatingly through Carsons headset.


The one advantage of the frequent drills was that Carson had become more adept 
at moving around the Fever Tank in his bluesuit. He found that he could maneuver 
quickly through the corridors and around the labs, avoiding protrusions deftly, 
hooking and unhooking his air hoses to his suit instinctively, like breathing.


He looked away from the clock towardde Vaca, who was staring skeptically back at 
him.


Just how do you plan to test this theory of yours? came her voice over the 
private channel.


Instead of taking the time to answer, Carson turned to the small lab freezer, 
dialed its combination, and removed two small test tubes containing X-FLU 
samples. The tops of the test tubes were covered with thick rubber seals. The 
virus existed as a small white crystalline film at the bottom of each tube,If 
Ihandle this stuff a million times , he thought,Ill never get used to the fact 
that its potentially more lethal to the human race than the largest hydrogen 
bomb . He placed both tubes inside the bioprophylaxis table and sealed it 
carefully, waiting for the samples to reach room temperature.


First, he said, were going to split open the virus and get rid of the 
genetic material.


Moving to a silver cabinet on the far wall of the lab, he removed some reagents 
and two sealed bottles labeledDEOXYRIBASE .


Give me a number-four Soloway, please, he said todeVaca.


Since hypodermics were considered too dangerous for anything other than animal 
inoculation in the Fever Tank, other devices for transferring materials had to 
be used. The SolowayDisplacer, named after its inventor, used blunt-ended 
plastic vacuum-needles to siphon liquid from one container to another.


Carson waited forde Vaca to place the instrument inside the bioprophylaxis 
table. Then, moving his gloves through the rubber openings in the front end of 
the table, he inserted one nozzle of the Soloway device into a reagent and the 
other through the rubber seal in one of the two test tubes. A cloudy liquid 
squirted into the tube. Gingerly, Carson swirled the tube in one gloved hand. 
The liquid became clear.


We just killed a trillion viruses, Carson said. Now to undress them. Take off 
their protein coats.


Using the device, Carson added a few drops of a blue liquid through the rubber 
seal, then removed .5 ccs of the resulting solution, injecting it into the 
deoxyribase container. He waited while the enzyme broke up the viral RNA, first 
into its base pairs, then into nucleic acids.


Now, to get rid of the nucleic acids. He tested the precise acidity of the 
solution, then performed a remote-assist titration with a high-pH chemical. Then 
he drained off the solution, centrifuged out the precipitate, and transferred 
the pure, unfiltered X-FLU molecules that remained to a small flask.


Lets see what this little old molecule looks like, he said.


X-ray diffraction?


You got it.


Carson carefully placed the X-FLU flask into a yellow bio-box and sealed it. 
Then, holding the box carefully in front of him, he removed his air hose and 
followedde Vaca down the corridor toward the central hub of the Fever Tank, 
ducking at last through a hatchway into a deserted lab. A single red light 
glowed from the ceiling. Already small, the compartment was cramped by the 
eight-foot stainless-steel column that dominated the center of the room. Next to 
the column was an instrument housing that contained a-computer workstation. 
There were no knobs, switches or dials on the column; the diffraction machine 
was controlled entirely by computer.


Warm it up, Carson said. Ill prepare the specimen.


De Vacasat down at the workstation and began typing. There was a click and a 
soft, low hum that gradually increased in pitch until it disappeared into 
inaudibility, followed by the hiss of air being evacuated from the interior of 
the column.De Vaca typed in additional commands, tuning the diffraction beam to 
the correct wavelength. In a few moments, the terminal beeped its readiness.


Open the mount, please, Carson said.


De Vacatyped a command, and a titanium-alloy stage mount slid out of the base of 
the column. It contained a small removable well.


Usinga micropipette, Carson removed a single drop of the protein solution and 
placed it in the well. The stage mount slid shut with a hiss.


Chill.


There was a loud drumming noise as the machine froze the drop of solution, 
lowering its temperature toward absolute zero.


Vacuum.


Carson waited impatiently as the air was removed from the specimen chamber. The 
resulting vacuum would force all water molecules from the solution. As it did 
so, a faint electromagnetic field would allow the protein molecules to settle 
into a lowest-energy configuration. What remained would be a microscopic film of 
pure protein molecules, spaced with mathematical regularity on the titanium 
plate, held steady at two degrees above absolute zero.


Were green,de Vaca said.


Then lets go.


What happened next always seemed like magic to Carson. The huge machine began to 
generate X-rays, shooting them at the speed of light down the vacuum inside the 
column. When the high-energy X- rays struck the protein molecules, they would be 
diffracted by the crystal lattice structures. The scattered beams would be 
digitally recorded with an array of CCD chips and sent, as an image, to the 
computer screen.


Carson watched as a blurred image appeared on the screen, bands of dark and 
light. Focus, please, he said.


Using an optical mouse,de Vaca manipulated a series of diffraction gratings 
inside the column, which tuned and focused the X-rays onto the specimen at the 
bottom. Slowly, the blurred image came into focus: a complicated series of dark 
and light circles, reminding Carson of the surface of a pond stippled with rain.


Great, he said softly. Easy does it.


The X-ray diffraction machine took just the right touch, Carson knew, andde Vaca 
had that touch.


Thats as sharp as it gets, she said. Ready for film and data feed.


I want sixteen angles, please, Carson said.


De Vacatyped in the commands, and the CCD chips captured the diffraction 
pattern from sixteen separate angles.


Series complete, she said.


Lets feed this into the central computer.


The machines computer began loading the diffraction data into the GeneDyne net, 
where it was sent across a dedicated land line at 110,000 bits per second to the 
GeneDyne supercomputer in Boston. All Mount Dragon jobs had high priority, and 
the supercomputer immediately began translating the X-ray diffraction pattern 
into a three-dimensional model of the X-FLU molecule. For over a minute, those 
working late in the GeneDyne home office noticed a perceptible slowdown while 
several trillion floating-point operations were performed and fed back to Mount 
Dragon, where the image was reassembled on the diffraction machines 
workstation.


An image appeared on the workstation screen: a breathtakingly complex cluster of 
vibrantly colored spheres, glowing in rainbows of rich purples, reds, oranges, 
and yellows: the protein molecule that made up the viral coat of X-FLU.


There it is, Carson said, peering at the image overde Vacas shoulder.


The cause of such terrible suffering and death, camede Vacas voice in his 
headset. And look how beautiful it is.


Carson continued gazing at the image for a moment, mesmerized. Then he 
straightened up. Lets purify the second test tube with the GEF filtration 
process. Its almost decontam time, we have to vacate the Tank for an hour or 
two anyway. Then well come back, take another look at it, and see if the 
molecule has changed.


Lots of luck,de Vaca grumbled. But Im too tired to object. Lets go.


 


By the time the second filtered X-FLU molecule crystallized on the computer 
screen, dawn was breaking over the desert floor fifty feet above their heads. 
Once again Carson marveled at the beauty of the molecule: how surreal it was, 
and how deadly.


Lets compare the two molecules side by side, he said.


De Vacasplit the screen into two windows and called up the image of the 
unaltered X-FLU molecule from the computers memory, displaying it side by side 
with the filtered molecule.


They look the same to me, she said.


Rotate them both ninety degrees along the X axis.


No difference,de Vaca said.


Ninety degrees along theY axis.


They watched as the images rotated on the computer screen. Suddenly, the silence 
turned electric.


Madre de Dios,breathedde Vaca.


Look how one of the tertiary folds of the filtered molecule has uncoiled! said 
Carson excitedly. The weak sulfur bonds along the entire side have become 
unstuck.


Same molecule, same chemical composition, different shape, saidde Vaca. You 
were right.


Whats that? Carson asked, looking at her with a grin.


Okay,cabrn. You win this one.


And its theshape of a protein molecule that makes all the difference. Carson 
stepped away from the diffraction machine. Now we know why X-FLU keeps 
mutating back to its deadly form. The last thing we always do before the in vivo 
test is to purify the solution using the GEF process. And its the GEF process 
itself that causes the mutation.


Burts original filtration technique was to blame,de Vaca answered. He was 
doomed from the beginning.


Carson nodded. Yet nobody, least of all Burt, thought the process itself could 
be flawed. Its been used before without any problems. And here weve been 
banging our heads against the wrong door all this time. The gene splicing, 
everything else, was fine to begin with. Its like sifting through the wreckage 
of a plane crash to determine the cause of an accident, when in reality the 
problem was faulty directions from the control tower.


He leaned wearily against a cabinet. The full significance of the discovery 
began to sink in, like a flame in his gut. Hot damn,Susana, he breathed. 
After all this time, weve solved it at last! All we need to do is change the 
filtration process. It may take some time to correct, but we know the real 
culprit now. X-FLU is as good as manufactured. He could almost picture the 
expression on Scopess face.


De Vacawas silent.


You agree, dont you? Carson prompted.


Yes, saidde Vaca.


So whats the problem? Why the long face?


She looked at him for a long moment. We know the flaw in the filtration process 
causes mutations in the X-FLU protein coat. What I want to know is, what the 
hell does it do to PurBlood?


Carson stared back at her, not comprehending.Susana, who cares?


What do you mean, who cares?de Vaca said, flaring up. PurBlood could be 
dangerous as hell!


Its not the same thing at all, Carson replied. We dont know that the 
filtration flaw would affect anything other than the X-FLU molecule. And 
besides, the kind of purity necessary for X-FLU doesnt necessarily apply to 
hemoglobin.


Easy for you to say,cabrn. Youre not putting the stuff into your veins.


Carson fought to keep his temper. This woman was attempting to spoil the 
greatest triumph of his life.Susana, think a moment. Burt tested it on himself, 
and he survived. Its been in phased FDA testing now for months. If anybody had 
become sick, wed have heard of it. Teece would have known. And, believe me, the 
FDA would have yanked it.


Nobody getting sick? So tell me, wheres Burt now? In a fucking hospital, 
thats where he is!


His nervous breakdown came months after he tested himself with PurBlood.


There still might be a connection. Maybe it breaks down in the body, or 
something. She looked at him defiantly. I want to know what the GEF process 
does to PurBlood.


Carson sighed deeply. Look. Its seven-thirty in the morning. Weve just made 
one of the biggest breakthroughs in the history of GeneDyne. And Im dead on my 
feet. Im going to report this to Singer. Then Im going to take a shower, and 
get some well-deserved rest.


Go ahead and get your gold star,de Vaca snapped. Im going to stay here 
andfinish what we started.


She switched off the machine, disconnected the air hose from her suit valve with 
an angry yank, then turned and marched out of the compartment. As he watched her 
go, Carson heard other voices on the intercom, people announcing their arrival 
in the lab. The workday was beginning. He wearily pushed himself away from the 
cabinet. God, he was tired.De Vaca could tinker with PurBlood as much as she 
liked. He was going to spread the good news.


 


Carson stepped outside, breathing in the cool morning air with relish. He was 
tired, but elated. While there might be other snags ahead, he knew that this, at 
long last, was the home stretch.


Ducking back into the administration building, he bounded up the stairs and 
headed for Singers corner office. At the far end of the main hall, he could see 
the directors door standing open, the light reflecting brilliantly off the 
white surfaces.


As he entered the office, Carson saw Singer sitting near the kiva fireplace. 
Another man stood before Singer, his back to Carson; a man with a ponytail, 
wearing a safari hat.


Singer looked up. Ah, Guy. Mr. Nye and I were just about to have a private 
meeting.


Carson stepped forward. John, theres something youll be


Nye swiveled toward him, then waved his hand impatiently, cutting him off.


Singer leaned over the coffee table, adjusting a magazine. Guy, another time, 
please.


Dr. Singer, its extremely important.


Singer looked up again, staring at him, a puzzled expression on his face. Carson 
was shocked at how bloodshot his eyes were, and at the faint cast of yellow in 
the whites. Singer didnt appear to have heard. Carson watched as the director 
plucked a malachite egg from the coffee table and began turning it over and 
over in his hands.


Nye glowered at Carson, arms crossed, a dark expression on his face. Well? he 
said. Whats so bloody important, then?


Carson watched as Singer replaced the egg on the coffee table, adjusting its 
position carefully. Then the directors hands slowly passed over each item on 
the table, unconsciously adjusting them, lining and squaring them up.


Carson? Nye spoke again, more sharply.


The director looked up at Carson as if he had forgotten he was there. His eyes 
were watering.


In an instant, other images forced their way into Carsons consciousness. 
Brandon-Smiths mannerism of rubbing her hands along her thighs time and again. 
The way the knick-knacks on her desk were so carefully arranged. The way 
Vanderwagon had carefully polished and lined up the tableware at dinner that 
night, just before putting out his own eye.


Hiseye . That was another thing: They all had bloodshot eyes.


Suddenly, everything became perfectly, terribly clear.


It can wait, Carson said, backing out the door.


Nye watched him closely as he left. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and 
shut the door.


 





 


In the darkness of his suite at the institute, Scopes washed his hands 
meticulously. Then he paced restlessly, awaiting the helicopter that would 
return him to Boston. His front room boasted a spectacular view of the stormy 
Atlantic, but the heavy curtains were closed.


Abruptly, Scopes paused in his pacing. Then he moved quickly toward 
hisPowerBook, plugging its thin cable into a wall jack. He knew the institute 
had a dedicated link into Flashnet, and from there, with his access key, he 
could enter the GeneDyne network.


There was something that had been tugging at the back of his mind for days; 
something his discussion with theGlobe reporter had at last made clear. It had 
been obvious from the start, given the quality of Levines data on Brandon-Smith 
and X-FLU, that the information had come from within GeneDyne, rather than from 
sources in the FDA orOSHA. But what had escaped Scopess attention was the 
timing of Levines information.


Levine had known details about X-FLU that even the nosy bastardTeece, the 
investigator, couldnt have learned until arriving at Mount Dragon. Levine had 
aired his dirt on the Sammy Sanchez show while Teece was still nosing around in 
New Mexico. And there were no standard long-distance lines out of Mount Dragon. 
Scopes knew that the only communications out of Mount Dragon were across the 
GeneDyne net. He knew it, because he had seen to it himself.


That meant Levine must not only have obtained his information from a source 
within GeneDynehe must have obtained it from a sourcewithin Mount Dragon . And 
that meant Levine had gained unprecedented access to GeneDyne cyberspace.


Once inside the GeneDyne net, Scopes worked silently and intently. Within 
minutes, he was within a region that he and he alone had access to. Here, his 
finger was on the pulse of the entire organization: terabytes of data covering 
every word of every project, e-mail, program file, and on-line chat generated 
by GeneDyne employees over the last twenty-four hours. With the click of a few 
more keys, Scopes moved through his personal region of the network to a 
dedicated server containing a single massive application, which he had called, 
whimsically, Cypherspace.


Slowly, a strange landscape materialized on his small computer screen. It was 
like no landscape on earth, and too complex and symmetrical to have been 
conceived solely by a human mind. This was the virtual landscape of GeneDyne 
cyberspace. The Cypherspace application used direct links into the GeneDyne 
operating system to transform datastreams, memory contents, and all active 
processes into shapes, surfaces, shadows, and sounds. A strange sighing sound, 
like sustained musical notes, vibrated from the laptops speaker. To a layman 
such a landscape would appear surreal and bizarre, but to Scopes, who loved to 
wander through this strange junglescape late at night, it was as familiar as the 
backyard of his childhood.


Scopes wandered through the landscape, looking, listening, watching. For a 
moment, he was tempted to go to a special place in this landscapea secret among 
secretsbut he realized there was no time.


Suddenly Scopes sat up and breathed out. In the landscape, there was something 
that was not right. It was a thread, invisible of itself, manifest only by what 
it obscured. As Scopes crossed the invisible thread, the strange music dropped 
to silence. It was a tunnel of nothing, an absence of data, a black hole in 
cyberspace. Scopes knew what it must be: a hidden data channel, visible only 
because it had been hidden a little too well. Whoever had programmed this back 
channel was transcendentally clever. It couldnt have been Levine. Levine was 
brilliant, but Scopes knew that Levines computer abilities had always been his 
weakest suit.


Levine had help.


Accessing his bag of digital tricks, Scopes selected a transparent relay, 
readying it for insertion in the channel. Then, slowly, with infinite care, he 
began to follow the thread, twisting and turning in its mazy path, losing it, 
picking it up again, working methodically back toward its hidden target.


 





 


Carson foundde Vaca at work in Lab C. She had a small flask of PurBlood, still 
smoking from the deep freeze, sitting on the bioprophylaxis table.


Youve been gone for eight hours, came her voice over the private channel. 
What, did they fly you to Boston for your awards ceremony?


Carson moved toward his stool and sat down numbly. I was in the library 
archives, he replied.


De Vaca swiveledher computer screen toward him. Take a look at this.


Carson sat still for a long moment. Finally, he turned toward the screen. More 
than anything, he did not want to know whatde Vaca might have discovered.


On her screen were two images of phospholipid capsules, side by side. One was 
smooth and perfect. The other was ragged, full of ugly holes and tears where 
molecules had obviously been displaced from their normal order.


The first image shows an unfiltered PurBlood cell. This second image shows 
what happens to PurBlood after it passes through the GEF filtration. The 
excitement inde Vacas voice was clear even through the speaker in Carsons 
headset. Mistaking his silence for disbelief, she continued. Listen. You 
remember how PurBlood is made. Once the hemoglobin has been encapsulated, it has 
to be purified of all manufacturing by-products and any toxins produced by the 
bacteria. So they used Burts GEF filtration on the hemoglobin to


De Vacastopped, looking at Carson. He had positioned himself between her and the 
labs video camera, blocking its view. He was moving his gloved hands downward 
in a suppressing motion. Through the visor, she could see him shaking his head 
and silently mouthing the wordstop .


De Vacafrowned. Whats up? she asked. Been chewingpeyote buttons,cabrn?


Carson brusquely motioned her to wait. Then he looked around the lab as if 
searching for something. Suddenly he reached for a cabinet, pulled out a large 
vial of disinfectant powder, and sprinkled a light dusting of it on the glass 
surface of the bioprophylaxis table. Shielding his actions from the camera, he 
formed letters in the white dust with a gloved finger:


Dont use intercom.


De Vacastared at the words for a moment. Then, extending a gloved finger, she 
formed a large question mark in the powder.


Tell me the rest HERE, Carson wrote.


De Vacapaused, looking narrowly at Carson. Then she wrote out the 
message:PurBlood contaminated by GEF filtration .Burt used himself as alpha 
tester .Thats whats wrong with him.


Carson quickly smoothed out the message and sprinkled a little more disinfectant 
on the surface. He quickly wrote:THINK. If Burt was alpha tester, who were the 
beta testers?


He saw a look of fear spread slowly across her face. She was mouthing words but 
he could not hear them.


He wrote:Library .Half hour . After waiting for her to nod agreement, he erased 
the tracings with a sweep of his glove.


 


The Mount Dragon library was an oasis of rusticity in a high-tech desert: its 
yellow, gingham-checked curtains, rough-hewn roof beams, and coarse floorboards 
were designed to resemble an oversized Western lodge. The intent of the 
designers had been to provide relief from the sterile white corridors of the 
rest of the facility. However, given the moratorium on paper products at Mount 
Dragon, the library contained mostly electronic resources, and in any case few 
members of the overworked Mount Dragon staff had time to enjoy its solitude. 
Carson himself had only been in the library twice before: once when poking 
around the facility during his initial explorations, and again just a few hours 
before, immediately after leaving Singer and Nye to themselves.


As he closed the heavy door behind him, he was glad to see thatde Vaca was the 
librarys only occupant. She was sitting in a white Adirondack chair, dozing 
despite herself, long black hair fallen carelessly across her face. She looked 
up at his approach.


Long day, she said. And long night. She looked at him speculatively. 
Theyre going to wonder why we left the Fever Tank early, she added in a lower 
tone.


Theywould have wondered a lot more if Id let you keep running your mouth, 
Carson muttered back.


Hell, and I thoughtI was paranoid. You really think somebody listens to all 
those monitor tapes,cabrn ?


Carson gave a short shake of the head. We cant take that chance.


De Vacastiffened slightly. Dont pull a Vanderwagon on me, Carson. Now, whats 
this about beta testers for PurBlood?


Ill show you. He motioned her over to a data terminal in a far corner of the 
library. Pulling up two chairs, he put the terminals keyboard on his lap, 
entering his employee ID at the waiting prompt.


What research have you done on PurBlood since you got here? he asked, turning 
to her.


De Vacashrugged. Not much. The later lab reports of Burts. Why?


Carson nodded. Exactly. The same kind of materials I examined: sample runs, lab 
notes Burt made while he was transferring his attention to X-FLU. The only 
reason we were interested in PurBlood at all was because Burt had worked on it 
prior to getting involved with our own project, X-FLU.


He punched keys. I did see Singer this morning. But I didnt really speak with 
him. I came here instead. I remembered what youd said about PurBlood, and I 
wanted to learn a little more about its development. Look what I found.


He gestured at the screen:


 


      mol_desc_one

      vcf

      10,240,342

      11/1/95


      mol_desc_two

      vcf

      12,320,302

      11/1/95


      bipol_symmetr

      vcf

      41,234,913

      12/14/95


      hemocyl_grp_r

      vcf

      7,713,653

      01/3/96


      diffrac_series_a

      vcf

      21,442,521

      02/5/96


      diffrac_series_b

      vcf

      6,100,824

      02/6/96


      pr

      vid

      940,213,727

      02/27/96


      transfec_locus_h

      vcf

      18,921,663

      03/10/96



 


These are all the video files in the PurBlood research archives, he went on in 
a low tone. Most of them are the usual: animations of molecules and the like. 
But look at the second from the last on the list, the one calledpr . Notice its 
extension: its a digital dump from a video camera, not the video compression 
format used in computer animations. And look at its huge size: almost a 
gigabyte.


What is it?de Vaca asked.


Its a rough-cut video, unreleased, probably created for public-relations 
purposes. With a few more keystrokes, he called up a multimedia software object 
to play back the video file. An image appeared in a window on the terminal 
screen, grainy but perfectly distinct.


Youll have to watch closely, he said. Theres no associated audio file.


 


A caravan of Hummers is approaching across the desert. The camera zooms out 
briefly to show the Mount Dragon complex, the white buildings, the blue New 
Mexico sky.


The camera returns to the caravan, now parked at the Mount Dragon motor pool. 
The passenger door of the lead vehicle opens, and a man emerges. He stands on 
the tarmac, waving, grinning, and shaking hands.


 


Scopes, Carson murmured.


 


The entire Mount Dragon staff are on hand to greet him. There is much 
backslapping and grinning.


 


Looks like a camp meeting, saidde Vaca. Whos that big-nosed guy standing 
next to Singer?


Burt, Carson replied. Its Franklin Burt.


 


Now Burt is standing next to Scopes on the tarmac, talking to the crowd. Scopes 
puts his arm around him, and they raise hands in a victory gesture. The camera 
pans across the crowd.


The scene shifts to the Mount Dragon gymnasium. It has been cleared of all 
equipment, and in the center are two rows of chairs, carefully arranged. They 
are occupied by what appears to be the entire Mount Dragon staff. The camera, 
positioned on the balcony running track, now focuses on a temporary stage built 
at one end of the gym. Scopes is giving a talk to the enthusiastic crowd.


As Scopes continues, the camera pans the crowd again. Several of the faces seem 
to have grown somber, even uncertain.


A nurse comes from offstage, dressed in white, wheeling a stretcher with an IV 
rack. The rack holds a single unit of blood.


Scopes sits on the edge of the stretcher and the nurse rolls up his left sleeve. 
Franklin Burt now mounts the stage and begins to talk passionately, moving back 
and forth across the stage.


The camera zooms in as the nurse swabs Scopess arm and slides in the IV. Then 
she hooks up the pint of blood and turns a plastic stopcock, starting the flow. 
While Scopes receives the blood, Burt talks to him, obviously monitoring his 
vital signs.


 


Jesus Christ,de Vaca said. Hes getting PurBlood, isnt he?


 


The camera makes a few cuts and in a few minutes the pint of blood is empty. The 
nurse removes the IV, places a gauze patch on the arm, and folds the arm up to 
seal the vein.


Scopes stands with a grin and holds up his other arm in a victory salute.


The camera turns to the audience. Everyone is clapping; some enthusiastically, 
others with more reserve. One scientist stands up. Then another. Soon the group 
is giving Scopes a standing ovation. Another nurse comes onstage, wheeling two 
large IV racks, each holding two dozen or so pints of blood.


Nye strides up to the stage. He shakes Scopess hand and rolls up his left 
sleeve. The nurse inserts an IV into his arm and starts a unit of blood.


Another scientist comes forward, then a maintenance worker. Then Singer himself 
begins to approach the stage, and the audience breaks into another round of 
applause. The camera focuses on Singers plump face. It is white, and beads of 
sweat stand out on his brow. Yet he, too, sits down on a cot and rolls up his 
sleeve, and soon the blood is flowing into his veins.


After that, the audience stands in unison. Within moments, a line has formed 
from the stage, snaking back toward the rows of chairs.


 


Look,de Vaca whispered. Theres Brandon-Smith. Theres Vanderwagon and Pavel 
whats-his-name. And theresoh, my God.


Abruptly, Carson halted the video, logged off the network, and cut the 
terminals power.,


Lets take a walk, he said.


 


They were the beta testers, saidde Vaca, as they walked slowly around the 
inner perimeter fence. They all got it, didnt they?


Every single one, said Carson. From the custodians to Singer himself. 
Everybody except us. Were the only new arrivals since February 27th, the date 
of that file.


How exactly did you figure this out?de Vaca was hugging herself tightly as she 
walked, seemingly chilled despite the late-afternoon heat.


When I went to see Singer this morning, I saw him lining up the objects on his 
coffee table. There was something very obsessive about his movements that struck 
me as unusual, out of character. I remembered how Vanderwagon had acted just 
before he put his eye out, and Brandon-Smiths obsessive habits in the last 
days. And then I noticed Singers bloodshot eyes, with the yellow cast in the 
whites. It was just what Vanderwagons eyes looked like. And Nye. Think about 
it. Dont a lot of the people here seem to have bloodshot eyes these days? I 
assumed it was the stress. He shrugged. So I spent the day in the library, 
looking through the research files.


And found that tape,de Vaca said.


Yes. It must have been Scopess brainchild, having the rest of the Mount Dragon 
team be the beta test subjects for PurBlood. Its a common enough thing in 
certain pharmaceutical companies, you know, to draw the volunteer pool from the 
company itself. They must have filmed it, thinking it would make good press 
later on.


Only some of the volunteers didnt look too pleased about it,de Vaca said 
wryly.


Carson nodded. Scopes is a brilliant speaker. Between him, Burt, and peer 
pressure, sure, its not hard to see why everyone fell in line.


But what the hell is happening to them now?De Vaca struggled to keep the sound 
of panic out of her voice.


Obviously, the PurBlood is breaking down in their bodies, having a toxic 
effect. Perhaps impurities got into the phospholipid capsule, DNA mutations 
occurred. We dont have the time to find out exactly. As the capsule decays, 
its all released.


How can you be sure its PurBlood?De Vaca frowned.


What else could it be? They all received transfusions. And theyre all 
beginning to show the same symptoms.


De Vacawas murmuring to herself. Dopamine. What was it Teece told you about 
dopamine?


He said that Burt and Vanderwagon were suffering from overdrives of dopamine 
and serotonin. Brandon-Smith, too, to a lesser degree. Carson turned to her. 
He told me that too much of those neurotransmitters in the brain can cause 
paranoia, delusions, psychotic behavior. You took two years of med school. Is he 
right?


De Vacastopped.


Keep walking. Is he right?


Yes, she replied at last. The production of bodily chemicals is very 
carefully balanced. If mutated DNA in PurBlood is instructing the body to pump 
out large amounts of ... She paused, thinking, then began again. Mental 
distress anddisorientation would develop, perhaps combined with 
obsessive-compulsive behavior. If the overdrives were sufficiently great, the 
result would be extreme paranoia and fulminant psychosis.


And the leaky blood vessels Teece described must be another symptom, Carson 
added.


Naked hemoglobin, permeating through the capillary walls, would just make a bad 
situation worse. Poison the whole body. Bloodshot eyes would be the least of the 
problems.


They walked for several minutes in silence. Burt was the alpha test subject, 
Carson said at last. It makes sense he would be the first one affected. Then, 
last week, he was followed by Vanderwagon. Have you noticed any other odd 
behaviors?


De Vacathought. Then she nodded. Yesterday at breakfast, that technician from 
the sequencing lab yelled at me for sitting in her chair. I got up and moved, 
but she wouldnt let up. Shes normally such a mousy thing. I thought the 
pressure was getting to her.


Obviously, people are affected at different rates. But its only a matter of 
time until


He stopped. It wasnt necessary to finish the sentence.Until the entire staff of 
this laboratorythis remote laboratory, in the middle of the desert, guardians 
of a virus that could destroy the human racegoes insane.


Suddenly, another thought struck him. He turned todeVaca. Susana, do you know 
when PurBlood is scheduled for general distribution?


She shook her head.


I read severalmemos about it in the library this morning. GeneDyne marketing 
has organized a massive media event. Theres going to be a big rollout, with all 
sorts of fanfare. Theyve chosen four wards across the country. One hundred 
hemophiliacs and children undergoing operations will be the first to receive 
PurBlood.


When is this scheduled to happen?de Vaca asked.


August third.


De Vacashands flew to her mouth. But thats this Friday!


Carson nodded. We have to warn the authorities. Get them to stop the PurBlood 
rollout, and get help for the people here.


And how the hell are we supposed to do that? The only long-distance phone lines 
out of here are the dedicated network leased lines to Boston. Even if we could 
get to those, whod believe us?


Carson thought. Maybe Scopes is already suffering the effects.


De Vacasnorted. Even if he was, nobody would connect that with anything 
happening here.


He turned to her. Maybe were worrying unnecessarily. If theres a developing 
paranoia among all the Mount Dragon residents, wouldnt it turn them against 
each other, canceling the threat?


She shook her head. In this atmosphere? Not likely. Especially with someone as 
charismatic as Scopes running things. Its a textbook setting forfolie  
deux.


What?


Shared insanity. Everyone acting out the same twisted fantasy. Or, as we called 
it in med school, a double-nut fruitcake.


Carson grimaced. Great. That leaves us only one option. Get the hell out of 
here.


How?


I dont know.


De Vacasmirked, started to speak. Then she stopped and nudged his elbow. Look 
over there.


Carson looked. Ahead of them lay the motor pool: half a dozen white Hummers in a 
gleaming row, standing like sentries and casting long shadows across the 
graveled lot.


They walked closer to the vehicles with feigned nonchalance. First, Carson 
whispered, wed have to find the keys. Then, wed have to drive out of the 
compound without anyone noticing.


Suddenly,de Vaca knelt beside him in the dust.


What are you doing?


Tying my shoe.


Youre wearing slip-ons!


De Vacastood up. I know that, idiot. She dusted one knee, shook her hair back 
from her head and looked at him. There isnt a car made that I cant hot-wire.


Carson looked at her.


I used to steal them.


I believe it.


Just for fun, she added defensively.


Uh-huh. But these were once military vehicles, and this was once a top-secret 
facility. It wont be like breaking into a Honda Civic.


De Vacafrowned, kicking the dust at her feet with the heel of one shoe.


Carson spoke again. On my first day here, Singer implied that the security is 
better than it looks. Even if we did bash through the perimeter fence, theyd be 
after us in a second and would just run us into the earth.


There was a long silence.


There are two other possibilities,de Vaca said. We could take the horses. Or 
we could walk.


Carson looked out over the vast, endless desert. Only a fool would attempt 
something like that, he said quietly.


They both stood silently, looking out into the desert. Carson realized that, for 
the moment, he felt no fear: just an oppressive weight on his shoulders, as if 
he were supporting a terrific burden. He did not know if that meant he was brave 
or simply exhausted.


Teece was no fan of the product, he said at last. He told me as much in the 
sauna. Ill bet his hasty departure had something to do with PurBlood. He 
probably had enough doubts about X-FLU to want to stall the release of our other 
products, at least until he was satisfied there was no flaw in our procedures. 
Or until hed learned more about Burt.


As he was speaking, he noticedde Vaca suddenly become rigid. Someones coming, 
she whispered.


There was the sound of footsteps; then the figure of Harper came down the 
covered walkway leading from the residency. Carson noticed a bulge under the 
scientists shirt where a large bandage was attached.


Harper stopped. Heading to dinner? he asked.


Sure, said Carson after a brief hesitation.


Come on, then.


The dining hall was crowded, and only a few tables remained vacant. Carson 
looked around him as they took their seats. Since Vanderwagons departure, 
Carson had taken to dining alone, well past the peak hour for dinner. Now he 
felt uneasy, seeing such a large number of Mount Dragon workers together at 
once.Could all these people really .. . He pushed the thought from his mind.


A waiter approached their table. As they gave their drink orders, Carson watched 
the waiter continually smooth an imaginary mustache: first the left side, then 
the right side, then the left, then the right. The skin of the mans upper lip 
was red and raw from being continuously pawed at.


So! said Harper as the waiter walked away. What have you two been up to?


Carson barely heard the question. He had realized what else was contributing to 
his uneasiness.


The atmosphere in the dining hall seemed hushed, almost furtive. The tables were 
full, people were eating, yet there were very few conversations going on. The 
diners seemed to be simply going through the motions of eating, as if from habit 
rather than hunger. The dying echoes of Harpers question seemed to ring in 
three dozen water glasses.Christ ,have I been asleep? Carson asked himself.How 
could I have missed this?


Harper accepted his beer, while Carson andde Vaca drank club sodas.


On the wagon? Harper asked, taking a long pull at his beer.


Carson shook his head.


I still havent had an answer to my question, Harper asked, smoothing his 
thinning brown hair with a restless hand. I asked what you two have been up to 
lately. He looked back and forth between them, his red eyes blinking rapidly.


Oh, nothing much, saidde Vaca, sitting very stiffly and looking down at her 
empty plate.


Nothing much? repeated Harper, as if the words were new to him. Nothing much. 
That seems odd. Were working on the biggest project in GeneDynes history, and 
you guys havent been up to anything much.


Carson nodded, wishing Harper wouldnt talk so loudly. Even if they could steal 
a Hummer, what would they say when they got to civilization? Who would believe 
two wild-eyed people, driving out of the desert? They needed to download proof 
onto some kind of transportable media and take it with them. But did they dare 
leave X-FLU in the hands of a lot of people who were going insane by degrees? 
Not that there was much good they could do if they stayed. Unless they could 
somehow get the proof toLevine . Of course, it wouldnt be possible to transmit 
gigabytes of data across the net, it would be noticed, but


He felt a hand twisting the material of his shirtfront. Harper had balled it 
into his fist.


Im talking to you, asshole, he said, pulling Carson forward in his seat.


Carson began to rise in protest when he felt a meaningful pressure on one 
forearm.


Sorry, he mumbled.De Vacas pressure on his forearm eased.


Why are you ignoring me? Harper asked loudly. What is it you arent telling 
me?


Really, George, Im sorry. I was just thinking about other things.


Weve been so busy recently, saidde Vaca, desperately trying to put a bright 
note in her voice. Weve got a lot to think about.


Carson felt the grip tighten further. You just said you were doing nothing 
much. You said it, I know you said it. So which is it? Carson glanced around. 
People at nearby tables were looking at them, and though the gazes were dull and 
vacant, they still held the kind of slack anticipation he hadnt seen since a 
bar fight hed witnessed a long time ago.


George,de Vaca said, I heard you made an important breakthrough the other 
day.


What? Harper asked.


Thats what Dr. Singer told me. He said youd made extraordinary progress.


Harper dropped his hand, immediately forgetting Carson. John said that? Im not 
surprised.


De Vacasmiled and laid her hand on Harpers arm. And you know, I was very 
impressed with how you handled Vanderwagon.


Harper sat back, looking at her. Thanks, he said at last.


I should have mentioned it earlier. It was thoughtless of me not to. Im so 
sorry.


Carson watched asde Vaca looked into Harpers eyes, an expression of sympathy 
and understanding on her face. Then, significantly, her eyes dropped to Harpers 
hands. Unaware of the suggestion she was planting, Harper looked down and began 
examining his nails.


Look at that, he said. Theres dirt here. Shit. With all the germs in this 
place, you have to take precautions.


Without another word, he pushed his chair back and headed for the mens room.


Carson breathed out. Jesus, he whispered. The scientists at the surrounding 
tables had returned to their meals, but a strange feeling remained in the air: a 
close, listening silence.


I guess coming here was a bad idea,de Vaca murmured. Im not hungry, anyway.


Carson tried to steady his breathing, closing his eyes for a moment. As soon as 
he did so, the world seemed to sink away beneath his feet. Christ, he was tired.


I cant think any more, he said. Lets meet in the radiology lab at 
midnight. Meanwhile, try to get some sleep.


De Vacasnorted. Are you crazy? How can I sleep?


Carson glanced at her. You arent going to get another chance, he said.


 





 


Charles Levinestared at the blue folder in his hand, lavishly stamped and 
embossed, a large signature scrawled across the seal. He began to open it, then 
stopped. He already knew what it would say. He turned to throw it in the 
wastebasket, but realized that, too, was unnecessary. Destroying the document 
would not make its substance go away.


He looked out of his open door, past the boxes and moving crates, into the empty 
outer office. Just a week before, Ray had been sitting there, calmly fielding 
calls and turning away the zealots. Ray had been loyal to the end, unlike so 
many of his other colleagues and foundation members. How could his lifes work 
be compromised so utterly, eclipsed in such a short space of time?


He sat down in his chair, gazing with vacant eyes at the single unpacked item on 
his desk: his notebook computer, still powered up and connected to the campus 
network. Not so many days before, hed cast his line into the deep, cold 
watersof that network, fishing for help in his crusade. Instead, hed hooked a 
leviathan; a murderous kraken that had devastated everything he cared about.


His biggest mistake had been underestimating Brent Scopes. Or, perhaps, 
overestimating him. The Scopes he knew would not have fought him in this way. 
Perhaps, Levine thought, he himselfhad been guiltyguilty of hyperbole, of 
leaping to conclusions, perhaps even unethical conduct, breaking into the 
GeneDyne net as he had. He had provoked Scopes. But for Scopes to calculatingly 
sully the memory of his murdered fatherit was inexcusable, sociopathic. Always, 
in the back of his mind, Levine had kept the memory of their friendshipa 
friendship of profound, intellectual intensity that he could never replace. He 
had never gotten over the loss, and somehow he believed Scopes felt the same 
way.


But it was now obvious that he must have been wrong.


Levines eyes wandered over the empty shelves, the open filing cabinets, the 
gray clouds of disturbed dust settling sluggishly through the still air. Losing 
his foundation, his reputation, and his tenure changed everything. It had made 
his choices very simple; it had, in fact, narrowed them to one. And out of that 
choice, the outline of a plan began to take shape in his mind.


 





 


After dark, Mount Dragon became home to a thousand shadows. The covered 
walkways and stark multifaceted buildings glowed a pale blue in the light of a 
setting crescent moon. The rare footfall, the crunch of gravel, served only to 
magnify the silence and utter loneliness. Beyond the thin necklace of lights 
that illuminated the perimeter fence, a vast darkness took over, flowing on for 
a hundred miles in all directions, unvexed by light or campfire.


Carson moved through the shadows toward the radiology lab. Nobody was outside, 
and the residency compound was quiet, but the silence only increased his 
nervousness. He had chosen the radiology lab because it had been supplanted by 
new facilities inside the Fever Tank and was hardly ever used, and because it 
was the only low-security lab with full network access. But now he wasnt so 
sure his choice had been a good one. The lab was off the normal track, behind 
the machine shop, and if he ran into anyone hed have a difficult time 
explaining his presence.


He cracked open the door to the lab, then paused. A pale light glowed from 
inside the room, and he heard the rustle of movement.


Jesus, Carson, you scared the shit out of me. It wasdeVaca, a pallid phantom 
silhouetted in the glow of the computer screen. She motioned him inside.


What are you doing? he whispered, slipping into a seat next to her.


I got here early. Listen, I thought of a way we could check all this out. See 
if were really right about PurBlood. She was whispering fast as she typed. We 
get weekly physicals, right?


Dont remind me.


De Vacalooked at him. Well? Dont you get it? We can check the taps.


Comprehension dawned on Carson. The physicals included spinal taps. They could 
check the cerebrospinal fluid for elevated levels of dopamine and serotonin.


But we cant access those records, he objected.


Cabrn,youre miles behind. I already have. I worked in Medical my first week 
here, remember? My network privileges for the medical file servers were never 
revoked. In the reflected light of the terminal, her cheekbones were two sharp 
ridges of blue against black. I began by checking a few records, but theres 
just too much data to poke around in. So I ran an SQL query against the medical 
database.


What does it do? List the amount of dopamine and serotonin in everyones 
system?


De Vacashook her head. Neurotransmitters wouldnt show up in a spinal tap. But 
their breakdown productstheir major metaboliteswould. Homovanillic acid is the 
break-down product of dopamine, and 5-hydroxyindoleacetic acid is the breakdown 
product of serotonin. So I told the program to look for those. And, just as a 
control, I told the program to tabulate MHPG and VMA, which are the breakdown 
products of another neurotransmitter, norepinephrine. That way, well have 
something to measure the results against.


And? Carson prompted.


Dont know yet. Here it comes now.


The screen filled.


 


       

      MHPG

      HVA

      VMA

      5-HIAA


      Aaron

      1

      6

      1

      5


      Alberts

      1

      9

      1

      10


      Bowman

      1

      12

      1

      9


      Bunoz

      1

      7

      1

      6


      Carson

      1

      1

      1

      1


      Cristoferi

      1

      8

      1

      5


      Davidoff

      1

      8

      1

      8


      De Vaca

      1

      1

      1

      1


      Donergan

      1

      10

      1

      8


      Ducely

      1

      7

      1

      9


      Engies

      1

      7

      1

      6


      MORE SCREENS AVAILABLE



 


My God, Carson muttered.


De Vacanodded grimly. Look at the HVA and 5-HIAA counts. In every case, levels 
of dopamine and serotonin in the brain are many times above normal.


Carson paged down through the rest of the list. Look at Nye! he said suddenly, 
pointing to the screen. Dopamine metabolites, fourteen times normal. Serotonin 
metabolites, twelve times normal.


With levels like that, dangerously paranoid, perhaps presenting as 
schizophrenia,de Vaca said. Ill bet he perceived Teece as a threat to Mount 
Dragonor perhaps to himselfand set a trap for him out in the desert. I wonder 
if that bastard Marr was in on it. You were right when you said killing Teece 
was crazy.


Carson glanced at her. How come these abnormal readings werent flagged 
before?


Because you wouldnt be checking levels of neurotransmitters in a place like 
Mount Dragon. They look for antibodies, viral contamination, stuff like that. 
Besides, were talking about nanograms per milliliter. Unless youre 
specifically looking for these, metabolites, you arent going to find them.


Carson shook his head in disbelief. Isnt there anything we could do to 
counteract the adverse effects?


Hard to say. You could try a dopamine receptor antagonist, like 
chlorpromazine. Or imipramine, which blocks the transport of serotonin. But with 
levels this high, I doubt youd see much improvement. We dont even know if the 
process can be reversed. And thats assuming there were sufficient stocks of 
both drugs on hand, and we found a way to administer it to every person 
on-site.


Carson continued to stare at the screen in horrified fascination. Then, 
suddenly, his hands moved onto the keyboard, copying the data to a file on the 
terminals local drive. Then he cleared the screen and quit the program.


De Vacaturned. What the hell are you doing? she hissed.


Weve seen enough, Carson replied. Scopes was a beta-tester too, remember? If 
he sees us at this, were cooked. He loggedde Vaca off the terminal and entered 
his own password at the GeneDyne security screen. As he waited for the logon 
messages to scroll past, he fished two writeable compact discs from his pocket.


I went back to the library and downloaded the most important data onto these 
CDs: the video, the filtration data, my on-line X-FLU logs, Burts notes. Now, 
Im going to add this CSF data to


He stopped, staring at the screen.


 


GOOD EVENING, GUY CARSON.


YOU HAVE 1 UNREAD MESSAGE


 


Quickly, Carson brought up the waiting electronic mail.


 


Ciao,Guy.


I couldnt help but notice the hellacious CPU time you soaked up,running that 
modeling program early this morning .It warms my heart to see you burning the 
midnight oil ,but it wasnt clear ,from the on-line logs ,exactly what you were 
doing


Im sure you wouldnt be wasting your time,or mine ,without good reason .Does 
this mean youve made a breakthrough? I hope so for both oursakes.Idont need 
pretty pictures,I need results .Time is growing cruelly short.


Oh,yes .I almost forgot .Why this sudden interest in PurBlood?


I await your reply.


Brent


 


Jesus, look at that,de Vaca said. I can almost feel his breath on the back of 
my neck.


Time is cruelly short, all right, Carson muttered. If only he knew. He slid 
one of the CDs into the terminals drive bay and copied the cerebrospinal-fluid 
results onto it. Then he initiated the networks chat mode.


Are you crazy?de Vaca hissed. Who the hell are you going to page?


Shut up and watch, Carson said, as he continued to type.


 


Chat target: Guy


Carson@Biomed.Dragon.GeneDyne


 


Now I know youre crazy,de Vaca said. Requesting to chat with yourself.


Levine told me that, if I ever needed to reach him, I should send a chat 
request across the network, using myself as the recipient as well as the 
sender, Carson said. That would initiate a communications agent hed planted, 
to connect with his computer.


Youre going to send him the data on PurBlood,de Vaca said.


Yes. Hes the only person that can help us.


Carson waited, fighting to keep calm. He imagined the small communications 
daemon burrowing secretly through the GeneDyne net, out into a public-access 
service, and then to Levines computer. Somewhere, Levines laptop would be 
flashing a message now. Assuming it was connected to the network, and Levine was 
around to hear it.Come on .Come on.


Suddenly the screen went blank.


 


Hello. Ive been expecting your call.


 


Carson typed frantically.


 


Dr. Levine, pay careful attention. Theres acrisis here at Mount Dragon. You 
were right about the virus. But its more than that, much more. We cant do 
anything about it here, and we need your help. It is of the utmost importance 
that you act quickly. I am going to transmit to you a document Ive prepared 
that explains the situation, along with files of supporting information. There 
is one other thing I must add: Please do what you can to get us out of here as 
soon as possible. I believe we are in real danger. And do whatever you must to 
get the stocks of X-FLU safely out of the hands of the Mount Dragon staff. As 
you will learn from the data Im transmitting, they all need immediate medical 
attention. Im commencing data transmission now, using standard network 
protocols.


 


He initiated the upload with a few keystrokes, and an access light on the 
terminals faceplate lit up. Carson sat back gingerly, watching the data feed. 
Even with maximum compression and at the widest bandwidth the network would 
allow, it would take almost forty minutes to transmit the data. It was all too 
likely that the next time Scopes came nosing around, hed notice the heavy use 
of resources. Or one of his network lackeys would point it out to him. And how 
the hell was he going to reply to Scopesse-mail?


Suddenly the datastream was interrupted.


 


Guy? Are you there?


 


Were here. Whats wrong?


 


Who is this we? Is someone else there with you?


 


My lab assistant is also aware of the situation.


 


Very good. Now, listen to me. Is there anyone else on site who can help you?


 


No. Were on our own. Dr. Levine, let me continue the upload.


 


Theres no time for that. Ive received enough already to see what the problem 
is, and what I dont have I can get from the GeneDyne net. Thank you for 
trusting me with this. Ill see that the proper authorities are immediately 
called in to handle the situation.


 


Listen, Dr. Levine, we need to get out of here. We believe theOSHAinvestigator 
who came here may have been killed.


 


Of course. Getting you out will be my highest priority. You andde Vacakeep on 
as you have been and dont make any attempts to escape. Just stay calm. Okay?


 


Okay.


 


Guy, your work has been brilliant. Tell me how you stumbled across this.


 


As Carson prepared to type his response, a sudden chill shot through him.


Youand de Vacastay calm. But he had never spoken ofdeVaca to Levine.


 


Who is this?he typed.


 


Suddenly the pixels on the screen began to dissolve into a snowstorm of white 
and black. The speaker next to the terminal came to life with a squeal of 
static.De Vaca gasped in surprise. Carson, rooted to his chair, watched the 
screen in disbelief, despair turning his limbs to lead. Was that the sound of 
raucous laughter, blending with the squeal of static in an infernal fugue? Was 
that a face, forming slowly out of the chaos on the screen: a face with jug 
ears, thick glasses, and impertinent cowlick?


Suddenly, the screen went blank, and the hiss of static abruptly cut off. The 
room was plunged in silent darkness! And then Carson heard the lonesome wail of 
the Mount Dragon alarm, rising in intensity across the desert sands.


PART THREE





 


 


Carson metde Vacas eyes.


Lets go, he hissed, powering down the terminal with a stab of his finger.


They eased out of the radiology lab, closing the door quietly behind them. 
Quickly, Carson scanned the immediate area. Quartz emergency beacons had come up 
along the perimeter fence. As he watched, Carson saw klieg lights snap into 
ivory brilliance, first in the front guard tower, then in the rear. The twin 
beams began slowly scanning the compound. There was no moon, and large sections 
of the facility were sunken in pools of impenetrable darkness. He urgedde Vaca 
forward into the shadow of the machine shop. They crept along the base of the 
building and around a corner, then scurried across a walkway to a dark area 
behind the incinerator building.


They heard a shout and the distant running of feet.


Itll take them a few minutes to get organized, Carson said. This is our 
chance to get the hell out. He patted his pocket, ensuring that the CDs and the 
evidence they contained were still safe. Looks like youll get a chance to 
test your hot-wiring skills, after all. Lets grab a Hummer while we still can.


De Vacahesitated.


Lets move! he urged.


We cant, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Not without destroying the 
stocks of X-FLU first.


Are you crazy? Carson snapped.


If we leave X-FLU in the hands of these nuts, we wont survive even if we do 
escape. You saw what happened to Vanderwagon, what was happening to Harper. All 
it takes is one person to walk out with a vial of X-FLU, and you can kiss your 
ass good-bye.


We sure as hell cant take them with us.


No, but listen. I know how we can destroy X-FLU and escape at the same time.


Carson saw dark figures running across the compound, guards holding ugly-looking 
assault weapons. He pulleddeVaca farther into the shadows.


We have to enter the Fever Tank to do it,de Vaca continued.


The hell with that. Well be trapped like rats.


Listen, Carson, thats thelast place theyll be looking for us.


Carson thought for a moment. Youre probably right, he said. Even a madman 
wouldnt go back in there right now.


Trust me.De Vaca grabbed his hand and pulled him around the far side of the 
incinerator.


Wait,Susana


Move your ass,cabrn.


Carson followed her across a dark courtyard to the inner perimeter. They dropped 
into the shadows of the operations building, breathing heavily.


Suddenly a shot rang out, cracking across the desert night. Several others 
followed in rapid succession.


Theyre shooting at shadows, Carson said.


Or perhaps each other, came the reply. Who knows how far gone some of them 
are?


A klieg light was making a slow arc toward them, and they ducked into the 
darkened operations building. After a hurried reconnoiter, they ran down the 
deserted hall and into the elevator that led to the BSL-5 entrance.


I think youd better tell me your plan, said Carson as they descended.


She. looked at him, violet eyes wild. Listen carefully. Remember old Pavel, 
who fixed my CD player? Ive been meeting him in the canteen for backgammon. He 
likes to talk, probably more than he should. He told me that, back when the 
military funded this site, they insisted on the installation of a fail-safe 
device. Something to safeguard against a catastrophic release of a hot agent 
within the Fever Tank. It was taken off-line after Mount Dragon went private, 
but the mechanisms were never actually dismantled. Pavel even explained how 
easily it could be reactivated.


Susana,how could


Shut up and listen. Were gonna blow this wholechingadera up. The fail-safe 
device was called a stage-zero alert. Itreversed the laminar airflow of the air 
incinerator, flooding the Fever Tank with thousand-degree air, sterilizing 
everything. Only a few of the old-timers, like Singer and Nye, know about it. 
She smirked in the dim light of the elevator. When that superheated air hits 
all the combustibles in there, it should make a nice explosion.


Yeah, right. And fry us, too.


No. Itll take several minutes for the airflow to reverse. All we have to do is 
set the alert, get out, and wait for the explosion. Then we can snag a Hummer in 
the uproar.


The elevator door whispered open on a shadowy corridor. They moved quickly to 
the gray metal door leading into the Fever Tank. Carson spoke his name into the 
voice-recognition box and the door clicked open.


You know, they could be watching us right now, he said as he struggled into 
his bluesuit.


They could,de Vaca said. But considering all the hell thats breaking loose 
up there, I think they have more important cameras to monitor.


They checked each others suits for safety, then stepped into decontam. As 
Carson stood in the sheets of poisonous liquid, staring at the dim alien figure 
ofde Vaca standing beside him, a sense of unreality began to creep over 
him.There are people looking for us. Shooting at us. And were walking into the 
Fever Tank . He felt the creeping claustrophobic fear settling around his chest 
once again, squeezing him like a vise.Theyll find us .Well be trapped like 
rats ,and ... He sucked at his air hose, filling his lungs with panicked gasps.


You all right, Carson? The calm voice ofde Vaca over the private intercom 
channel shamed him into rationality. He nodded, stepping into the antechamber 
that housed the drying mechanism.


Two minutes later, they entered the Fever Tank. The global alarm droned quietly 
in the empty corridors, and the distant drumming of the chimps sounded like a 
muffled riot. Carson looked up at the white walls, searching for a clock: almost 
twelve-thirty. The corridor lights were on low, and would stay that way until 
the decontamination crew entered at 2A.M. Only this timewith a little 
luckthere wouldnt be anything left to decontaminate.


We have to access the security substation, camede Vacas voice. You know 
where it is, right?


Yeah. Carson knew only too well. The Level-5 security substation was located 
on the lowest level of the Fever Tank. Directly below the quarantine area.


They moved quickly through the corridors to the central core. Carson letde Vaca 
descend first, then grabbed the handrails and went down the tube himself. Above 
his head he could see the huge uptake manifold that, in a few minutes, might be 
spewing superheated air throughout the facility.


The substation was a cramped circular room with several swivel chairs and a low 
ceiling. Five-inch terminal screens marched in orderly rows around the curve of 
the walls, showing a hundred views of the empty Fever Tank. Beneath them, a 
command console jutted into the room.


De Vacatook a seat in front of the console and began typing, slowly at first, 
then more rapidly.


Now what the hell do we do? Carson asked, thrusting a fresh air hose into the 
valve of his suit.


Hold your water,cabrn,de Vaca said, lifting one gloved hand to press her 
communications button. Its just like Pavel said it would be. All the 
safeguards here are to prevent a breach from occurring. They never thought to 
install safeguards against someonedeliberately triggering a false alarm. Why 
should they? Im going to bring the stage-zero crisis parameters back on-line, 
and then initiate the alert!


And then well havehow long to get out?


Plenty of time, believe me.


How long is that, exactly?


Stop bothering me, Carson. Cant you see Im busy? Just a few more commands, 
and were in business.


Carson watched her type. Then he spoke again, more quietly.Susana, lets think 
about this a moment. Is this really what we want to do? Destroy the entire 
Level-5 facility? The chimps? Everything weve worked for?


De Vacastopped typing and turned to face him. What other choice do we have? The 
chimps are goners anyway, theyre all exposed to X-FLU. Well be doing them a 
favor.


I know that. But a lot of good has come out of this facility. It would take 
years to reproduce the work thats been done in here. Weknow whats wrong with 
X-FLU now, we can correct the process.


If we get our asses shot off, whos going to fix X-FLU? camede Vacas angry 
voice in his headset. And if some nut gets his hands on the stuff, whos going 
to care about the damage we do to GeneDynes bottom line? Im going to


Carson, came the severe tone of Nye.De Vaca. Listen to me carefully. 
Effective immediately, your employment at GeneDyne is terminated. You are now 
trespassers on GeneDyne property, and your presence in the Level-5 facility must 
be assumed a hostile act. If you decide to surrender, I can guarantee your 
safety. If not, you will be hunted down and dealt with. There is no possibility 
of escape.


So much for the video cameras,de Vaca muttered.


He might be monitoring the private channel, Carson replied. Say as little as 
possible.


Doesnt matter. Im there.De Vacas typing slowed. Then she reached over and, 
lifting a hinged security grille protecting a bank of black switches, flipped 
the topmost switch.


Immediately, a loud tone sounded above the wail of the emergency siren, and an 
array of warning lights in the ceiling began to blink.


Attention, came a calm feminine voice in his headset that Carson had not heard 
before. Astage-zero alert will initiate in sixty seconds.


De Vacathrew a second switch, then stood back, kicking over the console with one 
gloved foot for good measure. A shower of sparks leapt across her suit.


Fail-safe activated, the feminine voice said.Alert commit sequence bypassed.


Now youve done it, Carson said.


De Vacapunched the emergency global button on the communications panel of her 
bluesuit, broadcasting her words across the Mount Dragon PA system. Nye? I want 
you to listen to me very carefully.


Theres nothing for you to say except yes or no, Nye replied coolly.


Listen up,canalla! Were in the security substation. Weve initiated a 
stage-zero alert. Total, unprejudiced sterilization.


De Vaca,if you


You cant back it down, Ive already initiated the commit. Do you understand? 
In a few minutes Level-5 will be flooded with thousand-degree air. The whole 
damn place will go up like a Viking funeral. Anyone within a three-hundred-yard 
radius will turn into beef jerky.


As if in punctuation, the calm voice returned on the global channel:Stage-zero 
alert initiated. You have ten minutes to evacuate the area.


Ten minutes? Carson said. Jesus.


De Vaca,youre more insane than I thought, came the voice of Nye. You cant 
succeed. Do you hear me?


De Vacabarked a laugh. Youre calling me insane? she said. Im not the one 
out there every day in the desert, in pith helmet and ponytail, bobbing up and 
down like a goddamn dragoon.


Susana,shut up! Carson barked.


There was dead silence over the intercom.


De Vacaturned toward him, brows knitted in anger. Then her expression quickly 
changed.


Guy, look at that, she said on the private channel, pointing over his 
shoulder.


Turning, Carson faced the wall of video monitors. He scanned the countless small 
black-and-white images, uncertain of what had caughtde Vacas attention. The 
laboratories, passages, and storage areas were still and deserted.


Except one. In the main corridor just beyond the entrance port, a singlefigure 
was moving. There was a stealth and deliberation to the figures movements that 
chilled Carsons blood. He moved closer to the monitor, staring intently. The 
figure was wearing the kind of bulky biosuit with extended internal oxygen used 
exclusively by the security staff. In one hand was a long black object that 
looked like a policemans nightstick. As the bulky biosuit moved closer, walking 
directly beneath the camera, Carson could see that the object was a 
double-barreled pistol-grip shotgun.


Then he noticed the figures gait. Every now and then there was an odd hitch in 
the walk, as if a leg joint had momentarily come loose.


Mike Marr,de Vaca murmured.


Carson moved his glove to his sleeve to reply, then stopped. His instincts told 
him that something else was wrong; terribly wrong. He stood motionless, trying 
to figure out what had triggered his subconscious alarm.


Then the realization hit him like a hammer.


Throughout the countless hours hed spent in the Fever Tankthrough all the many 
communications beeps, tones, and voices that had sounded in his headsetthere 
had run one steady, continuous sound: the reassuring hiss of the air hose 
connected to his suit.


Now the hiss was gone.


Reaching down quickly, Carson disconnected the air hose from his suit valve, 
grabbed for another line, snapped it home.


Nothing.


He turned tode Vaca, who had been watching his movements. Comprehension grew in 
her eyes.


The bastards turned off the air supply, came her voice.


You have nine minutes to evacuate the area.


Carson held a gloved finger up in front of his visor to simulate silence.


How long, he mouthed.


De Vacaheld up a single hand, the fingers splayed. Five minutes of reserve air 
in their bluesuits.


Five minutes.Christ ,it took that long just to decontaminate . ... Carson 
struggled to push back the panic that was growing inside him. He glanced back at 
the video screens, searching for Marr. He spotted the security officer again, 
moving now through the production area.


He realized they had only one chance.


Disconnecting the useless air hose from his suit, Carson gestured forde Vaca to 
follow him out of the security substation and back to the central core. Carson 
grabbed the metal rungs of the ladder, craning his neck upward. He could make 
out the huge uptake manifold five levels above, hovering like a grim promise at 
the very pinnacle of the Fever Tank. No sign yet of Marr. Grabbing the rungs of 
the ladder, Carson climbed as quickly as he could, past the generators and 
backup labs to the second-level storage facility. Withde Vaca at his heels, he 
ducked quickly behind an oversized freezer bay.


Turning towardde Vaca, he made a suppressing movement with his hands, then 
concentrated on slowing his own breathing, trying to conserve his dwindling 
oxygen supply. He peered out from the darkness of the storage area toward the 
central core ladder.


Carson knew there was no way to leave the Fever Tank without passing through 
decontam. Marr would know this, also. Hed look for them first at the exit 
hatchway. Finding they werent there, he would assume they were still in the 
security substation. After all, Marr knew that nobody would be foolish enough to 
waste time in any other section of the Fever Tank, with their air supply running 
out and a massive explosion due within minutes.


At least, Carson hoped Marr knew that.


You have eight minutes to evacuate the area.


They waited in the darkness, eyes riveted to the core ladder. Carson feltde 
Vaca nudge him urgently from behind, but he motioned her to stay still. He 
wondered, idly, what terrifying pathogen was stored in the freezer that stood 
mere inches from him. The seconds continued to tick by. He began taking shallow 
breaths, wondering if his plan had condemned them both to death.


Suddenly, a red-suited leg came into view on the ladder. Carson pulledde Vaca 
deeper into the shadows. Thefigure came fully into view. It paused at the second 
level, looking around. Then it continued downward toward the security 
substation.


Carson waited as long as he dared. Then he moved forward into the dim red 
light,de Vaca behind him. He cautiously peered over the edge of the central 
core: empty. Marr would be on the lower level by now, approaching the security 
substation. Hed be moving slowly, on the chance that Carson was armed. That 
gave them a few more seconds.


Carson urgedde Vaca up the ladder to the main floor of the Fever Tank, motioning 
her to wait for him by the exit air lock. Then he moved quickly down the 
corridor toward the Zoo.


The chimps were in a frenzy, keyed to a fever pitch by the incessant droning of 
the alarms. They looked at him with angry red eyes, hammering on their cages 
with a terrifying ferocity. Several empty cages stood as mute testimony to 
recent victims of the virus.


Carson moved closer to the rack of cages. Then, careful to avoid the thrusting, 
probing hands, he pulled the cotter pins from the cage doors one by one and 
loosened the faceplates. Enraged by his proximity, the creatures redoubled their 
banging and screaming. Carsons suit seemed to vibrate with their desperate 
screams.


You have seven minutes to evacuate the area.


Carson raced from the Zoo and down the hall to the exit air lock. Seeing him 
approach,de Vaca opened the rubber-sealed door, and the two moved quickly into 
the decontamination chamber. As the sterilizing agents began to rain down on 
them, Carson stood near the hatchway door, looking through the glass plate back 
into the Fever Tank. By now, he knew, the force of the chimps pounding would 
have shaken free the faceplates and opened the cage doors. He imagined the 
creatures, sick and angry, racing through the darkened facility, over lab 
tables, along corridors ... down ladders ...


You have five minutes to evacuate the area.


Suddenly, Carson realized his lungs were no longer drawing in air. He turned 
tode Vaca and made a chopping movement across his neck. If they continued trying 
to breathe, they would simply inspire carbon dioxide.


The yellowish bath stopped and the far hatchway opened. Carson moved into the 
next air lock, struggling against an overwhelming desire to breathe. As the 
immense driers roared into life, a terrible need for oxygen set fire to his 
lungs. He looked over atde Vaca, leaning weakly against the wall. She shook her 
head.


Was that a shotgun blast?Over the hum of the drying mechanism, Carson couldnt 
be sure.


Suddenly the last air lock opened and they tumbled into the ready room. Carson 
helpedde Vaca remove her helmet, then tugged desperately at his own, dropping it 
to the floor and gulping in the fresh, sweet air.


You have three minutes to evacuate the area.


They struggled out of their bluesuits, then left the ready room, moving down the 
hallway and into the elevator leading up to the operations building. They may 
be waiting for us outside, Carson said.


No way,de Vaca gasped as she gulped in large lungfuls of air. Theyre going 
to be running like hell to the other side of the compound.


The hallways of the operations building remained dark and empty. They raced down 
the corridor and through the atrium, pausing briefly at the front entrance. As 
Carson cracked the door open, the frantic blatting of emergency sirens rushed in 
to meet them. He looked around, then moved quickly into the shadows outside, 
motioningde Vaca to follow him.


Mount Dragon was in chaos. Carson could see several small knots of people 
huddled together, talking or yelling among themselves. In a pool of light 
outside the residency compound, several scientists were standingsome clad in 
pajamastalking excitedly. Carson could see Harper among them, shaking a raised 
fist. Figures could be seen, marching and sometimes running between the probing 
beams of the klieg lights.


They moved quickly through the deserted inner perimeter gate and into the shadow 
of the incinerator. As Carson scanned the far end of the compound, his eyes fell 
on the motor pool. Half a dozen armed guards surrounded the Hummers, 
brilliantly spotlighted in a bank of lights. In the center of the group stood 
Nye. Carson saw the security director gesture in the direction of the Fever 
Tank.


The stables! Carson shouted inde Vacas ear.


They found the horses standing in their stalls, restless, alert to the 
excitement.De Vaca led the horses to the tack room while Carson ran ahead to 
secure the blankets and saddles.


As Carson turned toward Roscoe, saddle in both hands, the earth suddenly 
shuddered beneath his feet. Then a flash of intense light illuminated the inside 
of the stables in a stark, unyielding glare. The explosion began as a muffled 
thump, followed by an endlessly building roar. Carson felt the wave of 
overpressure rock the stables, and the windows along the far wall burst inward, 
scattering shards of wood and glass across the barn floor.De Vacas Appaloosa 
reared in terror.


Easy, boy, saidde Vaca, catching the reins and stroking the animals neck.


Carson looked quickly around the stables, saw Nyes saddlebags, grabbed them 
and tossed them tode Vaca. There should be canteens inside. Fill them in the 
horse trough! he shouted, throwing on the blankets and reaching for the 
saddles.


When she raced back, he was tightening Roscoes flank cinch. Carson slapped the 
saddlebags on the skirts and tied them with the saddle strings asde Vaca 
mounted.


Wait a minute, Carson said. He ran back and grabbed two riding hats from their 
pegs in the tack room. Then, returning, he climbed onto Roscoe and they moved 
through the open door.


The heat of the fire slapped against their faces as they stared at the 
devastation outside. The low filtration housing that marked the roof of the 
Fever Tank was now a ruined crater from which gouts of flame licked skyward. The 
concrete roof of the operations building had buckled, and a reddish glow rose 
from its interior. In the residency compound, curtains whipped crazily through a 
hundred shattered windows. An intense fire roared out of the incinerator, 
coloring the surrounding sand a brilliant orange.


The path of the blast had cut a swath of destruction through the compound, 
peeling back the roof of the canteen and flattening a large section of the 
perimeter fence. Follow me! Carson shouted, giving his horse the heel. They 
raced through the smoke and fire to the blowdown, jumped the twisted wreckage of 
the perimeter fence, and galloped across the desert toward the welcoming 
darkness.


When they were half a mile from the compound and beyond the glow of the fire, 
Carson slowed his horse to a trot.


Weve got a long way to go, he said asde Vaca pulled up alongside. Wed 
better take it easy on these horses.


As he spoke, another explosion rocked the ruins of the operations building, and 
a massive fireball arose from the hole in the ground that had been the Fever 
Tank, roiling toward the sky. Several secondary blasts slapped the darkness like 
aftershocks: the transfection lab crumbled into nothingness, and the walls of 
the residency compound shuddered, then collapsed.


The lights of Mount Dragon winked out, leaving only the lambent flickering of 
the burning buildings to mark the remains of the complex.


There goes my pre-war Gibson flathead, Carson muttered.


As he turned Roscoe back into the well of blackness ahead, he saw pencil beams 
of light begin to stab across the desert. The beams seemed to be moving toward 
them, blinking in and out of sight as they followed the bumpy terrain. Suddenly, 
powerful spotlights snapped on, illuminating the desert in long yellow lances.


Qu chingao,saidde Vaca. The Hummers survived the explosion. Well never 
outrun those bastards in this desert.


Carson said nothing. With any luck, they could evade the Hummers. He was 
thinking, instead, about their almost total lack of water.


 





 


Scopes sat alone in the octagon, examining his state of mind.


Carson andde Vaca were all but taken care of. Escape was impossible.


He had intercepted their transmission and cut off Carsons data feed almost 
immediately. True, the transparent relay hed used as an alarm would not have 
stopped the initial part of the data transmission. It was within the realm of 
possibility that Levineor whoever Levine was using to hack into the GeneDyne 
netwould pick up the aborted transmission. But Scopes had already taken the 
steps to ensure that such unauthorized entry would not happen again. Drastic 
steps, perhaps, yet necessary. Especially at this delicate time.


In any case, very little of the intended download had gotten through. And what 
Carson had sent seemed to make little sense. It was all about PurBlood. Even if 
Levine received the data, he would have learned nothing of value about X-FLU. 
And he was now so thoroughly discredited that no one would pay attention to any 
story of his, whatever it might be.


All bases had been covered. He could proceed as planned. There was nothing to 
worry about.


So why the strange, subtle, anxious feeling?


Sitting on his comfortably battered couch, Scopes probed his own mild anxiety. 
It was a foreign feeling to him, and the study of it was very interesting. 
Perhaps it was because he had misjudged Carson so thoroughly.De Vacas treachery 
he could understand, especially after that incident in the Level-5 facility. But 
Carson was the last person he would have suspected of industrial espionage. 
Another might have felt terrible, even overwhelming anger at such a betrayal. 
But Scopes felt merely sorrow. The kid had been bright. Now he would have to be 
dealt with by Nye.


Nyethat reminded him. A Mr. Bragg fromOSHA had left two messages earlier in the 
day, inquiring as to the whereabouts of that investigator, Teece. Hed have to 
ask Nye to look into it.


He thought again about the data file Carson had tried to send. There wasnt 
much, and he hadnt looked it over carefully. Just a few documents related to 
PurBlood. Scopes remembered that Carson andde Vaca had been messing around in 
the PurBlood files just the other day. Why the sudden interest? Were they 
planning to sabotage PurBlood, as well as X-FLU? And what was all this Carson 
had said about everyone needing immediate medical attention?


It bore closer looking into. In fact, it would probably be prudent for him to 
examine the aborted download more carefully, along with Carsons on-line 
activities of the last several days. Perhaps he could find the time after the 
evenings primary order of business.


At this new thought, Scopess eyes moved toward the smooth, black face of a safe 
set flush against the lower edge of a far wall. It had been built, to his own 
demanding specifications, into the structural steel of the building when the 
GeneDyne tower was constructed. The only person who could open it was himself, 
and if his heart stopped beating there would be no way to open it short of using 
enough dynamite to vaporize every trace. As he pictured what lay within, the 
odd sense of anxiety quickly melted away. A single biohazard boxrecently 
arrived via military helicopter from Mount Dragonand inside, a sealed glass 
ampule filled with neutral nitrogen gas and a special viral transport medium. If 
Scopes looked closely at the ampule, he knew he would be able to make out a 
cloudy suspension in the fluid. Amazing to think such an insignificant-looking 
thing could be so valuable.


He glanced at his watch: 2:30P.M. , eastern time.


A tiny chirrup came from a monitor beside the couch, and a huge screen winked 
into life. There was a flurry of data as the satellite downlink was decrypted; 
then a brief message appeared, in letters fifteen inches tall:


 


TELINT-2 data link established, lossy-bit


encryption enabled. Proceed with transmission.


 


The message disappeared, and new words appeared on the screen:


 


Mr. Scopes: We are prepared to tender an offer of three billion dollars. The 
offer is non-negotiable.


 


Scopes pulled his keyboard over, and began typing. Compared to hostile 
corporations, the military were pansies.


 


My dear General Harrington: All offers are negotiable. Im prepared to accept 
four billion for the product weve discussed. Ill give you twelve hours to make 
the necessary procurements.


 


Scopes smiled. Hed carry out the rest of the negotiations from a different 
place. A secret place in which he was now more comfortable than he was in the 
everyday world.


He resumed typing, and as he issued a series of commands the words on the giant 
screen began to dissolve into a strange and wondrous landscape. As he typed, 
Scopes recited, almost inaudibly, his favorite lines fromThe Tempest:


 


Nothing of him that doth fade


But doth suffer a sea-change


Into something rich and strange.


 





 


Charles Levine sat on the edge of the faded bedspread, staring at the telephone 
propped on the pillow in front of him. The phone was a deep burgundy color, with 
the wordsPROPERTY OF HOLIDAY INN, BOSTON, MA stamped in white across the back of 
the receiver. For hours he had spoken into the mouthpiece of that receiver, 
shouting, coaxing, begging. Now he had nothing more to say.


He rose slowly, stretched his aching legs, and moved to the sliding glass doors. 
A gentle breeze billowed the curtains. He stepped out to the balcony railing and 
breathed deeply of the night air. The lights of Jamaica Plain glittered in the 
warm darkness, like a mantle of diamonds thrown casually across the landscape. A 
car nosed by on the street below, its headlights illuminating the shabby 
working-class storefronts and deserted gas stations.


The telephone rang. In his shock at hearing an incoming callafter so many 
excuses, so many curt rejectionsLevine stood motionless a moment, looking over 
his shoulder at the telephone. Then he stepped inside and picked up the 
receiver.


Hello? he said in a voice hoarse from talking.


The unmistakable rumble of a modem echoed from the tiny speaker.


Quickly, Levine hung up, transferred the jack from the telephone to his 
computer, and powered up the laptop. The phone rang again, and there was a 
flurry of noise as the machines negotiated.


 


How-do, professor-man.The words rushed immediately onto the screen without the 
usual introductory logo.I assume its still appropriate to call you professor, 
is it not?


 


How did you find me?Levine typed back.


 


Without much problem, came the reply.


 


Ive been on the telephone for hours, talking to everyone I can think of, Levine 
typed. Colleagues, friends in the regulatory agencies, reporters, even former 
students. Nobody believes me.


 


I believe you.


 


The job was too thorough. Unless I can prove my innocence, my credibility will 
be gone forever.


 


Dont fret, professor. As long as you know me, you can be assured of a good 
credit rating, if nothing else.


 


Theres only one person I havent spoken to: Brent Scopes. Hes my next stop.


 


Just a minute, my man!came Mimes response.Even if you could talk to him, I 
doubt hed be interested in hearing from you right about now.


 


Not necessarily. I have to go now, Mime.


 


One moment, professor. I didnt contact you just to present my condolences. A 
few hours ago, your Western homeboy Carson tried to send you an emergency 
transmission. It was almost immediately interrupted, and I was only able to 
retrieve the initial section. I think you need to read this. Are you ready to 
receive?


 


Levine replied that he was.


 


Okay, came the response.Here it comes.


 


Levine checked his watch. It was ten minutes to three.


 





 


Carson andde Vaca rode through the velvety blackness of the Jornada delMuerto, a 
vast river of stars flowing above their heads. The ground sloped downward from 
the compound and they soon found themselves in the bottom of a dry wash, the 
horses sinking to their fetlocks in the soft sand. The light of the stars was 
just enough to illuminate the ground beneath their feet. Any moon, Carson knew, 
and they would have been dead.


They rode down the wash while he thought.


Theyll expect us to head south, toward Radium Springs andLas Cruces, he said 
at last. Those are the closest towns besides Engle, which belongs to GeneDyne 
anyway. Eighty miles, more or less. It takes time to track someone in this 
desert, especially across lava. So if I were Nye, Id follow the track until I 
was sure it was heading south. Then Id fan out the Hummers until the quarry was 
intercepted.


Makes sense, came the voice ofde Vaca in the gloom.


So well oblige him. Well head south, like were going to Radium Springs. When 
we hit the Malpas, well ride up onto the lava where tracking is difficult. 
Then well make a ninety-degree turn east, ride a few miles, and reverse 
direction. Well head north instead.


But theres no town to the north for at least a hundred and forty miles.


Thats exactly why its the only way we can go. Theyd never look for us in 
that direction. But we wont have to ride as far as a town. Remember the Diamond 
Bar ranch I told you about? I know the new ranch manager. Theres a line camp at 
the southern edge of the ranch we can head for. Its called Lava Camp. Id say 
its about a hundred and ten miles from here, twenty or thirty miles north of 
Lava Gate.


Cant the Hummers follow us onto the lava?


The lavas sharp, it would tear any ordinary tires to ribbons, Carson said. 
But the Hummers have something called a central tire inflation system that can 
raise or lower tire pressure. The tubes are specially made to allow miles of 
continued travel after a puncture. Even so, I doubt if they could stay on the 
lava for long. Once theyre sure of our direction, theyll get off the lava, 
move ahead to the far side and try to cut us off.


There was a silence. Its worth a try,de Vaca said at last.


Carson turned his horse southward andde Vaca followed. As they came over the 
rise on the far side of the wash, they could still see, in the distance to the 
north, the flickering yellow glow of the burning complex. Midway across the dark 
sands, the circles of light had grown measurably closer.


I think wed better make tracks, Carson said. Once weve thrown them we can 
rest the horses.


They urged their horses into a hand gallop. In five minutes, the jagged outline 
of the lava flow loomed up before them. They dismounted and led their horses up 
into the flow.


If I remember correctly, the lava veers around to the east, Carson said. Wed 
better follow it for a couple of miles before turning north.


They walked their horses through the lava, moving slowly, allowing the animals 
time to pick a trail through the sharp rubble.Its damn lucky , Carson 
thought,that horses have much better night vision than humans . He couldnt even 
make out the shape of the lava beneath Roscoes hooves; it was as black as the 
night itself. Only scattered yucca plants, patches of lichen and windblown sand, 
and clumps of grass growing from cracks gave him an idea of the surface. 
Difficult as it was, movement was easier here near the edge of the flow. Farther 
in, Carson could see great blocks of lava, sticking up into the night sky like 
basaltic sentries, blotting out the stars.


Glancing back again, Carson could see the lights of the Hummers rapidly 
approaching. Periodically the lights would pausepresumably when Nye got out to 
check the tracks. The lava would slow them, but it wouldnt stop them.


What about water?de Vaca spoke suddenly out of the immense darkness. Is this 
going to be enough?


No, Carson said. Well have to find some.


But where?


Carson was silent.


 





 


Nye stood in the empty motor pool, alone, looking out into the darkness, his 
fiery shadow playing across the desert sands. The ruined hulk of Mount Dragon 
burned out of control behind him, but he ignored it.


A security officer came running up, gasping and out of breath, his face smeared 
with soot. Sir, the water pressure in the hoses will be exhausted within five 
minutes. Should we switch to the emergency reserves?


Why not? Nye replied absently, not bothering to look at the man.


He had failed massively; he knew that. Carson had slipped from between his 
fingers, but not before hed destroyed the very facility Nye had been charged 
with protecting. Briefly, he thought of what he could say to Brent Scopes. Then 
he pushed the thought from his mind. This was a failure like none other in his 
career, even worse than that other, the one that he no longer allowed himself to 
think about. There was no possibility of redemption.


But there was the possibility of revenge. Carson was responsible, and Carson 
would pay. And the Spanish bitch, as well. They would not be allowed to escape.


He watched the lights of the Hummers recede into the desert, and his lip curled 
with contempt. Singer was a fool. It was impossible to track anything from 
inside a Hummer. One had to keep stopping, getting out, and scouting the trail; 
it would be even slower than going on foot. Besides, Carson knew the desert. He 
knew horses. He probably knew a few simple tracking tricks. There were lava 
flows in the Jornada so mazelike that it would take years to explore every 
island, every hole in the wall. There were sandy flats where a horses track 
would be all but erased by the wind in just a few hours.


Nye knew all these things. He also knew that it was virtually impossible to 
completely erase a trail in this desert. There was always a trace left, even on 
rock or in sand. His ten years working an Arabian security detail in theRub 
al-Khali , the Empty Quarter, had taught him all any man could know about the 
desert.


Nye tossed his now-useless radio communicator into the sand and turned toward 
the stables. As he walked, he paid no heed to the desperate cries, the rushing 
sound of flame, the shriek of collapsing metal. Something new had occurred to 
him. If Carson had escaped, perhaps the man was more clever than hed suspected. 
Perhaps he had been smart enough to steal or even disable his horse,Muerto, on 
the way out. The security director quickened his pace.


As he walked through the shattered barn door, he glanced automatically toward 
the locked tack box where he kept his rifle. It was still there, untouched.


Suddenly Nye froze. The nails that normally held his old McClellan saddlebags 
were empty. Yet the saddlebags had hung there yesterday. A red mist crept in 
front of his eyes. Carson had taken the bags and their two gallon canteens; a 
pitiful amount of water against the Jornada delMuerto, the Journey of Death. 
Carson was doomed by that fact alone.


It was not the loss of the canteens that bothered him. Something else was 
missing; something far more important. He had always believed that the 
saddlebags had provided an unobtrusive hiding spot for his secret. But now 
Carson had stolen them. Carson had destroyed his career, and now he was going to 
take from him the last thing he had left. For a moment, the white heat of Nyes 
anger rooted him, motionless, to the spot.


Then he heard the familiar whinny. And, despite his rage, Nyes lip curled in a 
half smile. Because he knew now that revenge was not only a possibility, but a 
certainty.


 





 


As they moved eastward, Carson noticed the lights of the Hummers drifting 
farther to their left. The vehicles were approaching the Malpas. At that 
point, with any luck, they would lose the trail. It would take an expert 
tracker, moving on foot, to follow them through the lava. Nye was good, but he 
wouldnt be good enough to follow a horse trail through lava. When he lost the 
trail, Nye would assume they had taken a shortcut across the lava and were still 
heading south. Besides, with the taintedPurBlood working its way through his 
veins, Nye was probably becoming less and less of a threat to anyone but 
himself. In any case, Carson thought, he andde Vaca would be free. Free to get 
back to civilization and warn the world about the planned release of PurBlood.


Or free to die of thirst.


He felt the heavy cold canteen on his saddle horn. It contained four quarts of 
watervery little for a person crossing the Jornada delMuerto. But he realized 
this was only a secondary problem.


Carson halted. The Hummers had stopped at the edge of the lava flow, perhaps a 
mile away.


Lets find a low spot and hide these horses, Carson said. I want to make sure 
those Hummers keep going south.


They led the horses down a rubble-strewn crevasse in thelava. De Vaca held the 
reins while Carson climbed to a high point and watched.


He wondered why his pursuers hadnt turned off their lights. As it was, they 
stuck out like a cruise ship on a moonless ocean, visible for ten miles or 
more. Odd that Nye hadnt thought of that.


The lights were stationary for a minute or two. Then they began moving up on to 
the lava flow, where they paused again. For a moment Carson worried they might 
somehow pick up his trail and come toward him, but instead they continued 
southward, at a faster clip now, the lights bouncing and sweeping over the lava.


He climbed back down.


Theyre going south, he said.


Thank God for that.


Carson hesitated. Ive done some thinking, he said at last. Im afraid were 
going to have to save this water for the horses.


What about us?


Horses require twelve gallons of water a day in desert conditions. Seven, if 
they ride only at night. If these horses collapse, were finished. It wont 
matter how much water weve got, we wouldnt get five miles in lava or deep 
sand. But if we save this for the horses, even a little bit does some good. 
Theyll be able to go an extra ten or twenty miles. That will giveus a better 
chance to find water.


In the darkness,de Vaca was silent.


Its going to be extremely hard to avoid drinking when we get thirsty, Carson 
said. But we must save it for the horses. If you want, Ill take your canteen 
when the time comes.


So you can drink it yourself? came the sarcastic remark.


It will take great discipline when it starts to get bad. And, believe me, its 
going to get bad. So before we continue, theres another rule about thirst you 
should know. Never,ever mention it. No matter how bad it gets, dont talk about 
water. Dontthink about water.


Does this mean were going to have to drink our pee?deVaca asked. In the 
darkness, Carson couldnt tell if she was serious or merely baiting him again.


That only happens in books. What you do is this: When you feel like urinating, 
hold it in. As soon as your body realizes its getting thirsty, it will 
automatically reabsorb the water. And your desire to urinate will vanish. 
Eventually youll have to, of course, but by that time there will be so much 
salt in the urine itll be useless to drink, anyway.


How do you know all this?


I grew up in this kind of desert.


Yeah, saidde Vaca, and I bet being partUte helps, too.


Carson opened his mouth to retort, then decided against it. Hed save the 
arguments for later.


They continued eastward through the lava for another mile, moving slowly, 
leading the horses by the reins and letting them pick their own way. 
Occasionally a horse would stumble in the lava, its shoes sending out small 
flashes of sparks. From time to time, Carson stopped to climb a lava formation 
and look south. Each time, the Hummers had receded farther into the distance. 
At last, the lights disappeared completely.


As he climbed down for the last time, Carson wondered if he should have toldde 
Vaca the worst news of all. Even with the two gallons all to themselves, the 
horses could barely make half the distance they needed to go. They were going to 
have to find water at least once along the way.


 





 


Nye tightened the cinch onMuerto and checked the horses saddle rigging. 
Everything was in order. The rifle was snug in its boot, slung under his right 
leg where he could extract it with one smooth motion. The metal tube carrying 
his USGS 1:24,000 topographical maps was secure.


He tied the extra saddlebags behind the cantle and began packing ammunition into 
them. Then he filled two five-gallon flaxen desert water bags, tied them 
together, and slung them over the cantle, one on each side. It was an extra 
forty pounds of weight, but it was essential. Chances are it wouldnt be 
necessary for him to bother tracking Carson. Carsons having a mere two gallons 
of water would do the job for him. But Nye had to be sure. He wanted to see 
their dead, desiccated bodies, to reassure himself that the secret was once 
again his and his alone.


To the saddle horn, he tied a small sack containing a loaf of bread and a 
four-pound wax-covered wheel of cheddar cheese. He tested his halogen 
flashlight, then placed it in the saddlebags, along with a handful of extra 
batteries.


Nye worked methodically. There was no hurry.Muerto was trained as an endurance 
horse, and was in far better shape than the two specimens Carson had taken. 
Carson had probably pushed his horses in the beginning, galloping or loping to 
escape the Hummers. That would start them off badly. Only fools and Hollywood 
actors galloped their horses. If Carson and the woman expected to get across the 
desert, they would have to take it slow. Even so, as their horses began to 
suffer from the lack of water, they would start lagging. Nye figured that 
without water, traveling only at night, they could go perhaps forty-five miles 
before collapsing. If they attempted daytime travel, theyd make perhaps half 
that. Any animal lying motionless on the desert sandsor even one that was 
moving slowly or erraticallyimmediately attracted a spiraling column of 
vultures. He could find them by that alone.


But he wouldnt need vultures to tell him where they were.


Tracking was both an art and a science, like music or nuclear physics. It 
required a large volume of technical knowledge and an intuitive brilliance. He 
had learned a great deal about it during his time in the Empty Quarter. And 
years of searching the Jornada delMuerto desert had honed that knowledge.


He gave his outfit a final check. Perfect. He lofted himself into the saddle and 
rode out of the barn, following Carson andde Vacas hoofprints in the glow of 
the fire. As he moved into the desert and away from the burning complex, the 
glow lessened. From time to time he switched on his flashlight, as he traced 
their route southward, just as he thought: they had been running their horses. 
Excellent. Every minute of galloping here would be a mile lost at the far end. 
They had left a trail that any moron could follow. A moron isfollowing it , Nye 
thought with amusement, as he saw the myriad tire tracks crisscrossing in 
confusion as they pursued the hoofprints southward.


He paused for a moment in the darkness. A voice had suddenly murmured his name. 
He swiveled in his saddle, scanning the infinite desert around him for its 
source. Then once again he urged his horse into a slow trot.


Time, water, and the desert were all on his side.


 





 


Carson paused at the far edge of the lava flow and looked northward. The great 
arm of the Milky Way stretched across the sky, burying itself at last below the 
far horizon. They were adrift in a sea of blackness. The faintest reddish glow 
to the north marked Mount Dragon. The blinking lights atop the microwave tower 
had long since disappeared, winking out when the generators failed.


He inhaled the fragrance that surrounded them: dry grasses and chamisa, mixed 
with the coolness of the desert night.


Well need to erase our tracks coming off the lava, he said.


De Vacatook the reins of both horses and, walking ahead, led them down off the 
lava and into the darkness. Carson followed her to the edge of the flow; then, 
turning around and removing his shirt, he got down on his hands and knees and 
began crawling backward on the sand. With each step he swept the sand before him 
clean with his shirt, obliterating both the hoofprints and his own marks. He 
worked slowly and carefully. He knew that nothing could completely erase marks 
in the sand. But this was pretty damn good. A Hummer would drive right past 
without seeing a thing.


He continued for over a hundred yards, just to make sure. Then he stood up, 
shook out his shirt, and buttoned it on. The job had taken ten minutes.


So far so good, he said, catching up withde Vaca and climbing into his saddle. 
Well head due north from here. Thatll give us a three-mile berth around Mount 
Dragon.


He looked into the sky, locating the North Star. He urged his horse into a slow, 
easy trotthe most efficient of gaits. Beside him,de Vaca did the same. They 
moved in silence through the velvety night. Carson glanced at his watch. It was 
one oclock in the morning. They had four hours to dawn; that meant twenty-four 
miles, if they could keep up the pace. That would put them twenty-odd miles 
north of Mount Dragon, with close to another hundred still ahead of them. He 
smelled the air again, more carefully this time. There was a sharpness that 
indicated the possibility of a dew before dawn.


Traveling during the heat of the day was out of the question. That meant 
finding a low place to hide the horses, where they could move around and do a 
little grazing.


You said your ancestors came through here in 1598, Carson spoke into the 
darkness.


Thats right. Twenty-two years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.


Carson ignored that. Didnt you mention something about a spring? he asked.


TheOjo delguila. They started across the Jornada and ran out of water. An 
Apache showed them this hidden spring.


Where was it?


I dont know. The location was later lost. In a cave, I think, at the base of 
the FraCristbal Mountains.


Jesus, the FraCristbals are sixty miles long.


I wasnt planning to make a land survey at the time I heard the story, all 
right? It was in a cave, I remember myabuelito saying, and the water flowed back 
into the cave and disappeared.


Carson shook his head. The lava and the mountains were riddled with caves. They 
would never find a spring that didnt surface to the light of day, where it 
would generate some form of green plant life.


They continued to trot, the only sounds the clink of the saddle rigging and the 
low creak of leather. Once again, Carson glanced up at the stars. It was a 
beautiful, moonless night. Under any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed 
this ride. He inhaled again. Yes, there would definitely be a dew. That was a 
stroke of good fortune. He mentally added ten miles to the distance they could 
travel without water.


Levine skimmed the last, incomplete page of Carsons transmission, then quickly 
saved the data.


 


Mime, are you sure about this?he typed.


 


Yup, came the response.Scopes was very clever. Humblingly so. He discovered my 
access and grafted a transparent software relay onto it. The relay triggered an 
alarm when Carson attempted to access us.


 


Mime, speak English.


 


The wily bastard rigged a tripwire across my secret path, and Carson tripped 
over it, falling flat on his virtual face. However, his aborted data feed 
remained on the net. I was able to retrieve it.


 


Any chance you were discovered?Levine typed.


 


Discovered? Me? <ROFL>


 


<ROFL>? I dont understand.


 


Rolling on floor, laughing. I am too well hidden. Any attempt would bog down 
in a maze of packet-switching. But Scopes does not appear to be trying to find 
me. Quite the opposite. Hes put a moat around GeneDyne.


 


What do you mean, a moat?Levine asked.


 


Hes physically cut off all network traffic out of GeneDyne headquarters. 
Theres no way to dial into the building by phone, fax, or computer. All remote 
sites have been cut off.


 


If this transmission is true, PurBlood is contaminated in some terrible way, 
and Scopes himself is a victim. Do you suppose he knows? Is that why he sealed 
off the access?


 


Not likely, came Mimes response.See, when I realized Carson was trying to 
reach us, I entered GeneDyne cyberspace myself. A few moments later, I saw what 
had gone down. I realized our access had been discovered. I couldnt log out 
without making my presence known. So I put my ear to the door, listening to all 
the unprotected net chatter. I learned some very interesting things before 
Scopes cut off all outside links.


 


Such as?


 


Such as Carson seems to have had the last laugh on Scopes. At least, thats what 
I think. Fifteen minutes after Scopes terminated the data feed, there was a big 
ugly net crash and all communications from Mount Dragon ceased. A real patty 
melt.


 


Scopes shut down all communication with Mount Dragon?


 


Au contraire,professor-man. The head office tried frantically to reestablish 
communications. A facility such as Mount Dragon would have redundant emergency 
backups up the ying-yang. Whatever happened was so devastating it knocked out 
everything at once. Heap bad medicine. Once Scopes realized that he could not 
get through to Mount Dragon, he broke off the GeneDyne net.


 


But I _must_ communicate with Scopes, Levine typed. Its vital that he stop the 
release of PurBlood. Nobody on the outside will believe me. Its critical that I 
convince him.


 


You aint been listening, professor-man. Scopes has physically severed all 
links. Until he decides the emergency is over, theres no way to call into the 
building. You cant hack across clear air, professor. Except...


 


What?


 


Except that there is ONE channel out of GeneDyne Boston. I discovered its data 
signature as I was poking around the edges of the moat. It is a dish uplink 
from Scopess personal server to the TELINT-2 communications satellite.


 


Any chance you can use that satellite to get me in contact with Scopes?


 


No way. Its a dedicated two-way link. Besides, whoever Scopes is chatting with 
is using a highly unusual encryption scheme. Some kind of end-to-end block 
cipher that stinks like military to me. Whatever it is, I wouldnt go near it 
with anything short of a Cray-2. And if its a prime factorial code, all the CPU 
time in the universe wouldnt crack the mother.


 


Is there traffic on the link?


 


A wee bit here and there. A few thousand bytes at irregular intervals.


 


Levine looked curiously at the words on the screen. Though the insolence still 
shone through, the prancing, boastful Mime he usually encountered was abnormally 
muted.


He sat back a moment, thinking. Could Scopes have shut everything down because 
of PurBlood? No, that didnt make sense. What was happening at Mount Dragon? 
What of that other dangerous virus Carson had been working on?


There was no way around it: hehad to speak to Scopes, warn him about PurBlood. 
Whatever else he might do, Scopes would never allow the intentional release of a 
dangerous medical product. It would destroy his company. And then, of course, 
if Scopes had been a beta-tester himself, he might need immediate medical 
treatment.


 


It is imperative that I communicate with Scopes, Levine wrote. How can I do 
that?


 


Only one chance. Youll have to physically get inside the building.


 


But thats impossible. The security on that building must be massive.


 


No doubt. But the weakest element of any security system is the people. I 
assumed you might make this request, and Ive already begun making preparations. 
Months ago, when I first began hacking the GeneDyne net for you, I downloaded 
their network and security blueprints. If you can get your ass into the 
building, you may be able to reach Scopes. But Ill need to take care of a 
little business first.


 


Im no hacker, Mime. Youve got to come in with me.


 


I cant.


 


You must be in North America. Wherever you are, you can be on a plane and in 
Boston in five hours. Ill pay for your ticket.


 


No.


 


Why the hell not?


 


I just cant.


 


Mime, this isnt a game anymore. Thousands of lives depend on it.


 


Listen to me, professor. Ill help you get into the building. Ill show you how 
to contact me once inside. There are numerous security systems that will have to 
be compromised if you want to get close to Scopes. Forget doing it in real 
space. Youll have to make the trip by cyberspace, professor-man. Ill send you 
a series of attack programs Ive written explicitly for GeneDyne. They should 
get you inside the net.


 


I need you there with me, not as some long-distance support service. Mime, I 
never thought you were the cowardly type. Youve got to


 


The screen went blank. Levine waited impatiently, wondering what hacker game 
Mime was playing now. Suddenly, a picture materialized:


 





 


Levine stared blankly at the screen. The image was so unexpected that it took 
him several seconds to realize he was looking at the structural formula for a 
chemical. It took significantly less time to realize what the compound was.


My God, he whispered. Thalidomide. A thalidomide baby.


It was suddenly clear to him why Mime could not possibly come to Boston. And it 
was also clearfor the first timewhy Mime hacked the big pharmaceutical 
companies with such vengeance; why, in fact, Mime was helping him at all.


There was a rap on the hotel-room door.


Levine opened it to see a disheveled-looking valet in a red suit that was 
several sizes too small. The valet held up a hanger containing two pieces of 
dark brown clothing, wrapped in protective plastic.


Your uniform, he said.


I didnt Levine began, then stopped. He thanked the valet and closed the 
door. He had not ordered any dry cleaning.


But Mime had.


 





 


From the welter of tracks at the edge of the lava flow, Nye could see that 
Singer and his Hummers had stopped and milled about. For quite some time, 
apparently; they had managed, in their ineptitude, to obscure Carsons andde 
Vacas own tracks. Then the vehicles had moved up onto the lava itself, scraping 
and scratching along. The bloody yob didnt know the first rule of the tracker 
was never disturb the track one is following.


Nye stopped, waiting. Then he heard the voice again, clearer now, murmuring out 
of the lovely darkness. Carson hadnt continued straight south. Once on the 
lava, he had either gone east or west, hoping to shake his pursuers. Then he 
would have doubled back north, or doglegged south again.


Nye gaveMuerto the whispered order to stand. Dismounting, he climbed onto the 
lava, flashlight in hand. He walked a hundred yards west of the mess left by the 
Hummers, then turned and cut for sign, playing his beam among the lava rocks, 
looking for the telltale marks of shoe iron on rock.


No track. He would try the other side.


And there he saw it: the whitish crushed edge of a lava rock, the fresh mark of 
a shoe. To make sure, he continued searching until he found another whitish 
streak against the black lava, and then another, along with an overturned stone. 
The horses had stumbled here and there, striking the rocks with their iron 
shoes, leaving an unmistakable trail. Carson and the woman had made a 
ninety-degree turn and were heading east.


But for how long? Would they turn south again, or double back north? There was 
no water in either direction. The only time Nye had seen any water in the 
Jornada was in the temporaryplayas that formed after heavy thundershowers. 
Except for the freak rain shower on that day hed first suspected Carson was 
after his secret, there hadnt been any rain in months. There probably wouldnt 
be any more until the rainy season began in late August.


South seemed the obvious route, since the northward journey would be much 
longer and would cross more lava fields.


No doubt thats what Carson thought his pursuers would assume.


North, said the voice.


Nye stopped and listened. It was a familiar voice, cynical and high, laced with 
the salty Cockney tones that no amount of Home Counties public schooling could 
erase. Somehow, it seemed perfectly natural that it should be speaking to him. 
He wondered, in a detached way, whose voice it was.


He returned toMuerto and remounted. It was better to be absolutely sure of 
Carsons intentions. The two would have to come down off the lava field at some 
point. And thats where Nye knew he could pick up the track.


He decided to ride along the northern edge of the lava first. If he didnt pick 
up the trail, hed cross the lava field and ride along its southern edge.


Within half an hour he had found the pathetic marks in the sand where Carson had 
tried to brush away their tracks. So the voice was right: They had turned north, 
after all. There was a regularity to Carsons sweepings that set them apart from 
the irregular patterns of windblown sand. Nye painstakingly traced the brushed 
marks back to where the trail began again, as clear in the deep sand as highway 
markers, heading straight for the North Star.


This would be easier than he thought. Hed catch Carson around sunrise. With the 
Holland & Holland, he could take Carson down from a quarter mile. The man would 
be dead before he even heard the shot. There would be no final confrontation, no 
desperate pleading. Just a clean shot from six hundred yards, and a second one 
for the bitch. Then he would finally be free to find the one thing that meant 
anything to him now: the Mount Dragon gold.


Once again, he did the calculations. He had done them innumerable times before, 
and they felt comfortable and familiar in his head. The amount of gold that 
could be carried on a pack mule was between 180 and 240 pounds, depending on the 
mule. In either case, well over one million in bullion alone. But the gold would 
probably be in the Pre-Revolt stamped bullion bars and coinage of New Spain. 
That would drive its worth up ten times or more.


He was free of Mount Dragon now; free of Scopes. Only CarsonCarson the traitor 
in the dark, Carson the sneak thiefstood in his way. And a bullet would take 
care of that.


 





 


By three in the morning, the sharpness in the air had intensified. Carson andde 
Vaca came over a rise and rode down into what appeared to be a broad, grassy 
basin. It had been almost two hours since they passed the glow of Mount Dragon 
on the horizon, heading north. They had seen no sign of lights behind them. The 
Hummers were gone for good.


Carson drew to a halt. He dismounted and bent down, feeling the blades of grass. 
Side oats grama, high in protein: excellent for the horses.


Well stop here for a couple of hours, he said. Let the horses graze.


Shouldnt we keep going while its still dark?de Vaca asked. They might send 
helicopters.


Not over the Missile Range, Carson said. In any case, we wont travel far in 
daylight without finding a place to hole up. But we have to take full advantage 
of this dew. Youd be surprised how much water the horses can take in grazing 
dewy grass. We cant afford to let this pass. An hour spent here will give us an 
extra ten miles, even more.


Ahh, saidde Vaca. AUte trick, no doubt.


Carson turned toward her in the darkness. It wasnt funny the first time. 
Havinga Ute ancestor doesnt make me an Indian.


A Native American, you mean, came the teasing reply.


For Chrissakes,Susana, even the Indians came from Asia.Nobodys a Native 
American. 


Do I detect defensiveness,cabrn?


Carson ignored her and removed the lead rope from Roscoes halter. He wrapped 
the cotton rope around Roscoes front hoof, tied a knot, gave it two tight 
twists and looped it around the other hoof, tying a second knot. He did the same 
to the other horse. Then he took off the flank cinches and looped them through 
the O-rings on the halters, so that the buckled ends dangled loosely together.


Thats a clever way to hobble them,de Vaca said.


The best way.


Whats thecincha for?


Listen.


They were silent a moment. As the horse began to graze, there was a faint sound 
as the two buckles of each cinch clinked together.


Usually I bring a cowbell with me, said Carson. But this works almost as 
well. In the still of the night, you can hear that clinking three hundred yards 
off. Otherwise, those horses would just vanish in the blackness and wed never 
find them.


He sat back in the sand, waiting for her to say something more aboutUte Indians.


You know,cabrn,de Vaca said, her disembodied voice coming to him out of the 
darkness, you surprise me a little.


Hows that?


Well, youre a hell of a fine person to cross the Jornada delMuerto with, for 
one thing.


Carson blinked in surprise at the compliment, wondering for a moment whether she 
was being sarcastic. Weve still got a long way to go. Were barely one-fifth 
across.


Yeah, but I can already tell. Without you along, I wouldnt have had a chance.


Carson didnt respond. He still felt there was less than a fifty-percent chance 
theyd find water. That meant a less than fifty-percent chance of survival.


So you used to work on a ranch up there?De Vaca spoke again.


The Diamond Bar, said Carson. That was after my dads ranch went broke.


Was it big?


Yep. My father fancied himself a real wheeler-dealer, always buying up 
ranches, selling them, buying them back. Usually at a loss. The bank foreclosed 
on fourteen sections of patent land that had been in my family for a hundred 
years. Plus, they got grazing leases on two hundred sections of BLM land. It was 
a hell of a big spread, but most of it was pretty burnt up. My fathers fancy 
cattle and horses just couldnt survive in it.


He lay back. I remember riding fence as a kid. The outside fence alone was 
sixty miles, and there were two hundred miles of interior fencing. It took me 
and my brother the whole summer to ride fence, fixing it as we went. Damn, that 
was fun. We each had a horse, plus a mule to pack the roll of wire, staples, and 
stretcher. And our bedrolls and some food. That jack mule was a mean son of a 
bitch. His name was Bobb. With twob s.


De Vacalaughed.


Wed camp out as we went along. In the evening, wed hobble the horses and find 
a low spot to lay out our bedrolls and light a fire. The first day out we always 
had a big steak, carried frozen in the saddlebags. If it was big enough, itd 
just be thawed out by dinnertime. From then on, it was beans and rice. After 
dinner wed lie around, faces to the stars, drinking camp coffee as the fire 
died down.


Carson stopped talking. It seemed like a vague dream of centuries ago, those 
memories. And yet the same stars hed looked at as a kid were still there, above 
his head.


It mustve been really hard, losing that ranch,de Vaca said quietly.


It was about the hardest thing that ever happened to me. My whole body and soul 
was part of that land.


Carson felt a twinge of thirst. He grubbed around in the sand and found a small 
pebble. He rubbed it on his jeans, then placed it in his mouth.


I liked the way you lost Nye and those otherpendejos in the Hummers,de Vaca 
said.


Theyre idiots, Carson replied. Our real enemy is the desert.


The offhand comment made him think. It had been an easy task to lose the 
Hummers. Surprisingly easy. They hadnt turned off their lights while tracking 
him. They hadnt even divided up to search for the track when they reached the 
edge of the lava flow. Instead they had just barreled southward like lemmings. 
It surprised him that Nye could be so stupid.


No. Nye wouldnt be so stupid.


For the first time, Carson wondered if Nye was with the Hummers at all. The more 
he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. But if he wasnt leading the 
Hummers, then where the hellwas he? Back at Mount Dragon, managing the crisis?


He realized, with a dull cold thrust of fear, that Nye would be out hunting 
them. Not in a loud, ungainly Hummer, but on that big paint horse of his.


Shit. He should have taken that horse himself, or, at the very least, driven a 
nail deep into his hoof.


Cursing his own lack of foresight, he looked at his watch. Three-forty- five.


 





 


Nye stopped and dismounted, examining the tracks as they headed north. In the 
strong yellow glow of his flashlight, he could see the individual grains of 
sand, almost microscopic in size, piled up at the edges of the tracks. They were 
fresh and precarious, and no breath of wind had disturbed them. The track could 
not be more than an hour old. Carson was moving ahead at a slow trot, making no 
further attempt to hide or confuse his trail. Nye figured the two were about 
five miles ahead. They would stop and hide at sunrise, someplace where they 
could rest the horses during the heat of the day.


Thats when he would take them.


He remountedMuerto and urged him into a fast trot. The best time to catch them 
would be just at dawn, before they even realized they were being followed. Hang 
back, wait for enough light for a clean shot. His own mount was doing fine, a 
little damp from the exertion but nothing more. He could maintain this pace for 
another fifty miles. And there were still ten gallons of water.


Suddenly he heard something. He quickly switched off his light and stopped. A 
gentle breeze blew out of the south, carrying the sound away from him. He 
stilled his horse, waiting. Five minutes passed, then ten. The breeze shifted a 
little, and he heard voices raised in argument, then the faint tinking of 
something that sounded like saddle rigging.


They had stopped already. The fools figured they had shaken their pursuers and 
could relax. He waited, hardly breathing. The voicetheother voicesaid nothing.


Nye dismounted and led his horse back behind a gentle ridgeline, where he would 
be hidden and could graze unmolested. Then he crept back to the lip of the 
basin. He could hear the murmuring voices in the pool of darkness below.


He lay on his stomach at what he estimated was three hundred yards. The voices 
were clearer now; a few yards closer and hed be able to make out what they were 
saying. Perhaps they were planning how to dispose of the gold. His gold. But he 
wasnt going to let curiosity spoil everything.


But even if they saw him, where were they going to go? At some earlier time, he 
might actually have enjoyed alerting them to his presence. They would have to 
run off immediately, of course, with no chance to retrieve their horses. The 
chase would make good, if brief, sport. There was no better shooting than in an 
open desert like this. It was little different from hunting ibex in the Hejaz. 
Except that an ibex moved at forty-five miles an hour, and a human at twelve.


Hunting down that bastard Teece had proved to be excellent sport, much better 
than he could have anticipated. The dust storm had provided an interesting 
element of complication, andwhen hed leftMuerto standing riderless in the 
path of the oncoming Hummermade it easier for him to hide while enticing the 
investigator to leave his vehicle for a moment. And Teece himself had been an 
unexpected surprise. The scrawny-looking fellow proved much more resilient than 
Nye expected, taking cover in the storm, running, resisting to the end. Perhaps 
hed been expecting an ambush. In any case, there had been no death-fear in his 
eyes to savor, no groveling pleas for mercy, there at the end. Now the nancy-boy 
was safely under several feet of sand, deeper than any vultures beak or 
coyotes paw could ever probe. And his filthy sneaking secrets were entombed 
with him. They would never reach their intended destination.


But all that had taken place a lifetime ago. Before Carson had escaped with his 
forbidden knowledge. Nyes unique brand of loyalty to GeneDyne, his blind 
dedication to Scopes, had been incinerated with the explosion. Now, no 
distractions remained for him.


He checked his watch. Three-forty-five. An hour to first light.


 





 


GeneDyne Boston, the headquarters of GeneDyne International, was a postmodern 
leviathan that towered over the waterfront. Although the Boston Aquarium 
complained bitterly about being in its shadow throughout most of the daylight 
hours, the sixty-story tower of black granite and Italian marble was considered 
one of the finest designs in the city. During the summer months, its atrium was 
crowded with tourists having their pictures taken beneath the CalderMezzoforte , 
largest free-hanging mobile in the world. On all but the coldest days, people 
would line up in front of the buildings facade, cameras in hand, to watch five 
fountains trade arching jets of water in, a complex and computerized ballet.


But the biggest draw of all was the virtual-reality screens arranged along the 
walls of the public lobby. Standing twelve feet high and employing a proprietary 
high-definition imaging system, the panels displayed pictures of various 
GeneDyne sites throughout the world: London, Brussels, Nairobi, Budapest. When 
combined, the displays formed one massive landscape, breathtaking in its 
realism. Since the images were computer-controlled, they were not static: trees 
waved in the breeze in front of the Brussels research facility, and red 
double-decker buses rumbled in front of the London office. Clouds moved across 
skies that lightened and darkened with the passing of the day. The displays were 
the most public example of Scopess advocacy of emerging technologies. When the 
landscapes were changed, on the fifteenth of each month, the local news 
broadcasts never failed to run a story on the new images.


From his parking place in the access road along the rear of the tower, Levine 
craned his neck upward, gazing at the spot where the unbroken facade suddenly 
receded, in a maze of cubes, toward the buildings summit. Those upper floors of 
the building, he knew, were Scopess personal domain. No camera had penetrated 
them since a photo spread inVanity Fair five years earlier. Somewhere, on the 
sixtieth floor, beyond the security stations and the computer-controlled locks, 
was Scopess famous octagonal room.


He continued to look speculatively upward. Then he ducked his head back inside 
the van and resumed reading a heavy paperbound manual titledDigital Telephony.


True to his word, Mime had spent the last two hours preparing Levine, turning 
to his connections within thebyzantine hacker community, reaching out into 
remote information banks, threading mysterious datastreams. One by one, like 
some modern-day league of Baker Street Irregulars, strangers had arrived at 
Levines hotel-room door. Boys, mostly; urchins and orphans of the hacker 
underground. One had brought him an ID card, identifying him as one Joseph 
ORoarke of the New England Telephone Company. Levine recognized the photo on 
the card as one of himself that had appeared inBusiness Week two years before. 
The card attached to a clip on the front pocket of the phone-company uniform 
that the valet had delivered earlier.


A kid with an impudent curl to his lip had delivered a small piece of electronic 
equipment that looked somewhat like a garage-door opener. Another had brought 
several technical manualsforbidden bibles within the phone phreaking community. 
Lastly, a slightly older youth had brought him the keys to a telephone-company 
van waiting below in the lot of the Holiday Inn. Levine was to leave the keys 
under the dashboard. The youth had said hed be needing the van around seven in 
the morning; for what, he had not said.


Mime had remained in frequent modem contact: downloading the building blueprints 
to Levine and walking him through such security arrangements as hed been able 
to ascertain, providing background on the cover Levine would use to gain access 
to the building. Finally, hed transmitted a lengthy program to Levines 
computer, with instructions on its use.


But now, Levines laptop was on the seat next to him, powered down, and Mime was 
in some remote unguessable location. Now, there was nobody but Levine himself.


He shut the manual and closed his eyes a moment, whispering a brief prayer to 
the close and silent darkness. Then he picked up his laptop, stepped out of the 
van, and shut its door loudly, walking away without glancing back. The brisk 
harbor air had a faint overlay ofdiesel. He tried to move at the ambling, 
unhurried pace of technicians everywhere. The weight of the orange line-testing 
telephone bounced awkwardly against his hip. In his head, he once again went 
over the various paths the upcoming conversation could take. Then he swallowed 
hard. There were so many possibilities, and he was prepared for so few.


Stepping up to an unmarked door in the buildings backside, he pressed a 
buzzer. There was a long silence in which Levine struggled to keep from walking 
away. Then came a squawk of static and a voice said, Yes?


Phone company, Levine said in what he hoped was a flat voice.


What is it? the voice did not sound particularly impressed.


Our computers show the T-1 lines as being down at this location, Levine said. 
Im here to check it out.


All external lines are down, came the voice. Its a temporary condition.


Levine hesitated a moment. You cant shut down leased lines. Its against 
regulations.


Its a done deal.


Shit. Whats your name, son?


Long silence.Weiskamp.


All right,Weiskamp. Regulations require that leased point-to-point 
communications be kept open once established. But listen, Ill tell you what. I 
dont want to have to go back and fill out a lot of paperwork on you. And I know 
you and your supervisor dont want to give a long explanation to the FCC. So 
Ill put a temporary terminator on the lines. Once you bring the system back up, 
the sites will be reopened automatically. Levine hoped he sounded more 
convincing to the disembodied voice inside than he did to himself.


No response.


Otherwise, were going to have to pull those circuits manually, from the 
external junction. And they wont be there when you go live again.


A sound like a sigh came through the small speaker beside the buzzer. Lets see 
some ID. Levine looked around, spotted a camera lens set inconspicuously above 
one edge of the doorframe, and angled the badge hanging from his breast pocket 
in its direction. As he waited, Levine wondered idly why hed been given the 
name ORoarke. He hoped to hell that a Jewish professor from Brookline could 
imitate a Boston Irish drawl.


There was a loud click, followed by the sound of something heavy being rolled 
back. The door opened and a tall man peered out, long blond curls falling onto 
the collar of his gray-and-blue GeneDyne uniform.


This way, the man said, nodding Levine inside.


Cradling his laptop carefully, Levine followed the guard down a long flight of 
corrugated iron stairs. From below his feet came the throaty hum of a huge 
generator. The concrete walls sweated in the humid air.


The guard opened a door markedAUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY , then stood back, letting 
Levine enter first. Levine walked into a room crammed floor to ceiling with what 
he assumed to be digital switches and network relays. Banks of MAUs were arrayed 
in countless rows on metal racks. Although he knew that the real brain of 
GeneDynethe massively-parallel supercomputer that fed the monstrous global 
networkwas housed elsewhere, this room held the guts of the system, the 
Ethernet cables that allowed the buildings occupants to interconnect in one 
vast electronic nervous system.


Up ahead, he saw the outlines of the central relay console. Another guard was 
sitting at one end of the console, staring at a monitor built into its frame. He 
turned as Levine stepped in. Whos this? he asked, frowning and looking from 
Levine toWeiskamp.


Who do you think, fuckin Tinkerbell?Weiskamp replied. Hes here about the 
leased lines.


Ive got to put a temporary terminator on them, Levine said, placing his 
laptop on the terminal and scanning the complex controls for the jack Mime had 
told him was sure to be there.


I never heard nothing about that, the guard said.


Youve never cut them off before, Levine retorted.


The guard mumbled something threatening about cutting them off, but made no 
move to stop him. Levine continued to scan the controls, a small warning tone 
sounding in his head as he did so. This second guard was trouble.


There it was: the network access port. Mime had told him the GeneDyne 
headquarters was so heavily networked that even the bathroom stalls sported 
outlet jacks for busy executives to use. Quickly, Levine turned on his laptop 
and connected it to the access port.


What are you doing? the guard at the terminal said suspiciously. He stood up 
and began to walk toward the laptop.


Running the termination program, Levine replied.


Never seen one of you guys use a computer before, the guard said.


Levine shrugged. You change with the times. Now, you can just send a 
termination signal down the line to the control unit. Completely automatic.


A phone-company logo popped up on the laptop screen, followed by scrolling lines 
of data. Despite his nervousness, Levine suppressed a smile. Mime had thought of 
everything. While the screen was busy displaying complicated nonsense to 
entertain the guards, a program of Mimes own design was being inserted into the 
GeneDyne network.


I think wed better tell Endicott about this, the suspicious guard said.


The alarm began to ring louder in Levines head.


Put a sock in it, will you?Weiskamp said irritably. Ive heard enough of your 
noise.


You know the drill, pal. Endicott is supposed to okay any maintenance work 
being done on the system from outside.


The laptop chirped, and the phone company logo reappeared. Levine quickly 
yanked the cable out of the network jack.


See?Weiskamp said. Hes done.


Ill see myself out, Levine said as the other guard reached for an internal 
phone. Accounting will send a completed work order once you go back on-line.


Levine returned to the hallway.Weiskamp had not followed him. That was good; 
one less role hed have to play later on.


But that other guard, the suspicious one, was probably calling Endicott. And 
that was bad. If Endicottwhoever he wasdecided to call the phone company and 
check out an employee named ORoarke ...


At the top of the stairs, Levine turned right, then moved down a short hallway. 
The bank of service elevators lay directly ahead, just as Mime had assured him 
they would.


He entered the nearest service elevator and took it to the second floor. The 
door whisked open onto an entirely different world. Gone were the drab concrete 
spaces, the four-foot lengths of fluorescent tubes suspended from the ceilings. 
Instead, a plush indigo carpet rolled back from the elevator doors and along an 
elegant corridor. Small violet lights in the ceiling threw colored circles on 
the thick nap. Levine noticed large black squares lining the walls at regular 
intervals. He was puzzled until he realized the black squares were actually 
flat-panel displays, currently dark. During the day, the panels no doubt 
displayed digitized works of art, floor directories, stock-market 
quotationsalmost anything imaginable.


He stepped out of the elevator, down a deserted corridor, and around another 
corner to the public elevators. As he pressed the Up button, a chime sounded and 
one of the bank of black elevator doors whispered open. Looking around one last 
time, he stepped in. The elevator was carpeted in the same lustrous indigo as 
the hallway. The side walls were lined in a light, dense wood Levine assumed was 
teak. The rear wall was glass, affording a spectacular pre-dawn view of Boston 
Harbor. Countless lights shimmered far below his feet.


Floor,please , said the elevator.


He had to work quickly now. Locating the network hub beneath the emergency 
telephone, he plugged his laptop into the metal receptacle. Quickly, he turned 
on the computers power and typed a short command:curtain .


He waited as Mimes program disconnected the video feed for his elevators 
security camera, recorded ten seconds of the adjoining cars video, and patched 
it in as a loop. Now the security camera would show an empty elevator: 
appropriate for one that was about to be placed out of service.


Floor,please , said the elevator.


Levine typed another command:cripple.


The elevator lights dimmed, then brightened again. The doors hissed shut. Levine 
watched the passing floors light up above the door. As the seventh floor slid 
by, the elevator coasted to a stop.


Attention,please , the voice announced smoothly.This elevator is out of 
service.


Unclipping the portable orange phone from his belt, Levine sat down, his back 
against the elevator door, the laptop balanced on his knees. Reaching into a 
pocket, he brought out the odd-looking device the hacker had given him earlier 
in the evening and attached it to the serial port of the computer. From one end 
of the device, he untelescoped a short antenna. Then he typed another 
command:sniff .


 


The screen cleared, and the response came almost immediately.My main man! I 
assume that all has gone well and you are now safe in the elevator, between 
floors seven and eight.


 


Im between floors seven and eight,Levine typed back,but Im not sure all has 
gone well. Somebody named Endicott may have been alerted to my presence.


 


Ive seen that name before, came the response.I think hes head of security. 
Just a moment. Once again, the screen went blank.


 


Ive done a brief survey of net activity within the GeneDyne building,Mime 
replied after several minutes.All seems quiet in the enemys camp. Are you ready 
to proceed?


 


Against his better judgment, Levine replied:Yes.


 


Very good. Remember what I told you, professor-man. Scopes, and Scopes alone, 
controls the computer security of the upper floors of the building. That means 
you have to sneak into his personal cyberspace. Ive told you what I know about 
it. It will be like nothing you could possibly imagine. Nobody knows much about 
Scopess cyberspace beyond the few working images he showed years ago at the 
Center for Advanced Neurocybernetics. At the time, he spoke of a new technology 
he was developing called cypherspace. Its some kind of three-dimensional 
environment, his private home base from which he can surf his network at will. 
Since then,nada.I guess the thing was so bodacious he wanted to hog it all for 
himself. Ive determined from the compiler logs that the program runs to 
fifteen million lines of code. Its the Big Kahuna of coding, professor-man. I 
know where the cypherspace server is located, and I can provide a navigation 
tool that will allow you access to it. But nothing more. You need to be 
physically inside the building to jack in.


 


But cant I bring you along, using this remote link?


 


NFW, came the response.The omnidirectional infrared unit attached to your 
laptop allows us to communicate only through the standard net, and only from a 
roaming-enabled access point. GeneDynes internal transceiver is located on the 
seventh floor, within spitting distance of your elevator. Thats why I parked 
you there.


 


Isnt there anything else you can tell me?


 


I can tell you that the computing resources this Scopes program soaks up makes 
the SAC missile-trajectory routines look like bean-counters. And it takes up 
entire terabytes of data storage. Only massive video archives would require 
that. It may well be much more real than you can imagine.


 


Not likely, on a nine-inch laptop screen, Levine replied.


 


Have you been sleeping through my lectures, professor-man? Scopes is working 
with much larger canvases in his headquarters. Or hadnt you noticed?


 


Levine started blankly at the words. Then he realized what Mime meant.


He looked up from the laptop. The view out of the elevator was breathtaking. But 
there was something odd that, in his haste, he hadnt noticed when he first 
entered. The stars in the eastern sky hung over the quiet scene. He could see 
the harbor spread out below him, a million tiny pinpoints of light in the warm 
Massachusetts darkness.


Yet he was only on the seventh floor. The view he was seeing should be from a 
much higher vantage point.


It was no wall of glass he was staring out of. It was a wall-sized flat-panel 
display, currently showing a virtual image of an imaginary view outside the 
GeneDyne building.


 


I understand, he typed.


 


Good. I have marked your elevator as being out of service and under repair. That 
should keep prying eyes away. However, I would not stay longer than necessary. 
Ill remain on the net here as long as I can, updating its repair status from 
time to time, to avoid any suspicion. Thats all, Im afraid, that I can do to 
protect you.


 


Thank you, Mime.


 


One more word. You said something about this not being a game. I would ask you 
to remember your own advice. GeneDyne takes a dim view of intruders, within 
cyberspace or without. Youre embarked on an extremely dangerous journey. If 
they find you, I will be forced to flee. There will be nothing I can do for you, 
and I have no intention of being a martyr a second time. You see, if they find 
me, theyll take my computers. If that happens, I might as well be dead.


 


I understand, Levine typed again.


 


There was a pause.It is possible that we may never speak again, professor. I 
would like to say that I have valued this acquaintance with you.


 


And I as well.


 


MTRRUTMY;MTWABAYB;MYBIHHAHBTDKYAD.


 


Mime?


 


Just a sentimental old Irish saying, Professor Levine. Good-bye.


 


The screen winked to black. There was no time now to decipher Mimes parting 
acronym. Taking a deep breath, Levine typed another brief command:


 


Lancet.


 


 





 


What is it?de Vaca asked as Carson sat up abruptly.


I just smelled something, he whispered. I think its a horse. He licked his 
finger and held it up in the drifting air.


One of ours?


No. The winds from the wrong direction. I swear to God, I just smelled a 
sweaty horse. From behind us.


There was a silence. Carson felt a sudden cold feeling in the pit of his 
stomach. It was Nye. There was no other explanation. And the man was very 
close.


Are you sure?


Quickly, Carson covered her mouth with one hand, and with the other drew her ear 
close to his lips.


Listen to me. Nye is waiting out there somewhere. He didnt go with the 
Hummers. Once dawn breaks, were dead. Weve got to get out of here, and weve 
got to do it in utter silence. Do you understand?


Yes, came the strained reply.


Well move toward the sound of our horses. But well have to walk by feel. 
Dont just plant one foot in front of the other; let it rest an inch above the 
ground until youre sure you have a clear step. If we step on some dry grass or 
a piece of brush, hell hear it. Well have to untie the hobbles without making 
a sound. Dont get on your horse at firstlead it away. Wed better go east, 
back toward the lava fields. Its our only hope of losing him. Head ninety 
degrees to the right of the North Star.


He felt, more than saw,de Vacas head rise and fall in a vigorous nod.


Ill be going the same way, but dont try to follow me. Its too dark for that. 
Just try to maintain as straight a course as possible. Keep low, because he 
might glimpse you moving against the stars. Well be able to see each other at 
first light.


But what if he hears?


If he comes after us, run like hell for the lava. When you get there, ditch 
your horse, whack him on the ass, and hide as best you can. Like as not hell 
follow your horse. He paused. Thats the best I can do. Sorry.


There was a brief silence. Carson realized thatde Vaca was trembling slightly, 
and he released her. His hand groped for hers, found it, squeezed.


They moved slowly toward the linking sound of the horses. Carson knew that their 
chances of survival, never good, were now minute. It had been bad enough without 
Nye. But the security director had found them. And hed found them very 
quicklyhe hadnt been fooled for a moment by their detour on the lava. He had 
the better horse. And that damned wicked rifle.


Carson realized he had grossly underestimated Nye.


As he crept across the sand, a sudden image of Charley, his half-Lite 
great-uncle, came back into his mind. He wondered what synaptic trick had 
brought Charley to mind, now of all times.


Most of the old mans stories had been abouta Ute ancestor namedGato who had 
undertaken numerous livestock raids against theNavajos and U.S. cavalry. Charley 
had loved to recount those raids. There were other stories about Gatos tracking 
exploits, his skill with a horse. And the various tricks hed used to throw off 
pursuers, usually of the official variety. Charley had recounted all these 
stories with quiet relish, there in the rocking chair before the fire.


Carson found Roscoe in the dark and began untying his hobbles, whispering 
soothing words to forestall any inquiring whinnies. The horse stopped grazing 
and pricked up his ears. Carson gently stroked the horses neck, slipped off the 
lead rope, and carefully removed the cinch from the halter. Then, with infinite 
care, he clipped the bullsnap on the halter and looped the lead rope around the 
saddle horn. He stopped to listen: the silence of the night was absolute.


Guiding the horse by the halter strap, Carson led him westward.


 





 


One of his legs had gone to sleep, and Nye carefully shifted position, cradling 
the rifle between his arms as he did so. The faintest glow was appearing in the 
east, over the FraCristbal Mountains. Another ten minutes, maybe less. He 
glanced around into the darkness, satisfying himself once again that he was well 
hidden. He looked back behind the rise and saw the dim outlines of his horse, 
still standing at attention, awaiting his next command. He smiled to himself. 
Only the English really knew how to train their horses. This American cowboy 
mystique was bollocks. They knew next to nothing about horses.


He turned his attention back to the broad, shallow hollow. In a few minutes the 
ambient light would show him what he needed to see.


With infinite care he slid back the safety on the Holland &. Holland. A 
stationary, perhaps sleeping, target at three hundred yards. He smiled at the 
thought.


The light grew behind the FraCristbals, and Nye scanned the basin for dark 
shapes that would indicate horses or people. There was a scattering of soapweed 
yucca, looking damnably like people in the half light. But he could see nothing 
large enough to be a horse.


He waited, hearing the slow strong beat of his heart. He was pleased at the 
steadiness of his breathing, at the dryness of his palm against the 
riflesbuttstock.


It slowly began to dawn on him that the basin was empty.


And the voice came again: a low, cynical snicker. He turned, and there was a 
shadow in the half light.


Who the hell are you? Nye murmured.


The chuckle built in intensity, until the laughter echoed across the landscape. 
And Nye recognized the laugh as being remarkably like his own.


 





 


In an instant, Boston faded to black.


The breathtaking view from the elevator was gone. The landscape had seemed so 
real that, for a horrible instant, Levine wondered if he had suddenly been 
struck blind. Then he realized the subdued lights of the elevator were still on, 
and it was merely the wall-sized display in front of him that had gone dark. He 
stretched his hand forward to touch the surface. It was hard and opaque, similar 
to the panels he had seen in the GeneDyne corridor but much larger.


Then, suddenly, the elevator was twice as large as it had been. Several 
businessmen in suits, briefcases in hand, stared down at him. Levine almost 
knocked the computer fromhis lap and jumped to his feet before he realized that, 
again, this was simply an image projected on the display: an image that made the 
elevator deeper, and populated it with imaginary GeneDyne staffers. Levine 
marveled at the video resolution necessary to create such a lifelike image.


Then the image changed again, and the blackness of space yawned before him. 
Below, the gray surface of the moon spun lazily in the clear ether, revealing 
its pocked surface without shame. Behind it, Levine could see the faint curve of 
the Earth, a blue marble hanging in the distant black. The sensation of depth 
was profound; Levine had to close his eyes for a minute to allow the vertigo to 
pass.


He realized what was happening. As Mimes lancet program drilled into Scopess 
private server, it must have interrupted the normal routine of the software 
bindery controlling the elevator images. Temporarily without control, the 
various available images were being displayed one by one, like a fantastically 
expensive slide show. Levine wondered what other vistas Scopes had programmed 
into the display for the amusement or consternation of the elevator passengers.


The image changed again, and Levine found himself staring at a bizarre 
landscape: a three-dimensional construction of walkways and buildings, rising 
from a vast, apparently bottomless space. He appeared to be gazing at this 
landscape from a terrazzo platform, tiled in muted browns, reds, and yellows. 
From the end of the platform, a series of bridges and walkways led in many 
directions: some up, some down, and some continuing horizontally, falling away 
in various directions to spaces inconceivably vast. Rising among the walkways 
were dozens of enormous structures, dark with countless tiny illuminated 
windows. Running between the buildings were great streams of colored light that 
forked and flickered into the distance, like lightning.


The landscape was beautiful, even awe-inspiring in its complexity, but in a few 
minutes Levine grew impatient, wondering what was taking Mimes program so long 
to access GeneDyne cyberspace. He shifted his position on the floor of the 
elevator.


The landscape moved.


Levine looked down. He realized that he had inadvertently moved the rolling 
trackball that was built into the keyboard of his laptop. Placing his hand on 
the trackball, he rolled it forward.


Immediately, the terrazzo surface in front of him fell backward, and he found 
himself balanced on the very edge of space, a slender walkway ahead of him, 
floating like gossamer in the black void. The smoothness of the video response 
on the huge display made the sense of forward motion almost unbearably real.


Levine took a deep breath. He wasnt simply looking at a video image this time: 
he was inside Scopess cyberspace.


Levine removed his hands from the laptop for a minute, steadying himself. Then, 
carefully, he placed one hand on the trackball and the other on the cursor keys 
of his laptop. Painstakingly, he began the task of learning how to control his 
own movement within the bizarre landscape. The immensity of the elevator 
screenand the remarkably lifelike resolution of the image itselfmade 
comprehension difficult. Always, he was troubled by vertigo. Though he knew he 
was only in cyberspace, the fear of falling off the terrazzo platform into the 
depths below kept his movements excessively slow and deliberate.


At last, he set the laptop aside and massaged his back. Idly, he glanced at his 
watch, and was shocked to learn that an hour had gone by. One hour, and he 
hadnt moved from the platform hed started on. The fascination of this computer 
environment was both amazing and alarming. But it was time to find Scopes.


As his hands returned to the laptop, Levine became aware of a low, sighing 
sound, almost like singing. It was coming from the same speakers the elevator 
had used to announce the floors. When it had started, Levine could not say; 
perhaps it had been there all along. He was unable to take even a remote guess 
at its purpose.


Levine found himself growing concerned. He had to find Scopes in this 
three-dimensional representation of GeneDyne cyberspace, reason with him, 
explain the desperate situation. But how? Clearly this cyberspace was too vast 
to just wander around in. And even if he found Scopes, how would he recognize 
him?


He had to think the problem through. Vast and complex as this landscape was, it 
had to serve some purpose, have some design. In the past several years, Scopes 
had been extremely secretive about his cyberspace project. Little was known 
beyond the fact that Scopes was creating it to make his own extensive journeys 
through the interconnected network of GeneDyne computers easier.


Yet it seemed obvious that everythingthe surfaces, shapes, and perhaps 
soundsrepresented the hardware, software, and data of the GeneDyne computer 
network.


Levine took a walkway at random and moved carefully along it, trying to 
accustom himself to the bizarre sense of motion imparted by the vast screen in 
front of him. He was on a bridge without a railing, tiled in its own complicated 
pattern. The pattern would mean something, but he had no idea what: different 
byte configurations, or sequences of binary numbers?


The walkway snaked between several buildings of differing shapes and sizes, 
ending at last in a massive silver door. He moved to the door and tried to go 
through it. The eerie, floating music seemed to get louder, but nothing 
happened. He returned to an intersection and took another walkway, which crossed 
one of the rivers of colored light that streamed between the buildings. He 
stepped into the river, and it became a torrent of hexadecimal code, streaming 
past at a dizzying rate. He quickly stepped out of the stream.


He had discovered one thing: The streams of light were data-transfer operations.


So far, he had used only the trackball and cursor keys of his laptop. The 
cypherspace program would certainly recognize keystrokes of one form or another: 
mnemonics, commands, or shortcuts. He typed the sentence universally used by 
coders trying out new computer languages:Hello, world.


When he hit the enter key, the words Hello, world sang out in a musical 
whisper from the speakers. They echoed and reechoed through the vast spaces 
until dying away at last beneath the strange musical sighing.


There was no answer.


Scopes!he typed. The word rang out, dying away like a cry. Again, no answer.


Levine wished Mime were there to help him. He looked at his watch again; another 
hour had passed, and he was just as lost now as hed been at the beginning. He 
looked away from the screen, and around the tiny elevator. He did not have 
unlimited time to explore. Hed wandered about long enough. Now he had to think 
fast.


What did one do when one was stuck in an application? Or in a computer game?


One asks for help.


Help, he typed.


Ahead of him, the landscape changed subtly. Something formed out of nothing, 
appearing at the far end of the walkway. It circled, then stopped, as if 
noticing Levine. Then, it began moving toward him with remarkable speed.


 





 


When he felt he had put sufficient distance between himself and the basin, 
Carson released Roscoes halter and climbed into the saddle. He found himself 
going over, again and again, his first confrontation with Nye in the desert. He 
remembered the cruel laughter that had floated over the sands toward him. He 
found himself waiting to hear that laugh againmuch closer nowand the sharp 
sound of a rifle bullet snugging into its chamber. To distract himself he turned 
his thoughts back to his great-uncle and his stories aboutGato. He remembered a 
story about his ancestor and the telegraph. When at last hed figured out how it 
worked,Gato cut the wires, then strung them back up with tiny thongs of leather 
to conceal the break. It had driven the cavalry crazy, his great-uncle told 
him.


Gatohad a lot of tricks to throw off trackers. He would ride down streams and 
then ride out of them backward. He would make phony horse trails across 
slickrock and into dangerous trap canyons. Or over cliffs, using a horseshoe 
and a stone ...


Carson racked his brains.Whatelse?


It was growing light in the eastern sky. At any moment Nye would discover them 
gone. That gave them a half hours lead, at most. Unless Nye had learned of 
their deception already. He was too damn close; theyhad to make time.


As the light came up he scanned the horizon. With enormous relief, he made out 
the small figure ofde Vaca, gray against black, trotting perhaps a quarter mile 
ahead of him. He turned toward her, urging Roscoe into an easy lope.


The real problem was that, even in lava, iron horseshoes left clear impressions 
on the stones. A horse weighed half a ton, and was balanced on four skinny iron 
shoes that left sharp white marks all over the rock. Once you knew what to look 
for, it didnt take any special talent to track a horse over rock; it was far 
easier, for example, than tracking a horse in shortgrass prairie. Nye had 
already demonstrated he had more than enough talent. But at least the lava would 
slow Nye down.


Carson slowed, matching the gait ofde Vacas horse. The image of his great-uncle 
returned: old Charleys face, laughing in the glow of the fire as he rocked back 
and forth. Laughing aboutGato. Gato, the trickster.Gato, the bedeviler of white 
men.


God, am I glad to see you,de Vaca said. She grabbed his hand briefly as they 
trotted.


The warmth of her hand, the touch of another person after the long creeping 
journey in the dark, brought a surge of renewed hope to his soul. He scanned the 
lava flow that lay before them, a black, jagged line against the horizon.


Lets move well into that lava, he said. I think I have an idea.


 





 


The object stopped directly in front of him. Levine noticed with disbelief that 
it seemed to be a small dog, apparently a miniature collie. Levine stared, 
fascinated, marveling at the lifelike way with which the computer-generated 
animal wagged its tail and stood at attention. Even the black nose glistened in 
the otherworldly light that surrounded it.


 


Who are you?Levine typed.


 


Phido, the voice said. It raised its head, displaying a collar from which a 
small name tag hung. Looking closer, Levine saw the engraved words:PHIDO. 
PROPERTY OF BRENTWOOD SCOPES . Almost despite himself, Levine smiled. Scopess 
interests, after all, had a lot in common with hackers and phone phreaks.


 


Im looking for Brent Scopes, Levine wrote.


 


I see, said the voice.


 


Can you take me to him?


 


No.


 


Why not?


 


I dont know where he is.


 


What are you?


 


I am a dog.


 


Levine gritted his teeth.


 


What kind of program are you?he asked.


 


I am the front end for an AI-based help system. However, the help system was 
never enabled, so Im afraid I really cant provide any assistance at all.


 


Then what is your purpose?


 


Are you interested in my functionality? I am a program, written by Brent Scopes 
in his own version of C++, which he calls C3. It is an object-oriented language 
with visual extensions. It is primarily used for three-dimensional modeling, 
with built-in hooks for polygon shading, light-sourcing, and various rendering 
tools. It also directly supports wide-area network communications, using a 
variant of the TCP/IP protocol.


 


This was getting Levine nowhere.Why cant you help me? he typed.


 


As I said, the help subsystem was never implemented. As an object-oriented 
program, I adhere to the tenets of data encapsulation and inheritance. I can 
access certain base classes of objects, like theAIsubroutines and data-storage 
algorithms. But I cannot access the internal workings of other objects, just as 
they cannot access mine without the necessary code.


 


Levine nodded to himself. He wasnt surprised that the help system had never 
been completed; after all, Brent wouldnt need help himself, and nobody else was 
supposed to be wandering around his Cypherspace program. Probably Phido was one 
of the first elements Brent had put together, back in the early days before hed 
decided to seal the lid of secrecy on his creation. Before hed decided to keep 
this incredible world to himself.


 


So what good are you?Levine wrote.


 


From time to time, I keep Mr. Scopes company. I see you are not Mr. Scopes, 
however.


 


How do you see that?


 


Because you are lost. If you were Mr. Scopes


 


Never mind.Levine thought it better not to move in that direction. He still did 
not know what kind of security mechanisms, if any, were built into Cypherspace.


 


He thought for a minute. Here was an object-oriented companion with 
artificial-intelligence links. Like the old pseudo-therapeutic program ELIZA, 
taken to the ultimate limit. Phido. It was Scopess idea of a cyberspace dog.


 


Cant you do anything?he typed.


 


I can offer deliriously cynical quotes for your enjoyment.


 


That made sense. Scopes would never lose his obsessive love of aphorisms.


 


For example: If you pick up a starving dog, and make him prosperous, he will 
not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man. Mark 
Twain. Or: It is not enough to succeed; others must fail. Gore


 


Please shut up.


 


Levine could feel his impatience growing. He was here to find Scopes, not bandy 
words with a program in this endless maze of cyberspace. He glanced at his 
watch: another half hour wasted. He followed the path to another juncture, then 
took one of the branching paths, wandering among the immense structures. The 
small dog followed silently at his heels.


Then Levine saw something unusual: a particularly massive building, set well 
apart from the others. Despite its immense size and central location, no colored 
bands of light played from its roof toward the other structures.


 


What is that building?he asked.


 


I do not know, Phido replied.


 


He looked at the building more closely. Although its lines were almost too 
perfectthe work of a computers hand, within a cybernetic worldhe recognized 
the famous silhouette without difficulty.


The GeneDyne Boston building.


An image of the building inside the computer. What did it represent? The answer 
came to him quickly: it was the cyberspace re-creation of the computer system 
inside the GeneDyne headquarters. The network, the home-office terminals, even 
the headquarters security system, would be inside that rendering. The buildings 
around him represented the various GeneDyne locations throughout the world. No 
streams of colored light were flowing from the headquarters roof because all 
outside communications with the other GeneDyne installations had been cut off. 
Had Mime been able to learn more about the workings of Scopess program, perhaps 
he could have placed Levine inside, saving valuable time.


Levine approached the building curiously, taking a descending pathway to the 
base of the structure and approaching the front door. As he maneuvered himself 
against it, the strange music changed to an offensive buzz. The door was locked. 
Levine peered through the glass into the lobby. There, rendered in breathtaking 
detail, was the Calder mobile, the security desk. There were no people, but he 
noted with amazement that banks of CRT screens behind the security desk were 
displaying images from remote video cameras. And the feed he was viewing was 
undoubtedly live.


 


How do I get inside?he asked Phido.


 


Beats me, Phido said.


 


Levine thought for a moment, combing his spotty knowledge of modern computing 
techniques.


 


Phido. You are a help object.


 


Correct.


 


And you stated you were a front end to other objects and subroutines.


 


Correct.


 


And what does that mean, exactly?


 


I am the interface between the user and the program.


 


So you receive commands and pass them on to other programs for action.


 


Yes.


 


In the form of keystrokes?


 


That is correct.


 


And the only person who has used you is Brent Scopes.


 


Yes.


 


Do you retain these keystrokes, or have access to them?


 


Yes.


 


Have you been to this location before?


 


Yes.


 


Please duplicate all the keystrokes that took place here.


 


Phido spoke:Insanity: A perfectly rational adjustment to the insane world. 
Laing.


 


There was a chime from the speakers. Then the door clicked open.


Levine smiled, realizing that the aphorisms themselves must be security pass 
phrases. Yet another use for The Game they had once made their own. Besides, he 
realized, quotations made excellent passwords; they were long and complicated 
and could never be hit upon by accident or by a dictionary attack. Scopes knew 
them by heart, and therefore never had to write them down. It was perfect.


Phido was going to be more helpful than even Phido realized.


Quickly, Levine maneuvered himself inside with the trackball and moved past the 
guard station. He paused a minute, trying to recall the layout of the 
headquarters blueprints Mime had downloaded to him earlier in the evening. Then 
he moved past the main elevator bank toward a secondary security station. Inside 
the real building, he knew, this station would be heavily manned. Beyond was a 
smaller bank of elevators. Approaching the closest one, he pressed its call 
button. As the doors opened, Levine maneuvered himself inside. He typed the 
number 60 on the numeric keypad of his laptop: the top floor of the GeneDyne 
headquarters, the location of Scopess octagonal room.


 


Thank you, said the same neutral voice that had controlled his elevator.Please 
enter the security password now.


 


Phido, run the keystrokes for this location, Levine typed.


 


One should forgive ones enemies, but not before they are hanged. Heine.


 


As the cyberspace elevator rose to the sixtieth floor, Levine tried not to think 
about the paradoxical situation he was immersed in: sitting cross-legged in an 
elevator, stopped between floors, jacked into a computer network within which 
he was moving inanother elevator, in simulated three-dimensional space.


The virtual elevator slowed, then stopped. With the trackball, Levine moved out 
into the corridor beyond. At the end of the long corridor, he could see another 
guard station under the watchful glare of an immense number of closed-circuit 
screens. Undoubtedly, every location on the sixtieth floor and the floors 
immediately beneath was under active video. He approached the monitors, 
scrutinizing each one in turn. They showed rooms, corridors, massive computer 
arrayseven the very guard station he was atbut nothing that could be Scopes.


From Mimes security blueprints, Levine knew that the octagonal room was in the 
center of the building. No window views for Scopes; the only view he was 
interested in was the view from a computer screen.


Levine moved past the guard station and veered left down a dimly lit corridor. 
At the far end was another guard station. Moving past it, Levine found himself 
in a short hallway, doors flanking both sides. At the far end was a massive 
door, currently closed.


That door, Levine knew, led to the octagon itself.


With the trackball, Levine maneuvered down the corridor and against the door 
itself. It was locked.


 


Phido, he wrote,run the keystrokes for this location.


 


Are you going to leave me now?the cyber-dog asked. Levine thought he sensed a 
plaintiveness to the question.


 


Why do you ask?he typed.


 


I cannot follow you through that door.


 


Levine hesitated.Im sorry, Phido, but I must continue. Please play back the 
keystrokes for this location.


 


Very well. If all the girls who attended the Harvard-Yale game were laid end 
to end, I wouldnt be at all surprised. Dorothy Parker.


 


With a distinct click, the massive black door sprang ajar. Levine paused, took a 
deep breath, and steadied his hand on the trackball. Then, very slowly, he 
maneuvered himself forward into what he knew must be Scopess mysterious 
Cypherspace.


 





 


Nye stood in the center of the basin, Muertos reins in his hand. The story of 
his humiliation was written clearly in the sand and grass. Somehow, Carson and 
the woman must have sensed his presence. Theyd snuck over to their horses and 
led them awaywithout his hearing a bloody thing. It was almost inconceivable 
that they could have pulled it off. Yet the tracks did not lie.


He turned. The shadow was still by his sidesbut when he looked at it directly it 
seemed to disappear.


He walked to the edge of the basin. The two had headed east toward the lava 
beds, where, no doubt, they hoped to lose him. Although riding through the lava 
beds was slow work, Nye would have little trouble tracking them. With two 
gallons of water, it was only a matter of time before their horses would start 
to weaken. There was no hurry. The edge of the Jornada desert was still almost 
one hundred miles away.


Nye swung into the saddle and began to follow. They had walked their horses for 
a while and then mounted. The tracks gradually separatedwas it a trick?and Nye 
followed the heavier set of impressions, knowing they must be Carsons.


The sun broke over the mountains, throwing immense shadows toward the horizon. 
As it boiled up into the sky, the shadows began to shrink, and the smell of hot 
sand and creosote bush rose in the air. It was going to be a hot day. A very 
hot day. And nowhere was it going to be hotter than in the black lava beds of El 
Malpas.


He had plenty of water and ammunition. Their hour or so of lead time couldnt 
amount to more than four or five miles. That gap would narrow considerably as 
the lava slowed them down. Though he no longer had the advantage of total 
surprise, their awareness of his presence would force them to travel during the 
heat of the day.


A half mile from the lava, the two tracks joined again. Nye followed them to the 
base of the flow. Without even dismounting, he could see the whitish marks on 
the basalt where the iron shoes had scrabbled onto the rock. Now that the sun 
was up, following these marks would be easy.


It was still early morning, and the temperature was a comfortable eighty 
degrees. In an hour it would be a hundred; in another hour, a hundred and five. 
At four thousand feet of altitude, with a clear sky, the suns heat would be 
overwhelming in its intensity. The only shade anywhere was the shadow under a 
horses belly. If he didnt get them by nightfall, the desert would.


The lava bed lay ahead in great ropy masses, stretching into the limitless 
distance. In places there were pits of broken lava, fractured hexagonal blocks 
where the roofs of subterranean tubes had collapsed. In other areas there were 
pressure ridges where the ancient flow had shoved up rafts and blocks of lava 
into enormous piles. Already the ground was shimmering as the black basalt 
absorbed the sunlight, reemitting it as heat.


Muertopicked his way across the flow with care. The horses hooves rang and 
clattered among the rocks. A lizard shot off into a crack. Thinking about Carson 
andde Vaca in this heat with so little water made Nye thirsty. He took a 
satisfying drink from one of the water bags. The water was still cold and had a 
faint, pleasing taste of flax.


The shadow was still there, walking tirelessly beside his horse, visible only 
indirectly. It had not spoken again. Nye found himself taking comfort in its 
presence.


After a few miles, he dismounted to follow the marks with greater ease.


Carson andde Vaca had continued eastward toward a low cinder cone. The cone was 
open at the west end and almost flush with the lava flow, its sides rising like 
two points into the fierce blue sky. The tracks headed straight for the low 
opening.


Nye felt a spreading flush of triumph. Carson and the woman would be going into 
the cinder cone for only one reason: to take refuge. They thought they had 
shaken Nye by retreating back into the lava. Realizing that crossing the desert 
during daylight was suicide, they were going to wait in the cinder cone until 
darkness, and continue their journey under cover of night.


Then he noticed a wisp of smoke curling up from the inner side of the cinder 
cone. Nye stopped, staring in disbelief. Carson must have caught something, most 
likely a rabbit, and they were busy feasting. He examined the trail very 
carefully, and then cut for sign, checking for any possible tracks or tricks. 
Carson had proven to be resourceful. Perhaps there was a trail out on the far 
side.


LeavingMuerto at a safe distance, Nye moved cautiously, with infinite patience, 
remaining hidden as he circled the cinder cone. The smoke, the tracks, could be 
a trap of some kind.


But there was no sign of a trap. And there were no tracks leading away. The two 
had ridden into the cinder cone and not come out.


Immediately, Nye knew what he must do. Climb the back side of the cinder cone, 
where the walls of lava reared upward in jagged thrusts. From that height, he 
could shoot down anywhere into the cone. There would be no place to take cover.


Returning forMuerto, he moved in a slow arc, leading the horse around to the 
southeastern end of the cone. There, in the close and silent shadows, he 
orderedMuerto to stand. With great care, Nye began to creep up the side of the 
cinder cone, his rifle slung over his back and an extra box of ammunition in 
his pocket. The cinders were small and hot beneath his hands, and they rustled 
as he moved up the slope, but he knew that the noise would not reach inside.


Within minutes, he neared the lip of the cone. Easing the safety off the Holland 
& Holland, he crawled to the edge.


A hundred feet below, he could make out a smoldering fire. Draped on a chamisa 
bush was a bandanna that had apparently been washed and let out to dry. A 
T-shirt was hanging next to it. It was definitely their camp, and they had not 
moved on. But where the hell were they?


He glanced around. There was a hole in the side of the cinder cone, lying in 
deep shadow. They must be resting in the shade. And the horses? Carson would 
have left them hobbled some distance away to graze.


Nye sat down to wait, easing the curve of his cheek into the rifle stock. When 
they came out of the shade, he would pick them off.


Forty minutes went by. Then Nye saw the shadow that was now always at his side 
begin to stir impatiently.


What is it? he whispered.


You are a fool, the voice whispered. You are a fool, a fool, a


What? Nye whispered.


A man and a woman, dying of thirst, use their last water to wash a bandanna, 
the voice said in a mocking tone. In the hundred-degree heat, they light a 
fire. Fool, fool, fool ...


Nye felt a prickly sensation race up his neck. The voice was right. The rotter, 
the bloody thieving rotter, had managed to slip away a second time. Nye stood 
with a curse and slid down the inside of the cinder cone, no longer making any 
attempt to conceal his presence. The shadowy hole in the side of the cone was 
empty. Nye walked around the camp, taking in at first hand its obvious 
phoniness. The bandanna and the T-shirt were two expendable items, designed to 
make him think the camp was occupied. There was no evidence that Carson andde 
Vaca had stopped at all, although he could see marks indicating that horses had 
been inside for a brief period. The fire had been hastily built with green 
sticks of greasewood, guaranteed to smoke.


They were now an hour and forty minutes ahead. Or perhaps a little less, 
considering the time it must have taken to arrange this irritating little 
tableau.


He returned to the opening of the cinder cone and began trying to discover where 
they had gone, fighting to keep anger and panic from making him sloppy. How 
could he have missed their exit tracks?


He moved around the periphery of the cone until he came again to the marks going 
in. He carefully examined the vicinity of the entrance. He followed the 
entrance marks, then traced them backward away from the cinder cone. Then again, 
and yet again. Then he cut for sign a hundred yards from the cinder cone, 
circling the entire formation, hoping to pick up the trail that he knew must 
lead out.


But there was no trail leading out. They had ridden into the cinder cone, and 
then vanished. Carson had tricked him. But how?


Tell me, how? he said aloud, spinning toward the shadow.


It moved away from him, a dark presence in the periphery of his vision, 
remaining scornfully silent.


He went back into the mock camp and checked the nearby hole again, more 
carefully this time. Nothing. He stepped backward, examining the ground. There 
were some patches of windblown sand and cinder fields on the floor of the cinder 
cone. To one side there was a small disturbed area that he had not examined 
before. Nye carefully knelt on his hands and knees, his eyes inches from the 
sand. Some of the marks showed skidding and twisting. Carson had done something 
to the horses in this spot, worked on them in some way. And here was where the 
tracks ended.


Not quite. He found a faint, partial imprint of a hoof in a patch of sand a few 
yards away. It showed, very clearly, why there were no longer any marks on the 
rocks.


The son of a bitch had pulled the iron shoes off his horses.


 





 


Within a few miles, Carson figured, they should reach the edge of the lava. He 
knew that it was critically important to get the horses onto sand again as soon 
as possible. Even though they were leading the horses rather than riding them, 
the horses hooves would quickly get sore. If they walked on lava long enough 
without wearing shoes, they would go lame. And then there was always the very 
real possibility of catastrophea horse cracking a hoof to the quick, or 
perhaps bruising the frog, the soft center of the hoof.


He knew that the naked hooves also left marks on the rock: tiny flakes and 
streaks of keratin from the hooves; the odd overturned stone; the crushed blade 
of grass; the stray imprint in a small patch of windblown sand. But these marks 
were extremely subtle. At the least, they would slow Nye down. Slow him 
considerably. Still, Carson dared remain on the lava only a few more miles. Then 
they would have to put the shoes back on or ride in sand.


He had decided to head north again. If they were to get out of the Jornada 
alive, they really had no choice. Instead of going due north, however, they had 
trended northeast, making sharp turns, frequent zigzags, and once doubling back 
in an effort to confuse and irritate Nye. They also walked their horses some 
distance apart, preferring two fainter trails to a single more obvious one.


Carson pinched the skin on his horses neck.


Whats that for?de Vaca asked.


Im checking to see if the horse is getting dehydrated, Carson replied.


How?


You pinch the skin on the neck and see how fast the wrinkle springs back. A 
horses skin loses elasticity as he becomes thirsty.


Another trick you learned from thisUte ancestor you told me about?de Vaca 
asked.


Yes, Carson replied testily. As it so happens, yes.


Seems you picked up a lot more from him than youd like to admit.


Carson felt his irritation with this subject growing. Look, he said, if 
youre so eager to turn me into an Indian, go ahead. I know what I am.


Im beginning to think thats exactly what youdont know.


So now were going to have a session about my identity problem? If thats your 
idea of psychotherapy, I can see why you failed as a psychiatrist.


Immediately,de Vacas expression became less playful. I didnt fail,cabrn. I 
ran out of money, remember?


They rode in silence.


You should be proud of your Native American blood, she said at last. Like I 
am of mine.


Youre no Indian.


Guess again. Theconquistadores married theconquistas. Were all brothers and 
sisters,cabrn. Most old Hispanic families in New Mexico have some 
Aztec,Nahuatl, Navajo, or Pueblo blood.


Count me out of your multiculturalutopia, Carson said. And stop calling 
mecabrn.


De Vacalaughed. Just consider how your embarrassing, whiskey-drinking 
great-uncle is saving our lives right now. And then think about what you have to 
be proud of.


It was ten oclock, the sun climbing high in the sky. The conversation was 
wasting valuable energy. Carson assessed his own thirst. It was a constant dull 
ache. For the moment it was merely irritating, but as the hours passed it would 
grow constantly worse. They had to get off the lava and start looking for 
water.


He could feel the heat rising from the flow in flickering waves. It came through 
the soles of his shoes. The plain of black, cracked lava stretched on all sides, 
dipping and rising, ending at last at a sharp, clean horizon. Here and there, 
Carson could see mirages shimmering on the surface of the lava. Some looked like 
blue pools of water, vibrating as if tickled by a playful wind; others were 
bands of parallel vertical lines, distant mountains of dream-lava. Still others 
hovered just above the horizon, lens-shaped reflections of the rock below. It 
was a surreal landscape.


As noon approached, everything turned white in the heat. The only exception was 
the surrounding expanse of lava, which seemed to get blacker, as if it were 
swallowing the light. No matter which way Carson turned, he could feel the suns 
precise angle and location in the sky, the source of an almost unbearable 
pressure. The heat had thickened the air, made it feel heavy and claustrophobic.


He glanced up. Several birds were riding a thermal far to the northwest, 
circling lazily at a high altitude. Vultures, probably hovering over a dead 
antelope. There wasnt much to eat in this desert, even for vultures.


He looked more carefully at the black specks drifting high in the sky. There was 
a reason why they were circling and not landing: it meant there might be another 
scavenger on the kill. Coyotes, perhaps.


That was very important.


Lets head northwest, he said. They made a sharp turn, staying apart to 
confuse Nye and heading toward the distant birds.


He remembered being extremely thirsty once before. He had been working a remote 
part of the ranch known as Coal Canyon. Hed ridden down the canyon tracking a 
lost bullone of his dads prize Brahmansexpecting to camp and find water at 
theOjo delPerillo. TheOjo had been unexpectedly dry, and hed spent a waterless 
night. Toward morning his horse became tangled in his stake rope, panicked, and 
bowed a tendon. Carson had been forced to walk thirty miles out without water, 
in heat nearly equal to this. He remembered getting to Witch Well and drinking 
until he threw up, drinking again and throwing up, and still being utterly 
unable to slake his terrible thirst. When he finally got home it was old Charley 
who came to his rescue with a foul potion made out of water, salt and soda 
collected from a salt pan near the ranch house, horsehair ash, and various 
burned herbs. Only after he drank it did the unbearable sensation of thirst 
leave his body.


Carson realized now that he had been suffering from an extreme electrolyte 
imbalance brought on by dehydration. Charleys evil potion had corrected it.


There were plenty of salt pans in the Jornada desert. He would have to remember 
to collect some of the bitter salts for that time when they found water.


His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden buzzing sound in the lava directly 
ahead. For a moment he wondered if he was already hallucinating from thirst. But 
then Roscoes head jerked up, and the horse, shaken out of his lethargy, began 
to prance in anxiety.


Easy, Carson said. Easy, boy. Rattlesnake up ahead, he warned in a louder 
tone.


De Vacahalted. The buzzing became more insistent.


Jesus, she said, backing up.


Carson searched the ground ahead with careful eyes. The snake would be in the 
shade; it was far too hot in the sun, even for a rattlesnake.


Then he saw it; a fat diamondback coontail coiled in an S-curve, backed up 
against the base of a yucca about twenty feet away, its head a good twelve 
inches off the ground. It was a medium-sized rattler, perhaps two and a half 
feet long. The snakes coils were slowly sliding against each other while it 
held steady in striking position. The rattling had temporarily stopped.


Ive got an idea, Carson said. This time, one of my own.


Giving his horses lead tode Vaca, he walked carefully away from the snake until 
he found a suitable mesquite bush. Breaking off two forked branches, he removed 
the thorns and stobs, then walked back towardde Vaca.


Oh my God,cabrn, dont tell me youre going to catch thehijo de perra.


Im going to need your help in just a second.


I hope you know what the hell youre doing.


We used to catch snakes like this all the time on the ranch. You cut off their 
heads, gut em, and coil them in the fire. Taste like chicken.


Right, with a side of Rocky Mountain oysters. Ive heard those stories before.


Carson laughed. The truth is, we tried it once but the damn snake was all 
bones. And we burned the shit out of it in the fire, which didnt help.


Carson approached the snake. It began buzzing again, coiling into a tense 
spring, its head swaying ever so slightly. Carson could see the forked tongue 
flickering a deadly warning. He knew the maximum length of the strike was the 
length of the snake: two and a half feet. He stayed well beyond that, 
maneuvering the forked end of the stick toward it. It was unlikely the snake 
would strike at the stick. They struck only when they sensed body heat.


He moved quickly, pinning the snakes middle in the fork of the stick.


Instantly the snake uncoiled and began thrashing about. With the second stick, 
Carson pinned the snake at a second place closer to the head. Then he released 
the first stick and carefully pinned it even closer to the head, working his way 
up the body until it was pinned directly behind the neck. The snake, furious, 
opened its mouth wider, a pink cavern, each fang glistening with a drop of 
venom. The tail whipsawed back and forth.


Keeping the snake well pinned, Carson reached down gingerly and grabbed it 
behind the neck, careful to keep his thumb under the snakes- head and his index 
and middle fingers wrapped firmly around the axis bone at the neck. Then, 
dropping the sticks, he held the snake up forde Vaca.


She looked back at him from a safe distance, her arms crossed. Wow, she said 
without enthusiasm. Carson feinted the snake in her direction, grinning as she 
shrank away. Then he stepped to one side, still holding the thrashing reptile. 
It was twisting its head, trying unsuccessfully to plant a fang in Carsons 
thumb.


Walk the horses past me, he said. As you go, scuff up the ground and turn 
over a few rocks.


De Vacamoved the horses past. They pranced by Carson, keeping a wary eye on the 
snake. When both animals were safely past, Carson grabbed the snakes tail with 
his other hand.


Youll find a flint arrowhead in the left front pocket of my pants, he said. 
Take it out and cut those rattles off. Be sure you get them all.


I think this is just your clever way to get my hand in your pocket,de Vaca 
said with a grin. But Im beginning to see the idea. She dug into his pocket, 
extracting the arrowhead. Then, as Carson balanced the snakes tail on a flat 
piece oflava, de Vaca quickly drew the sharp arrowhead across the tail, slicing 
off the rattles. The snake squirmed, furious.


Get back, Carson said. Releasing him is the most dangerous part.


He bent forward and, with one hand, placed the snake back in the shade of the 
lava. He picked up one of the forked sticks with the other hand, and pinned it 
again behind the animals neck. Then, readying himself, he let go and jumped 
backward in a single motion.


The snake immediately coiled, then struck in their direction. It flopped among 
the rocks and retracted like a spring, coiling and swaying. Its tail was 
vibrating furiously, but no sound issued.


De Vacapocketed the rattles. Okay,cabrn, Ill admit. Im impressed as hell. 
Nye will be, too. But whats to keep the thing here? Itll be hours before Nye 
comes through.


Rattlesnakes are exothermic and cant travel in this kind of heat, Carson 
said. He wont go anywhere until after sunset.


De Vacagave a low chuckle. I hope it bites Nye on thecajones.


Even if it doesnt bite him, Im willing to bet it will make him go that much 
slower.


De Vacachuckled again, then leaned over, handing something to Carson. Nice 
arrowhead, by the way, she said mockingly. Interesting thing for an Anglo to 
be carrying around in his pocket. Tell me, did you flake it yourself?


Carson ignored her.


The sun was now directly overhead. They plodded on, the heads of the horses 
drooping, their eyes half-lidded. Curtains of heat shimmered about them. They 
passed a cluster of bloomingcholla cactus, the glare of the sun turning the 
purple flowers to stained glass.


Carson glanced over atde Vaca. Like him, she was leading her horse with her head 
down, face in the shadow of her hat. He reflected on how lucky it had been that 
hed gone back for their hats on the way out of the barn. Small things like that 
were going to make a big difference. If only hed searched for more canteens to 
carry water, or quicked one of Muertos hooves. Two years earlier, he never 
would have made such a mistake, even in the panic and uproar of blowing up Mount 
Dragon.


Water. The thought of water brought Carsons eyes around yet again to the 
canteens inside Nyes saddlebag. He realized he had been glancing 
surreptitiously at the saddlebag every few minutes. As he watched,de Vaca turned 
and glanced back at it herself. It was not a good sign.


What would be the harm in one sip? she asked at last.


Its like giving whiskey to an alcoholic, Carson said. One sip leads to 
another, and soon itll be gone. We need the water for the horses.


Who gives a shit if the horses survive, if we end up dead?


Have you tried sucking on a pebble? Carson asked.


De Vacaflashed him a dark look and spat something small and glistening from her 
mouth. Ive been sucking all morning. I want a drink. What the hell are these 
horses good for, anyway? We havent ridden them in hours.


Heat and thirst were making her unreasonable. Theyd go lame if we rode in this 
stuff, he said, speaking as calmly as he could. As soon as we get off the 
lava


Fuck it,de Vaca said. Im taking a drink. She reached back for the 
saddlebag.


Wait, said Carson. Wait a moment. When your ancestors crossed this desert, 
did they break down like that?


There was a silence.


DonAlonso and his wife crossed this desert together. And they nearly died of 
thirst. You told me so.


De Vacalooked to one side, refusing to answer.


If they had lost their discipline, you wouldnt be here.


Dont try to mind-fuck me,cabrn.


This is for real,Susana. Our lives depend on keeping these horses alive. Even 
if we become too weak to walk, well still be able to travel if we keep these 
horses in good condition.


OK, OK, youve talked me out of a drink, she snapped. Id rather die of 
thirst than listen to you preach, anyway. She pulled savagely on her horses 
lead rope. Get your ass moving, she muttered.


Carson fell back a moment to examine Roscoes hooves. There was some chipping 
around the edges, but otherwise they were holding up. No signs of real danger, 
like bruising or cracks that ran into the corona. They could go perhaps another 
mile on the lava.


De Vacawas waiting for him to catch up, glancing at the vultures 
overhead.Zopilotes. Theyre already coming to our funeral.


No, said Carson, theyre after something else. Were not that far gone.


De Vacawas silent for a moment. Im sorry Ive been giving you a hard 
time,cabrn, she said at last. Im kind of a cranky person, in case you didnt 
notice.


I noticed the first day we met.


Back at Mount Dragon, I thought I had a lot to be pissed off about. In my life, 
in my job. Now, if we can just get out of this furnace without dying, I swear 
Ill appreciate what I have a little more.


Lets not start talking about dying yet. Dont forget, we have more than 
ourselves to live for.


You think I can forget that?de Vaca said. I keep thinking about those 
thousands of innocent people, waiting to receive PurBlood on Friday. I think 
Id rather be here, in this heat, than lying on a hospital cot with an IV 
draining that stuff into my veins.


She lapsed into silence for a moment.


InTruchas, she resumed, we never had heat like this. And there was water 
everywhere. Streams came rushing out of theTruchas Peaks, filled with trout. You 
could get on your hands and knees and drink as much as you wanted. It was always 
ice cold, even in summer. And so delicious. We used to go skinny-dipping in the 
waterfalls. God, just thinking about it ... Her voice died away.


I told you,dont think about it, Carson replied.


There was a silence.


Maybe our friend is sinking his fangs into thecanalla as we speak,de Vaca 
added hopefully.


 





 


Inside the door, Levine halted, frozen.


He was standing on a rocky bluff. Below him, the ocean raged against a granite 
headland, the waves flinging themselves against the rocks, erupting in white 
spray before subsiding back into the creamy surf. He turned around. The bluff 
behind him was bare and windswept. A small, well-used trail wound down through a 
grassy meadow and disappeared into a thick forest of spruce trees.


There was no sign of the door leading out to the corridor. He had entered a new 
world entirely.


Levines hand fell from his laptop for a moment, and he closed his eyes against 
the view. It was not just the strangeness of the scene that had unnerved him: 
the huge, incredibly lifelike re-creation of a seacoast where an octagonal 
office should have been. There was something else.


Herecognized the place. This was no imaginary landscape. He had been here 
before, many years ago, with Scopes. In college, when they had been inseparable 
friends. This was the island where Scopess family had had a summer place.


Monhegan Island, Maine.


He was standing ona blufft the seaward end of the island. If he remembered 
correctly, it was called Burnt Head.


Returning his hand to the laptop, he turned in a slow, deliberate circle, 
watching the landscape change as he did so. Each new feature, each vista, 
brought a fresh rush ofdj vu. It was an incredible, almost unbelievable 
achievement. This was Scopess personal domain, the heart of his cypherspace 
program: his secret world, on the island of his boyhood.


Levine recalled the summer he had spent on the island. For a kid from 
working-class Boston, the place had been a revelation. Theyd spent the long 
warm days exploring tidal pools and sunlit fields. Brents family had a rambling 
Victorian house, set by itself on a bluff at the edge of the Village, toward 
the lee side of the island.


That, Levine suddenly realized, was where he would find Scopes.


He started down the trail, into the dark spruce forest. Levine noticed that the 
strange singing of the cyberspace world outside was gone, replaced by the island 
noises he remembered: the occasional cry of a gull, the distant sound of the 
ocean. As he moved deeper into the forest, the sound of the ocean disappeared, 
leaving only the wind sighing and moaning through the craggy branches of the 
spruce trees. Levine walked on as a light fog rolled in, amazed at how easily he 
was adjusting to moving around within this virtual world. The huge image before 
him on the elevator wall; the sounds and sights; the responsiveness of the 
program to his computers commands; all worked together toward a total 
suspension of disbelief.


The trail forked. Levine concentrated, trying to remember the way to the 
Village. In the end, he chose one fork at random.


The trail dipped down into a hollow and crossed a narrow brook, a blue thread 
bordered by pitcher plants and skunk cabbage. He crossed the stream, following 
the trail up a narrow ravine and deeper into the woods. Gradually, the trail 
petered out into nothingness. Levine turned around and began to retrace his 
steps, but the fog had grown thick, and all he could see were the black, 
lichen-covered trunks that surrounded him on all sides, marching into the mist. 
He was lost.


Levine thought for a moment. The Village, he knew, lay on the western side of 
the island. But which way was west?


He became aware of a shadow moving through the fog to his left; within moments, 
the shadow resolved itself into the shape of a man, holding a lantern at his 
side. As the man walked, the lantern made a yellow ring of light that bobbed and 
winked in the fog. Suddenly, the man stopped. He turned slowly, looking toward 
Levine through a defile of dark tree trunks. Levine looked back, wondering if he 
should type a greeting. There was a flash of light and a popping sound.


Levine realized he was being shot at. The figure in the fog was apparently some 
kind of security construct inside the cypherspace program. But how much could it 
see, and why was it firing at him?


Suddenly, a voice cut in, loud and insistent, over the soft sighing of the wind. 
Levine turned quickly, staring at the elevator speakers. The voice belonged to 
Brent Scopes.


Attention, all security personnel. An intruder has been discovered in the 
GeneDyne computer. Under current network conditions, that means the intruder is 
also in the building. Locate and detain immediately.


By entering the island world, he had alerted the GeneDyne supercomputers 
security program. But what would happen if he was hit with gunfire? Perhaps it 
would terminate the Cypherspace program, leaving him as far from Scopes as when 
he had first entered the building.


The dark figure fired again.


Levine fled backward into the woods. As he navigated through the swirling 
fingers of fog, he began to see more dark figures moving through the trees, and 
more flashes of light. The trees began to thin, and he came out at last onto a 
dirt road.


He stopped for a moment and looked around. The figures seemed to have vanished. 
Immediately, he started down the dirt road, moving as fast as his laptop 
controls would permit, alert for signs of anyone approaching.


A sudden noise alerted him, and he ducked back into the woods. Within moments, a 
group of shadowy figures glided by, moving eastward like ghosts, holding 
lanterns and carrying guns. He waited until they passed, then returned to the 
road.


Soon, the road turned to stone and began to descend toward the sea. In the 
distance, Levine could now make out the scattered rooftops of the Village, 
crowded around the white spire of the church. Behind them rose the great mansard 
roof of the Island Inn.


Cautiously, he descended the hill and entered the town. The place appeared 
deserted. The fog was thicker between the weather-beaten houses, and he moved 
quickly past dark windows of old, rippled glass. Here and there a light in one 
of the houses cast a glow through the fog. Once he heard voices and managed to 
maneuver himself into an alley until a group of figures had moved past him in 
the fog.


Past the church, the road forked again. Now Levine knew where he was. Choosing 
the left fork, he followed the road as it climbed the side of a bluff. Then he 
stopped, maneuvering the trackball for a view up the hill.


There, at the top of the bluff, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, rose the 
gloomy outlines of the Scopes mansion.


 





 


The long hours of stooping and searching the lava for sign had taken their toll 
on Nyes back. The horses had left barely enough marks to follow, and it was 
tedious, slow work. In three hours he had managed to track Carson andde Vaca 
less than two miles.


He straightened up, massaging his back, and took another small drink from the 
water bag. He poured a few quarts into his hat and letMuerto slurp it down. He 
would catch up to them eventually, if only to find their dead bodies being 
pulled apart by coyotes. He would outlast them.


He closed his eyes for a moment against the blazing white light of the sun. 
Then, with a deep sigh, he began again. There, two feet ahead, was a crushed 
clump of grass. He took one step and looked beyond it. There, maybe four feet 
ahead, was an overturned stone, showing a little sand on its bottom. He scanned 
a semicircle with his eyes. And there was the impression of the side of a hoof 
in a tiny patch of sand.


It was bloody tedious, to tell the truth. He occupied himself with the thought 
that, by now, Carson andde Vaca had no doubt drunk all their water. Their horses 
were probably half-crazed with thirst.


Here, at last, was a clear stretch of tracks, leading ahead for at least twenty 
feet. Nye straightened up and walked alongside them, grateful for the temporary 
respite. Maybe theyd grown tired of making their trail so difficult. He knew he 
bloody well had.


There was a sudden movement in the corner of his eye, and simultaneouslyMuerto 
reared, jerking Nye backward into the horses flailing hooves. There was a 
stunning blow to his head, followed by a strange noise that quickly died away, 
and an infinity of time passed. Then he found himself looking up at an endless 
field of blue. He sat up, feeling a wave of nausea.Muerto was twenty feet away, 
grazing peacefully. Automatically, his hand reached for his head. Blood. He 
looked at his watch, realized hed only been unconscious for a minute or two.


He turned suddenly. Off to one side, a boy sat on a small rock, grinning, his 
knees sticking up under his chin. Wearing shorts, knee socks, and a battered 
blue blazer, the breast-pocket emblem of the St.Pancras School for Boys 
half-obscured by dirt. His longish hair was matted, as if it had been wet for a 
very long time, and it stuck out from the sides of his head.


You, Nye breathed.


Rattler-snake, the boy replied, nodding toward a clump of yucca.


That was the voice: supersaturated with the Cockney drawl that, Nye knew 
firsthand, years of English public school in Surrey or Kent could never fully 
exorcise. Hearing it from the mouth of this small figure, Nye was instantly 
transported from the fiery emptiness of the Southwestern desert to the narrow 
gray-brick streets of Haling, pavements slick with rain and the smell of coal 
hanging heavy in the air.


With an effort, he willed himself back to the present. He glanced in the 
direction the boy had pointed. There was the snake, still coiled in striking 
position, perhaps ten feet away.


Why didnt you tell me? Nye said.


The boy laughed. Didnt see it, old man. Didnt hear it, neither.


The snake was silent. Its tail, sticking up at the end of its coil, was blurry 
with vibration, yet it was making no noise. Sometimes rattlers did break off all 
their rattles, but it was very rare. Nye could feel a prickle of secondary fear 
course through him. He had to be more careful.


Nye stood up, fighting to control the wave of nausea that washed over him as he 
rose. He went over to his horse and slid the rifle out of its scabbard.


Hang on a minute, the boy said, still grinning. I wouldnt do that if I were 
you.


Nye slid the rifle back. It was true. Carson might hear the shot. That would 
give him information he didnt need to know.


On a hunch, Nye scanned the ground in a wide arc around the snake. There it was: 
a green mesquite stick, recently whittled, forked at one end. And, lying beside 
it, a similar stick.


The boy stood up and stretched, smoothing down his unruly hair. Looks like you 
were set up, bang to rights. Nasty bit of work. Almost did you, that one.


Nye swore under his breath. Hed underestimated Carson at every turn. The snake 
had been agitated, and had struck too early. If it hadnt... He felt a momentary 
dizziness.


He looked again at the boy. The last time he had seen him, Nye had been younger, 
not older, than the grubby little fellow that now stood before him. What really 
happened, that day down in Littlehampton? he asked. Mum wouldnt tell me.


The boys lower lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout. That dirty great wave got 
me, didnt it? Pulled me right under.


So how did you swim back out?


The pout deepened. I didnt.


Then what are you doing here? Nye asked.


The boy picked up a pebble and threw it. The same might be asked of yourself.


Nye nodded. True enough. He supposed all this should seem strange to him. Yet 
each time he thought about it, it seemed more normal. Soon, he knew, he would 
stop thinking about it at all.


He collected the reins of the horse and gave the snake a wide berth, searching 
again for sign about thirty yards to the north.


Hotter than a bleedin pan of bubble and squeak out here, the boy said.


Nye ignored him. He had founda scrape on a stone. Carson must have made a sharp 
turn just beyond the snake. God, his head was throbbing.


Here, Ive got an idea, the boy said. Lets head him off at the pass.


Through a fog of pain, Nye remembered his maps. He wasnt as familiar with the 
northern end of the Jornada desert as he was with the southern. It seemed 
unlikely, but he supposed it was possible there might be a way to head Carson 
off somewhere.


Certainly he still had the advantage. Eight gallons of water left, and his horse 
was going strong. It was time he stopped merely reacting to Carsons stratagems, 
and began calling the shots himself.


Locating a flat area in the lava, Nye unrolled his maps, weighing down the 
corners with stones. Perhaps Carson had headed north for reasons other than 
simply throwing everyone off the scent. The personnel file stated that Carson 
had worked ranches in New Mexico. Maybe he was heading toward country he knew.


The maps showed large, complicated lava flows in the northern section of the 
Jornada. Since the topographical engineers hadnt bothered to actually survey 
the flows, large sections of the maps were stippled indiscriminately with dots 
indicating lava. There was no section or range data. The maps were no doubt 
highly inaccurate, the data having been gathered from aerial photographs with 
no field checking.


At the northern end of the Jornada, Nye noticed a series of cinder cones marked 
Chain of Craters that ran in an irregular line across the desert. A lava mesa, 
the Mesa delContadero, backed up against one side of the flow, and the tail end 
of the Fra Cristbals blocked the flows at the other. It wasnt a pass, exactly, 
but there was definitely a narrow gap in the Malpas near the northern end of 
the Fra Cristbals. From the map, it looked as if this gap was the only way to 
get out of the Jornada without crossing endless stretches of Malpas.


The boy was leaning over Nyes shoulder. Cor! Whatd I tell you, then, guv? 
Head him off at the pass.


Twenty miles beyond the gap was the symbol for a windmilla triangle topped 
with anX and a black dot indicating a cattle tank. Next to them was a tiny 
black square, with the words Lava Camp. Nye could tell this was a line camp 
for a ranch headquartered another twenty miles north, marked Diamond Bar on 
the map.


Thats where Carson was going. The son of a bitch had probably worked on the 
ranch as a kid. Still, it was over a hundred miles from Mount Dragon to Lava 
Camp, and eighty miles to the narrow gap alone. That meant Carson still had 
almost sixty miles to go before hitting the windmill and water. No horse could 
go that distance without watering at least once. They were still doomed.


Nevertheless, the longer he looked at the map, the more certain Nye felt that 
Carson would be heading for that gap. He would stay on the lava only long enough 
to shake Nye, and then make a beeline for the gap, and for Lava Camp that lay 
beyondwhere there would be water, food, and probably people, if not a cellular 
phone.


Nye returned the maps to their canisters and looked around. The lava seemed to 
stretch endlessly from horizon to horizon, but he knew now the western edge of 
the lava was only three-quarters of a mile away.


The plan that took shape in his mind was very simple. He would get off the lava 
immediately and ride ahead to that gap in the Malpas. Once there, hed wait. 
Carson couldnt know that he had these maps. Sneak that he was, he probably knew 
Nye was unfamiliar with the northern Jornada. He would not expect to be cut off. 
And, in any case, hed be too damn thirsty to worry about anything but finding 
water. Nye would have to ride in a long arc to ensure that Carson wouldnt pick 
up his track, but with plenty of water and a strong horse he knew he could reach 
the gap long before Carson.


And that gap was where Carson and the bitch would meet their end in the 
crosshairs of his Holland &. Holland Express.


 





 


The vultures were perhaps a mile away now, still spiraling slowly in the rising 
thermal. Carson andde Vaca walked in silence, leading their horses across the 
lava. It was two oclock in the afternoon. The lava seemed to glitter with 
endless lakes of blue water, covered with whitecaps. It was impossible for 
Carson to keep his eyes open and not see water.


Carson examined his thirst. It was excruciating. He had never imagined, much 
less felt, such a desperate sensation. His tongue was a thick lump of chalk in 
his mouth, without feeling. His lips had cracked and were starting to ooze 
fluid. The thirst was also gnawing away at his mind: As he walked, it seemed the 
desert had become one vast fire, lifting him like flyaway ash into the dazzling, 
implacable sky.


The horses were becoming severely dehydrated. The alteration that a few hours 
in the noonday sun had worked on them was almost incredible. He had wanted to 
wait until sunset to give them water, but it was now clear that sunset would be 
too late.


He stopped abruptly.Susana shuffled on a few steps, then halted wordlessly.


Lets water the horses, he said. The sudden speech in his dry throat was 
exquisitely painful.


She said nothing.


Susana?You okay?


De Vacadidnt answer. She sat down in the shade of her horse and bowed her head.


Carson dismounted and moved towardde Vacas horse. He unstrapped Nyes saddlebag 
and pushed the horseshoes aside. Removing a canteen, he took off his hat and 
filled it up to the brim. The sight of the water flowing from the mouth of the 
canteen sent his throat into spasm. Roscoe, who had been standing beside him 
half-dead, suddenly jerked his head up and crowded forward. He sucked down the 
water in a moment, then grabbed the hat with his teeth. Carson rapped him 
irritably on the muzzle, yanking the hat away. The horse pranced and blew.


Carson filled his hat a second time, carrying it tode Vacas horse. The horse 
drank it down greedily.


Replacing the now-empty canteen with the full one, he gave each horse half a 
second hatful, then returned the canteen to the saddle. The horses had suddenly 
become agitated, as he knew they would, and were blowing and turning, eyes wide.


As he returned the second, half-full canteen to the saddlebag, he heard a 
rustling sound. Reaching in, he found a loose seam along the lining of the outer 
flap. A piece of aged yellow paper was peeping out: the paper that Nye had been 
examining in the barn, the evening after the dust storm. Carson pulled it out 
and looked at it curiously. It was tattered and not paper at all, but something 
that looked like a soiled piece of ancient leather. On it were crudely detailed 
sketches of a mountain range, a strangely shaped black mass, numerous markings, 
and Spanish script. And across the top, the perplexing words in a large, 
old-fashioned hand:Al despertar la hora el quila delsol se levanta en una aguja 
del fuego, At dawn the eagle of the sun stands on a needle of fire. And at the 
bottom, amid other Spanish script, a name:Diego de Mondragn.


It all became suddenly clear. Were it not for his painfully cracked lips, Carson 
would have laughed aloud.


Susana!he exclaimed. Nye has been searching for the Mount Dragon treasure. 
The gold ofMondragn! I found a map hidden herem his saddlebags. The crazy 
bastard knew paper was illegal at Mount Dragon, so he kept it where nobody 
would find it!


De Vacaglanced at the proffered map disinterestedly from beneath the shade of 
her horse. Carson shook his head. It was ridiculous, so out of character. 
Whatever else he was, Nye was no fool. Yet he had no doubt bought this map in 
the back room of some musty junk shop in Santa Fe, probably paying a fortune. 
Carson had seen many such maps being offered for sale; faking and selling 
treasure maps for tourists was big business in New Mexico. No wonder Nye had 
acted so suspicious of Carsons tracking: He thought Carson was out to steal his 
imaginary treasure.


Abruptly, Carsons amusement disappeared. Apparently, Nye had been searching for 
this treasure for some time. Perhaps it had begun simply as curiosity on his 
part. But now, under the influence of PurBlood, what had started as a mild 
obsession would have become much more than that. And Nye, being aware that 
Carson had taken the saddlebag, would have even more reason to hunt them down 
without mercy.


He looked more closely at the map. It showed mountains, and the black stuff 
might be a lava flow. It could be anywhere in the desert. But Nye obviously knew 
thatMondragns doublet had supposedly been found at the base of Mount Dragon; 
he must have been orchestrating his search from that point.


Even this remarkable solution to Nyes weekend disappearances grew quickly dull 
under the burning thirst that would not leave his throat. Wearily, Carson 
returned the piece of vellum to the saddlebag and looked at the horseshoes. 
There was no time to put them on. Theyd have to chance it in the sand.


He tied up the saddlebag, then turned.Susana, weve got to keep going.


Wordlessly,de Vaca stood up and began walking northward. Carson followed her, 
his thoughts dissolving in a dark dream of fire.


Suddenly they were at the edge of the lava flow. Ahead of them, the sandy desert 
stretched to the limitless horizon. Carson bent down in a salt pan that had 
formed along the edge of the lava and picked up a few pieces of alkali salt. It 
never hurt to be prepared.


We can ride now, he said, shoving the salt into his pocket. He watched asde 
Vaca mechanically put one foot in the stirrup. She hoisted herself into the 
saddle on the second attempt.


Watching her silent struggles, Carson was suddenly unable to stand it any 
longer. He stopped, reached over for the saddlebag, withdrew the canteen.


Susana.Drink with me.


She sat on her horse for a moment, silently. At last, without looking up, she 
said, Dont be a fool. Weve got sixty miles to go. Save it for the horses.


Just a little sip,Susana. A sip.


A sob escaped from her throat. None for me. But if you want to, go ahead.


Carson screwed the cap down without drinking and replaced the canteen. As he 
prepared to mount, he felt something run down his chin. When he dabbed at his 
lips, his fingers came away red with blood. This hadnt happened in Coal Canyon. 
This was much worse. And they still had sixty miles to go. He realized, with a 
kind of dull finality, that there was no way they were going to make it.


Unless there were coyotes at the kill.


He put his foot in the stirrup, fighting back a sudden dizziness, and pulled 
himself upward onto the horse. The effort exhausted him, and he sagged in the 
saddle.


The vultures were still circling now, perhaps a quarter mile ahead. The two 
moved closer, Carson propping himself up with the saddle horn. In the distance, 
something dark was lying on the sand. Coyotes were tugging at it. Roscoe, seeing 
something in the featureless desert, automatically moved toward it. Carson 
blinked, trying to focus. His eyes were running out of water. He blinked again.


The coyotes bounded away from the carcass. At a hundred yards they stopped and 
looked back.Never been shot at, Carson thought.


The horses drew closer to the carcass. Carson looked down, working to bring the 
dead creature into focus. His eyes were so dry they felt as if they were caked 
in sand.


It was a dead pronghorn antelope. The carcass was barely recognizable: a skull, 
with the characteristic stubby horns, peeking out of a desiccated lump of flesh.


Carson glanced atde Vaca, pulling up behind. Coyotes, he said. His throat felt 
like it had been flayed.


What?


Coyotes. It means water. They never go far from water.


How far?


Ten miles, no more.


He leaned over the saddle horn, trying to control a spasm in his throat.


How?de Vaca croaked.


Track, Carson said.


The heat played about them. A single cloud drifted across the sky, like a puff 
of acrid steam. The FraCristbal Mountains, which they had been approaching all 
day, now seemed bleached to bone by the sun. Behind them, the horizon had 
disappeared, and the landscape itself seemed to be evaporating, dissolving into 
sheets of light, floating upward into a white-hot sky. The coyotes were sitting 
on a rise, waiting for the interlopers to leave.


They approached from downwind, Carson said.


He rode in a spiral away from the dead antelope until he located the spot where 
the coyote tracks entered. As he followed the tracks away from the antelope,de 
Vaca drew up alongside. They rode for several miles, Carson leading, following 
the faint tracks through the soft desert sand.


Then the tracks veered into the lava and disappeared.


Carson drew Roscoe to a halt asde Vaca came along beside him. There was a 
silence. Nobody could track a coyote through lava.


I think, he croaked at last, that we need to divide the remaining water with 
the horses. We cant last much longer.


This timede Vaca nodded.


They slid off the horses, collapsing in the hot sand. Carson removed the 
half-full canteen with a weak hand.


Drink slowly, Carson said. And dont be disappointed if it makes you even 
more thirsty.


De Vacasipped from the canteen with trembling hands. Carson didnt bother to 
bring out the salt from his pocket; they wouldnt be drinking enough water for 
it to matter. Taking the canteen gently fromde Vaca, he raised it to his lips. 
The feeling was unbearably good, but it was even more unbearable when it ended.


He gave what was left to the horses, then tied the empty canteen on the saddle 
horn. They lay down in the shade cast by the two animals, who stood dejectedly 
in the afternoon sun.


What are we waiting for?de Vaca asked.


Sunset, said Carson. The drink already seemed a wonderful, unbearable dream. 
But talking was not the unbearable torture it had been. Coyotes water at 
sunset, and they usually start calling. Lets hope the spring is within a mile, 
so we can hear them. Otherwise. ...


What about Nye?


Hes still searching for us, Im sure of that, Carson said. But I think weve 
lost him.


De Vacawas silent. I wonder if DonAlonso and his wife suffered like this, she 
murmured at last.


Probably. But they found a spring.


They lapsed into silence. The desert was deathly quiet.


Is there anything else you can remember about that spring? Carson asked at 
last.


De Vacafrowned. No. They started across the desert at dusk, and drove their 
stock until they were near to collapse. An Apache showed them the spring.


So they were probably about halfway across.


They started with barrels of water in their wagons, so they were probably much 
farther than that.


Going north, said Carson.


Going north.


You remember anything, anything at all, about the location?


I already told you. It was in a cave at the foot of the FraCristbals. Thats 
all I can remember.


Carson did a quick calculation. They were now about forty-five miles north of 
Mount Dragon. The mountains were ten miles to the west. Just at the edge of the 
coyotes range.


Carson struggled to his feet. The wind is drifting toward the FraCristbals. So 
the coyotes probably came from the west. So maybejust maybetheOjo delguila is 
at the foot of the mountains due west.


That was a long time ago,de Vaca said. How do you know that, even if we find 
it, the spring hasnt run dry?


I dont.


Im not sure if I can make it ten miles.


Its either that, or die.


Youve got a great bedside manner, you know that?DeVaca pushed herself into a 
sitting position. Lets go.


 





 


Nye trotted alongside the lava flow for a while and then looped eastward, away 
from the mountains, to ensure that the two would not cross his trail. Although 
Carson had proven a worthy adversary, he tended to make mistakes when he was 
overconfident. Nye wanted to make sure Carson was as overconfident as possible. 
He had to make Carson believe he had thrown him off the trail.


Muertowas still going strong, and Nye himself felt good. The pain in his head 
had subsided to a dull ache. The afternoon heat was stifling, but it was their 
friend, the invisible killer.


Toward four oclock he cut north again, returning to the edge of the lava flow. 
To the south, he could see a column of vultures. They had been hanging there for 
quite a while. Some animal or other. Far too soon for Carson andde Vaca to draw 
so big a crowd.


He stopped suddenly. The boy had vanished. He felt a panic.


Hey, boy! he called. Boy!


His voice died away without echo, sucked into the dry sands of the desert. There 
was little in the endless dead landscape to reflect sound.


He stood in his stirrups and cupped his hands. Boy!


The scruffy figure came out from behind a low rock, buttoning his fly. Here, 
put a sock in your boatrace. I was just visiting the gents.


Relaxing, Nye turned his horse, bringing him quickly back to a trot. Thirty 
miles to the ambush point. He would be there before midnight.


 





 


The image on the huge screen was of a rambling Victorian house in pure Gothic 
Revival style, bedecked almost self-consciously with ponderous mansard roof and 
widows walk. A white portico ran across the front of the house and along both 
sides. Panning his view upward, Levine noticed that the entire structure was 
dark, save for a small, eight-sided garret atop the central tower, its oculus 
windows piercing the fog with a yellow glow.


He maneuvered his cyberspatial self up the road to an iron gate that hung open 
on broken hinges, wondering why the house itself wasnt guarded; why Scopes had 
depicted the yard as being overgrown with chokecherries and burdock. As he 
approached, he noticed that several of the windows were broken and that paint 
was peeling from the weathered clapboards. The house and yard had been lovingly 
tended the summer hed spent there as a youth.


He looked up again at the octagonal garret. If Scopes was anywhere inside, he 
would be there. Levine watched as a stream of colored light, like a tongue of 
fire, burst from the roof of the garret and disappeared into a dark hole in the 
fog that hovered overhead. Hed seen similar data transfers flashing between 
the huge buildings hed first encountered in GeneDyne cyberspace. This must be 
the encrypted TELINT satellite uplink that Mime had detected. Levine wondered if 
the messages were encrypted before or after they left this inner sanctum of 
Scopess cypherspace.


The front door stood partly open. The interior of the house was dim, and Levine 
found himself wishing for some way to illuminate the view. The sky had slowly 
darkened, turning the fog to a leaden gray, and Levine realized thatat least 
within this artificial world of Scopessnight was coming on. He looked at his 
watch and saw it was 5:22.A.M. orP.M. ? he found himself wondering. He had lost 
all track of time. He shifted position on the elevator floor, flexing one leg 
that had gone to sleep and massaging his tired wrists, wondering if Mime was 
still somewhere in the GeneDyne network, running interference. Then, taking a 
deep breath, he returned his hands to the laptop keys and moved forward into the 
house.


Here was the large parlor of his memory, with a worn Persian rug on the floor 
and a massive stone fireplace on the left-hand wall. A stuffed moose head hung 
above it, cobwebs woven thickly between its antlers. The walls were lined with 
old paintings of barques and schooners, and scenes of whaling. and fishing.


Straight ahead was the curving staircase that mounted to the second floor. He 
maneuvered up the staircase and along the second-floor balustrade. The rooms off 
the balustrade were dark and empty. He chose one at random, maneuvering through 
it to a worn and battered window. He looked outside and was surprised to see not 
the narrow road winding down into the mist, but a bizarre jumble of gray and 
orange static. A bug incypherspace ? Levine wondered, moving back to the 
balustrade through the dim light. He turned in to a second hallway, curious to 
see the room hed slept in that summer so many years before, but a burst of 
computer code filled the screen, threatening to dissolve the entire vast image 
of the house before him. He hurriedly backed away, perplexed. Every other area 
of the island seemed to have been knit together by Scopes with such care. Yet 
the re-creation of his own childhood home was disheveled and empty, with rends 
in the very fabric of his computerized creation.


At the far end of the balustrade was the door to the garret stairs. Levine was 
about to ascend the stairs when he remembered a back staircase that led to the 
widows walk. Perhaps it would be better if he took a look into the windows of 
the garret before broaching it directly.


Fog rushed up to embrace him as Levine moved forward onto the widows walk. He 
swiveled the laptops trackball:, looking around cautiously. Ten feet ahead of 
him, the angular form of the garret jutted from the walkway. Levine moved 
forward and peered into the oculus window.


A bent-looking figure sat inside the garret, his back to Levine. Long white 
hair flowed over the high collar of what appeared to be a dressing gown. The 
figure was perched in front of a computer terminal. Suddenly, a tongue of fire 
came shooting down out of the fog, plunging into the side of the garret. Without 
hesitation, Levine moved forward into the stream of color, and in an instant 
words were flashing across the enormous screen:


 


... have discussed your price. It is outrageous. Our offer of three billion 
stands. There will be no further negotiation.


 


The stream subsided. Levine waited, motionless. Within minutes, a burst of 
colored light shot up from the tower:


 


General Harrington: Your impertinence just cost you an additional billion, and 
the price is now five billion. This kind of posturing is displeasing to me as a 
businessman. It would be much nicer if we could settle this like gentlemen, 
dont you think? And it isnt even your money. It is, however, my virus. I have 
it, and you dont. Five billion would reverse that situation.


 


The stream subsided.


Levine stood on the widows walk, stunned. It was worse than he could ever have 
imagined. Not only was Scopes mad, but he had in his possession a virusa virus 
he was selling to the military. Perhaps even to rogue elements within the 
military. Judging by the prices involved, the virus could only be the doomsday 
virus Carson had told him about.


Levine sagged back against the elevator wall, overwhelmed by the enormity of 
what he was up against. Five billion dollars. It was staggering. A virus wasnt 
like a nuclear weapon hard to transport, difficult to hide, hard to deliver. A 
single test tube in someones pocket could easily contain trillions of them. ...


Sitting up again, Levine maneuvered himself back along the widows walk, down 
the flight of stairs, and along the corridor to the garret stairway. As with all 
unlocked doors in Scopess creation, the garret doorway opened as he collided 
with it. At the top of the dark stairway was another door. As he ascended, 
Levine could see light coming from the jamb.


This door was locked. Levine banged into it again and again in frustration and 
rage.


Then something occurred to him. It had worked with Phido; there was no reason to 
think it wouldnt work here.


In capital letters, he typed:SCOPES !


Instantly, the name reverberated from the speaker into the narrow confines of 
the elevator. A minute ticked by, then two. Suddenly, the door to the garret 
room burst open. Levine could see a wizened figure looking out at him. What he 
had taken to be a dressing gown was actually a long robe, sprinkled liberally 
with astrological designs. Hair fell in streams of white and silver over the jug 
ears, and the skin that lay across the forehead and along the sunken cheeks was 
lined with an infinity of wrinkles, but Levine knew the face, as he knew few 
others. He had found Brent Scopes.


 





 


The sun felt brittle, like a rainfall of glass. The water had restored a little 
moisture to their throats, yet it had only intensified their thirst. And it had 
made the horses unruly. Beneath him, Carson could sense that Roscoe was 
panicking, preparing to run. Once that happened, hed run until he died.


Keep them on a short rein, he said.


The FraCristbals loomed ever larger, turning from orange to gray to red in the 
changing light. As they rode, Carson could feel the terrible dryness returning 
to his mouth and throat. As his eyes grew more inflamed, it became too painful 
to keep them open for more than a few moments at a time. He rode with his eyes 
closed. Beneath him, he could feel the horse swaying with weakness.


A cave at the foot of the mountains. Warm water. That meant a volcanic area. So 
the spring would be near a lava flow, and the cave itself was probably a lava 
tube. He opened his eyes for a moment. Eight more miles, perhaps less, to the 
silent, lifeless mountains.


The effort of thinking exhausted him. Suddenly, he dropped the reins and then, 
disoriented, pawed frantically at the saddle horn with both hands. If he fell 
off the horse, he knew he would never get back on. He gripped the horn tighter 
and leaned forward until he could feel the coarse hair of the horses mane on 
his cheek. If Roscoe decided to run, so be it. He rested there, releasing 
himself to the reddish light that burned behind his closed eyelids.


 


The sun was setting as they reached the base of the mountains. The long shadow 
of the rough peaks crept toward them, engulfing them at last in sweet shadow. 
The temperature dropped out of triple digits.


Carson forced his eyes open. Roscoe was staggering. The horse had lost all 
desire to run, and was now losing the simple desire to live. Carson turned 
towardde Vaca. Her back was bowed, her head down, her whole frame seemingly 
crooked and broken.


The two horses, which had been shambling ahead at their own pace, reached a line 
of lava at the base of the mountains and stopped.


Susana?Carson croaked.


She lifted her head slightly.


Lets wait here. Wait to hear the coyotes calling to water.


She nodded and slid off the horse. She tried to stand but collapsed drunkenly to 
her knees.


Shit, she said, grabbing the stirrup and pulling herself partway up before 
crumpling back into the sand. Her horse stood on trembling legs, its head 
drooping.


Wait, Ill help you, said Carson. As he dismounted, he, too, felt himself lose 
his balance. With a kind of mild surprise, he found himself looking up from the 
soft sand at a spinning world: mountains, horses, sunset sky. He closed his eyes 
again.


Suddenly it was cool. He tried to open his eyes but found himself unable to 
separate the glued lashes. He reached up with a hand and prized apart the lid of 
one eye. There was a single star above, shining in a deep ultraviolet sky. Then 
he heard a faint sound. It started as a sharp yipping noise, rising in pitch, 
answered at a distance. Three or four more yips followed, the final cry dropping 
suddenly into a long, drawn-out howl. There was an answering call, then another. 
The calls appeared to be converging.


Coyotes going to water. At the base of the mountains.


Carson lifted his head. The still form ofde Vaca was stretched on the sand near 
him. There was just enough light in the sky to see the dim outlines of her body.


Susana?


There was no answer.


He crawled over and touched her shoulder.Susana?Please answer .Please dont be 
dead.


He shook her again, a little harder. Her head lolled slightly, black hair 
spilling across her face.


Help, she croaked. Me.


The sound of her voice revived a weak current of strength within him. He had to 
find water. Somehow, he had to save her life. The horses were still standing 
quietly, reins in the sand, shaking as if with fever. He clung to a stirrup and 
pulled himself into a sitting position. Roscoes flank felt very hot beneath his 
hand.


As Carson stood, a sudden wave of dizziness engulfed him and the strength 
drained out of his legs. Then he found himself flat on his back again, in the 
sand.


He was unable to walk. If he was going to reach water, hed have to ride to it.


He grabbed the stirrup again and pulled himself up, clinging desperately to the 
saddle horn. He was far too weak to pull himself into the saddle. He looked 
around with his single usable eye. A few yards off, he spotted a large rock. 
Hooking his arm through the stirrup, Carson led the horse to the rock, then 
clambered onto it. From its top he was able to crawl into the saddle. Then he 
sat, listening.


The coyotes were still calling. He took a bearing toward the sound and tapped 
Roscoe with his heels.


The animal lurched forward, took a trembling step, then stopped, 
spraddle-legged. Carson whispered into the horses ear, patted him soothingly on 
the neck, and nudged him again.Come on, damn you.


The horse took another shaky step forward. He stumbled, recovered with a grunt, 
and took a third step.


Hurry, Carson whispered urgently. The calling would not last long.


The horse staggered toward the sound. In a minute, another wall of lava loomed 
up on his left. He urged Roscoe on as the yelping suddenly ceased.


The coyotes were aware of his presence.


He kept moving the horse toward the place where hed last heard the sound. More 
lava. The light was draining out of the sky. Within minutes it would be too dark 
to see.


Suddenly he smelled it: a cool, humid fragrance. The horse jerked his head up, 
smelling it too. In a moment the faint breeze had carried the smell away again, 
and the hot brick stench of the desert returned to fill his nostrils.


The lava flow seemed to march on endlessly to his left, while to his right lay 
the empty desert. As night came on, more stars began to appear in the sky. The 
silence was intense. There was no indication where the water might be. They were 
close, but not close enough. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.


The horse sighed heavily and took another step forward. Carson gripped the 
saddle horn. He had dropped the reins again, but he didnt care. Let the horse 
have his head. There it was: another tantalizing breeze, carrying with it the 
smell of wet sand. The horse turned toward the smell, walking straight into the 
lava. Carson could see nothing but the black outline of twisted rock, rearing 
against a fading sky. There wasnothing here, after all; it was just another 
cruel mirage. He closed his eyes again. The horse staggered, took a few more 
steps. Then it stopped.


Carson heard, as if from a great distance, the sound of water beingsucked up 
through a bitted muzzle. He released his grip on the saddle horn and felt 
himself falling, and still falling, and just when it seemed like he would fall 
forever he landed with a splash in a shallow pool.


He was lying in water perhaps four inches deep. It was, of course, a 
hallucination; people who were dying of thirst often felt themselves sinking 
into water. As he turned, water filled hismouth. He coughed and swallowed. It 
was warmwarm and clean. He swallowed again. And then he realized that it 
wasreal.


He rolled in the water, drinking, laughing and rolling, and drinking some more. 
As the lovely warm liquid coursed down histhroat, he could feel the strength 
beginning to return to hislimbs.


He willed himself to stop drinking and stood up, steadying himself against the 
horse and blinking both eyes free of the gluethat had imprisoned them. He untied 
the canteen and, with a shaking hand, filled it in the warm water. Returning the 
canteen to the saddle horn, he tried to pull Roscoe away.


The horse refused to budge. Carson knew that, if left to his own devices, the 
animal, might very well drink himself to death, or at the very least give 
himself founder. He whacked Roscoe on the muzzle and jerked up the reins. The 
horse, startled, spun backward.


Its for your own good, Carson said, leading the animal outwhile he pranced in 
frustration.


He foundde Vaca lying just as he left her. Kneeling beside her, Carson opened 
the canteen and dabbed a little water over her face and hair. She stirred, 
rolling her head, and he cradled it in his arms, carefully pouring a few drops 
into her open mouth.


Susana?


She swallowed and coughed.


He poured another drop into her mouth, and dabbed some more on her crusted eyes 
and swollen lips.


Is that you, Guy? she whispered.


Theres water.


He placed the canteen to her lips. She took a few swallows and coughed.


More, she croaked.


Over the next fifteen minutes, she drank the entire gallon in little sips.


Carson pulled the piece of alkali salt from his pocket, sucked on it for a 
moment, then passed it to her. Lick some of this, he said. Itll help take 
away the thirst.


Am I dead? she whispered at last.


No. I found the spring. Actually, Roscoe found it. TheOjo delguila.


She sucked on the piece of salt, then sat up weakly. Whew. Im still dying of 
thirst.


Youve got enough water in your stomach for now. What you need is 
electrolytes.


She sucked on the salt again; then a sob suddenly racked her shoulders. 
Instinctively, Carson put his arms around her.


Hey, she said, look at this,cabrn. My eyes are working again.


He held her, feeling the tears trickle down his own face. Together, they wept at 
the miracle that had kept them alive.


Within an hour,de Vaca was strong enough to move. They led the horses back to 
the cave and let them drink, slowly. After the horses had watered, Carson took 
them outside to graze, first hobbling them to keep them from wandering away in 
the dark. It hardly seemed necessary, since they werent likely to stray far 
from the water.


When he returned to the darkness of the cave, Carson foundde Vaca lying on a 
verge of sand next to the spring, already asleep. He sat down, feeling an 
immense mantle of weariness settle on his shoulders. He was too tired to 
explore. The world drained away into nothingness as he fell back against the 
sand.


 





 


Lava Gate.


Nye played his halogen torch along the immense black wall that reared up beside 
him. The gap was perhaps a hundred yards wide. On one side the FraCristbal 
mountains thrust up from the desert floor, a talus of fractured boulders and 
traprock forming a natural barrier to horses. On the other, an immense wall of 
lava rose up, the abrupt end of many miles of frozen flow from a volcano whose 
spark had gone out eons before. It was even better than he imagined; a perfect 
place for an ambush. If he was heading for Lava Camp, Carson had no choice but 
to go through here.


Nye hobbledMuerto in a hiddenarroyo beyond the gap and climbed up into the lava, 
carrying his flashlight and rifle, a water bag, and food. He soon found what 
seemed in the darkness to be a good lookout: a small depression in the lava, 
surrounded by a jagged escarpment. The lava had formed itself into natural 
crenellations, and its rough porous surface offered excellent purchase for the 
barrel of his rifle.


He settled down to wait. He took a sip from the water bag and pared himself a 
hunk of cheese from the wheel. American cheddar, truly awful stuff. And the 
110-degree heat hadnt improved it. But at least it was food. Nye was fairly 
confident that Carson and the woman hadnt eaten in thirty hours. But without 
water, food would be the least of their problems.


He sat quietly in the darkness, listening. Toward dawn the new moon rose, a 
bright white sliver. It threw enough light in the clear air for Nye to relax his 
vigil and look around.


He had found the ideal lookout: a snipers nest a hundred feet above the gap. By 
day, Carson and the woman would be visible to the south for two, maybe three 
miles. He had clear shooting across, down, and even to the other side. He 
couldnt have designed a better blind. Here, hed have all the time in the world 
to squeeze off his shots. When the .357 nitro-express slugs connected with human 
tissue, they would cause so much havoc even the buzzards would have a difficult 
time finding enough meat for a meal.


Chances were, of course, that Carson and the woman were already dead. If that 
was the case, it would be some consolation to Nye to know it was his presence 
that had flushed them out, forcing them to travel during the merciless heat of 
the day. But whatever the case, this was a comfortable spot to wait. Now that he 
could remain hidden during the daylight hours, water would not be such an issue. 
Hed stay here another day, maybe twojust to be surebefore heading south in 
search of the bodies.


If Carsonhad found waterwhich was the only way he would make it this farhe 
would be overconfident. Buoyant. Thinking hed shaken Nye for good. Nye popped 
the magazine out, checked it, and slid it back in.


Bang, bang, came the high, giggling voice out of the darkness to his left.


A faint blueness began to creep into the eastern sky.


 





 


 Who is that?Le vine heard Scopess voice come sharply out of the elevator 
speakers. The lips of the wizard-image on the screen did not move, and its 
expression did not change, yet Levine could hear the mild surprise in the voice 
of his ex-friend. He did not type a response.


So it wasnt a false alarm, after all. The wizard-image stepped away from the 
door. Come in, please. Im sorry I cant offer you a seat. Perhaps in the next 
release. He laughed. Are you a rogue employee? Or are you working for an 
outside competitor? Whatever the case, perhaps youll be good enough to explain 
your presence in my building and in my program.


Levine paused. Then he transferred his hands from the trackball and cursor keys 
to the laptops keyboard. Im Charles Levine, he typed.


The wizard stared back for several seconds. I dont believe you, came the 
voice of Scopes at last. You couldnt possibly have hacked your way in here.


But I did. And Imhere inside your own program, Cypherspace.


So you werent content playing at corporate espionage from a distance, 
Charles? Scopes asked in a mocking tone. You had to add breaking and entering 
to your growing list of felonies.


Levine hesitated. He was not yet sure of Scopess mental condition, but he felt 
he had no recourse but to speak openly. I have to talk to you, he typed. 
About what it is youre planning to do.


And what is that?


Sell the doomsday virus to the United States military for five billion 
dollars.


There was a long pause.


Charles, Ive underestimated you. So you know about X-FLU II. Very good.


So thats what its called, Levine thought. What do you hope to accomplish by 
selling this virus? he typed.


I thought that would have been obvious. Five billion dollars.


Five billion isnt going to do you much good if the fools who end up with your 
creation destroy the entire world.


Charles, please. Theyalready have the ability to end the world. And they 
havent done it. I understand these fellows. These are the same bullies who beat 
us up on the playground thirty years ago. Basically, Im just aiding them in 
their desire to have the biggest, newest weapon. Its an evolutionary artifact, 
this wanting of big weapons. Theyll never actuallyuse the virus. Just like 
nuclear weapons, it has no military value, just strategic value in the balance 
of power equation. This virus was developed as a by-product of a legitimate 
Pentagon contract with GeneDyne. Ive done nothing illegal or even unethical in 
developing this virus and offering it for sale.


It amazes me how you can rationalize your greed, Levine typed.


Im not through. There are good, sensible reasons why the American military 
should have this virus. There can be little doubt that the existence of nuclear 
weapons prevented World War Three between the former Soviet Union and the United 
States. We finally did what Nobel hoped to do with dynamite; we made all-out war 
unthinkable. But now we have come to the next generation of weapons: biological 
hot agents. Despite treaties to the contrary, many unfriendly governments are 
working on biological agents just like this. If the balance of power is to be 
maintained, we cannot afford to be without our own. If were caught without a 
virus such as X-FLU II, any number of hostile countries could blackmail us, 
threaten us and the rest of the world. Unfortunately, we have a president who 
actually intends to obey the Biological Weapons Convention. Were probably the 
only major country in the world still observing it! But this is a waste of time. 
I wasnt able to convince you to join me in founding GeneDyne, and I wont be 
able to convince you now. Its a pity, really; we could have done great things 
together. But you chose, out of resentment, to devote your life to destroying 
mine. Youve never been able to forgive me for winning the Game.


Great things, you say. Like inventing a doomsday virus to wipe out the entire 
population of the world?


Perhaps you know less than you let on. This so-called doomsday virus is a 
by-product of a germ-line therapy that will rid the human race of the flu. 
Forever. An immunization that will confer lasting immunity to influenza.


You call being dead immunity?


It should be obvious even to you that X-FLU II was an intermediate step. It had 
flaws, true. But Ive found a way to make those very flaws marketable.


Thefigure went over to a cabinet and removed a small object from one of the 
shelves. As the figure turned back, Levine saw it was a gun, similar in design 
to those used by his pursuers in the woods.


What are you going to do? Levine asked. You cant shoot me. This is 
cyberspace.


Scopes laughed. We shall see. But I wont do it quite yet. First, I want you to 
tell me what really brings you here into my private world at such personal 
inconvenience. If you wanted to speak to me about X-FLU II, surely you could 
have found an easier way to do it.


I came to tell you that PurBlood is poisonous.


The Scopes-wizard lowered the gun. That is interesting. How so?


I dont know the details yet. It breaks down in the body and starts poisoning 
the mind. Its what drove Franklin Burt insane. Its what drove your scientist, 
Vanderwagon, insane. It will drive all the beta-testers at Mount Dragon insane. 
And its whats drivingyou insane.


It was unsettling, speaking to the computerized image of Scopes. It did not 
smile, it did not frown; until Scopess own voice came over the speaker, Levine 
had no way of knowing what the GeneDyne CEO was thinking, or what the effect of 
his own words might be. He wondered if Scopes already knew; if he had read and 
believed Carsons aborted transmission.


Very good, Charles, came the reply at last, laced with weary irony. I knew 
you were in the business of making outrageous claims against GeneDyne, but this 
is your grandest achievement.


Its no claim. Its true.


And yet you have no proof, no evidence, and no scientific explanation. Its 
like all your other charges against GeneDyne. PurBlood was developed by the most 
brilliant geneticists in the world. It has been thoroughly tested. And when 
its released this Friday, it will save countless lives.


Destroy countless lives, more likely. And you arent the slightest bit worried, 
having taken PurBlood yourself?


You seem to know a lot about my activities. I never was transfused with 
PurBlood, however. I took colored plasma.


Levine did not reply for a moment. And yet you let the rest of Mount Dragon 
take the real stuff. How courageous of you.


I had planned on taking it, actually, but my stalwart assistant, Mr. Fairley, 
prevailed on my better judgment. Besides, the Mount Dragon staff developed it. 
Who better to test it?


Levine sat back helplessly. How could he have forgotten, in his haste to 
confront Scopes directly, what the man was like? The discussion reminded him of 
their college arguments. Back then, he had never succeeded in changing Scopess 
opinion on any subject. How could he possibly succeed now, when so much more was 
at stake?


There was a long silence. Levine maneuvered his view around the garret and 
noticed that the fog had cleared. He moved to the window. It was now dark, and a 
full moon was shimmering off the surface of the ocean like a skein of silk. A 
dragger, nets hung, chugged toward the harbor. Now that the conversation had 
lapsed into silence, Levine thought he could detect the sound of the surf on the 
rocks below. Pemaquid Point Light winked in the darkness.


Impressive, isnt it? Scopes said. It captures everything but the smell of 
the sea.


Levine felt a deep sadness steal over him. It was a perfect illustration of the 
contradictions in Scopess character. Only a genius of immense creativity could 
have written a program this beautiful and subtle. And yet the same person was 
planning to sell X-FLU II. Levine watched the boat glide into the harbor, its 
running lights dancing on the water. A dark figure leapt off the boat and caught 
the hawsers as they were thrown from the deck, looping them over cleats.


Originally, it began as a set of separate challenges, Scopes said. My network 
was growing daily, and I felt I was losing control. I wanted a way to traverse 
it, easily and privately. I had spent a fair amount of time playing with 
artificial-intelligence languages, like LISP, and object-oriented languages 
such as Smalltalk. I felt there was a need for a new kind of computer language 
that could meld the best of both, with something else added, too. When those 
languages were developed, computer horsepower was minuscule. I realized I now 
had the processing capability to play with images as well as words. So I built 
my language around visual constructs. The Cypherspace compiler creates worlds, 
not just programs. It began simply enough. But soon, I realized the 
possibilities of my new medium. I felt I could create an entirely new art form, 
unique to the computer, meant to be experienced on its own terms. Its taken me 
years to create this world, and Im still working on it. Itll never be 
finished, of course. But much of that time was spent in development, in making 
the programming language and tools sufficiently robust. I could do it again much 
more quickly, now.


Charles, you could stand at that window for a week and never see the same thing 
twice. If you wished, you could go down to the dock and talk to those men. The 
tide goes in and out with the phases of the moon. There are seasons. There are 
people living in the houses: fishermen, summer people, artists. Real people, 
people I remember from my childhood. Theres Marvin Clark, who runs the local 
store. He died a few years back but he lives on in my program. Tomorrow, you 
could go down there and listen to him telling stories. You could have a cup of 
tea and play backgammon with Hank Hitchins. Each person is a self-contained 
object within the larger program. They exist independently and interact with 
each other in ways that I never programmed or even foresaw. Here, Im a kind of 
god: Ive created a world, but now that its created, it goes on without further 
input from me.


But youre a selfish god, Levine said. Youve kept this world to yourself.


True enough. I simply dont feel like sharing it. Its too personal.


Levine turned back to the wizard-image. Youve reproduced the island in 
perfect detail, except your own house. Its in ruins. Why?


The figure was still a moment, and no sound came through the elevator speaker. 
Levine wondered what nerve he had touched. Then the figure raised the gun again. 
I think weve spoken enough now, Charles, Scopes said.


Im not impressed by the gun.


You should be. You are simply a process within the matrix of my program. If I 
shoot, the thread of your process will halt. You will be stuck, with no way to 
communicate with me or anyone else. But its largely academic now. While we were 
chatting about my creation, I sent a sniffer routine back over your trail, 
tracking you across the network backbone until I located your terminal. It cant 
be too comfortable, stuck there in Elevator Forty-nine between the seventh and 
eighth floors. A welcoming party is already on its way, so you might as well sit 
tight.


What are you going to do? Levine asked.


Me? Im not going to do anything. You, however, are going to die. Your 
arrogant break-in, along with this latest round of snooping into my business, 
really leaves me little choice. As an intruder, of course, your killing will be 
justifiable homicide. Im sorry, Charles, I truly am. It didnt need to end 
this way.


Levine raised his fingers to type a reply, then stopped. There was nothing he 
could say.


Now Im going to terminate the program. Good-bye, Charles.


The figure took careful aim.


For the first time since entering the GeneDyne building, Levine was afraid.


 





 


Carson woke with a start. It was still dark, but dawn was approaching: As he 
looked out, he could see the sky beginning to separate itself from the black 
mouth of the cave. A few yards away,Susana was still asleep on the sand. He 
could hear the soft, regular sound of her breathing.


He propped himself up on one elbow, aware of a dull nagging thirst. Crawling on 
hands and knees to the edge of the spring, he cupped the warm water in his 
hands, drinking it greedily. As the thirst died, a gnawing hunger began to 
assert itself in the depths of his belly.


Standing, he walked to the mouth of the cave and breathed the cool, predawn air. 
The horses were a few hundred yards off, grazing quietly. He whistled softly and 
they lifted their heads, perking their ears at his presence. He walked toward 
them, stepping carefully in the darkness. They were a little gaunt, but 
otherwise seemed to have survived their ordeal quite well. He stroked Roscoes 
neck. The horses eyes were bright and clear, a good sign. He bent down and felt 
the coronet at the top of the hoof. It was warm but not hot, showing no sign of 
laminitis.


He looked around in the gathering light. The surrounding mountains were carved 
from tilted sandstone, their sedimentary layers running at crazy diagonals 
through the eroded humps and canyons. As he watched, their summits became 
infused with the scarlet light of the rising sun. There was a stillness to the 
air almost religious in its force: the silence of a cathedral before the organ 
sounds. Where the muscled flanks of the mountains sank into the desert, the 
skirts of the lava flow cloaked their base in a black, jagged mass. Their own 
cave was hidden from view, below the level of the desert. Standing one hundred 
yards from it, Carson would never have dreamed there was anything around but 
black lava. There was no sign of Nye.


Carson watered the horses again in the cave and then hobbled them in a fresh 
patch oftobosa grass. Then, locating a mesquite bush, he used his spearpoint to 
cut off a long flexible sucker, with a cluster of stobs and thorns at the end. 
He walked out of the lava and into the desert, examining the sand carefully as 
he went. Soon, he found what he was looking for: the tracks of a rabbit, still 
young and relatively small. He followed them for a hundred yards until they 
disappeared into a hole underneath a Mormon-tea bush. Squatting down, he shoved 
the thorny end of the stick down the hole, threading it through several turns, 
andwhen it reached the den prodding and twisting, feeling a furry resistance. 
Twisting more vigorously now, he slowly pulled the stick back out of the hole. A 
young rabbit, whose loose skin had been caught and twisted up in the stobs, 
struggled and grunted. Carson pinned it with his foot and cut off its head, 
letting the blood drain into the sand. Then he gutted, skinned, and spitted it, 
buried the offal in the sand to deter buzzards, and returned to the cave.


De Vacawas still sleeping. At the mouth of the cave he built a small fire, 
rubbed the rabbit with more alkali salt from his pocket, and began roasting it. 
The meat spit and sizzled, the blue smoke drifting into the clear air.


Now at last the sun came above the horizon, throwing a brilliant shower of 
golden light across the desert floor and deep into the cave, illuminating its 
dark surfaces. There was a noise and Carson turned to seede Vaca, sitting up at 
last and rubbing her eyes sleepily.


Ouch, she said as the golden light flared in her face and turned her black 
hair to bronze.


Carson watched her with the smugly virtuous smile of an early riser. His eyes 
strayed from her to the interior of thecave. De Vaca, seeing his expression 
change, turned to follow his gaze.


The rising sun was shining through a crack in the cave opening, striping a 
needle of orange light across the floor of the cave and halfway up its rear 
wall. Balanced atop the needle and illuminated against the rough rock was a 
jagged, yet immediately recognizable image: an eagle, wings spread and head 
upraised as if about to burst into flight.


They watched in silence as the image grew brighter, until it seemed it would be 
forever branded into the rear of the cave. And then, as suddenly as it had 
flared up, it died away; the sun rose above the mouth of the cave, and the eagle 
vanished into the growing superfluity of light.


El Ojodelguila, De Vacasaid. The Spring of the Eagle. Now we know we found 
it. Incredible to think that this same spring saved my ancestors lives four 
hundred years ago.


And now its saving ours, Carson murmured. He continued to stare at the dark 
space where the image had been for a moment, as if trying to recall a thought 
that was dancing just beyond the verge of consciousness. Then the wonderful 
aroma of roasting meat filled his nostrils, and he turned back to the rabbit.


Hungry? he asked.


Youre damn right. What is it?


Rabbit. He turned it, then pulled it from the fire and stuck the spit upright 
in the sand. Taking out the spearpoint, he sliced off a haunch and handed it 
tode Vaca.


Careful, its hot.


Gingerly, she took a bite.


Delicious. You can cook, too. I assumed all you cowboys knew how to make was 
beans in bacon fat.


She sank her teeth into the haunch, peeling off another piece of meat. And its 
not even tough, like the rabbits my grandfather used to bring home. She spat 
out a small bone. Carson watched her eat with a cooks secret pride.


In ten minutes the rabbit was gone and the cleaned bones burning, in the fire,De 
Vaca sat back, licking her fingers. Howd you catch that rabbit? she asked.


Carson shrugged. Just something I picked up on the ranch as a kid.


De Vacanodded. Then she smiled wickedly. Thats right, I forgot. All Indians 
know how to hunt. Its an instinct, right?


Carson frowned, his complacence dissolving under this unwarranted dig. Give it 
a rest, he grumbled. It wasnt funny the first time, and it certainly isnt 
funny now.


Butde Vaca was still smiling. You should see yourself. That day in the sun did 
you good. A few more like it, and youll look right at home on the Big Rez.


Despite himself, Carson felt a hot fury mounting inside.DeVaca had an unerring 
instinct for searching out his sensitive spots and homing in on them 
mercilessly. Somehow, hed allowed himself to believe that the terrifying ordeal 
they had shared would change her. Now he wasnt sure if he was more angry withde 
Vaca for remaining her sarcastic self, or at himself for his foolish 
self-delusion.


T eres una desagradecida hija de puta,he said, the anger giving his words a 
startling clarity.


A curious expression came overde Vacas face as the whites of her eyes grew 
large and distinct. Her casual pose in the sand grew rigid.


So thecabrn knows more of the mother tongue than hes let on, she said in a 
low voice. Im aningrate, am I? Typical.


You call me typical? Carson retorted. I saved your ass yesterday. Yet here 
you are again today, slinging the same shit.


Yousaved my ass?de Vaca snapped. Youre a fool,cabrn. It was yourUte 
ancestor who saved us. And your great-uncle, who passed down his stories to you. 
Those fine people that you treat like blots on your pedigree. Youve got a great 
heritage, something to be proud of. And what do you do? You hide it. Ignore it. 
Sweep it under the rug. As if youre a better person without it. Her voice was 
rising now, echoing crazily inside the cave. And you know what, Carson? Without 
it, youre nothing. Youre not a cowboy. Youre not a Harvard WASP. Youre just 
an empty redneck shell that cant even reconcile its own past.


As he listened, Carsons fury turned cold. Still playing the would-be analyst? 
he said. When Im ready to confront my inner child, Ill go to somebody with a 
diplomanot a snake-oil peddler whos more comfortable in a poncho than a lab 
coat.Todava tienes la mierda del barrio en tus zapatos.


De Vacadrew in her breath with a sharp hiss, and her nostrils flared. Suddenly 
she drew back her hand and slapped him across the face with all her strength. 
Carsons cheek burned and his ear began to buzz. He shook his head in surprise, 
noticed she had drawn back to hit him again, and caught her hand as it swung 
toward him a second time. Balling her other hand into a fist,de Vaca lashed out 
at him, but he ducked, tightening his grip on her imprisoned hand and thrusting 
it from him. Overextended,de Vaca fell backward into the pool and Carson, caught 
off guard, fell across her.


The slap and the sudden fall had driven the fury out of Carson. Now, as he lay 
acrossde Vaca as he felt her hard lithe body struggle beneath hisan entirely 
different kind of hunger seized him. Before he could stop himself he leaned 
forward and kissed her, deliberately, on the lips.


Pendejo,de Vacagasped, fighting for breath. Nobodykisses me. With a violent 
wrench, she freed her arms, balling her dripping hands into fists. Carson 
watched her warily.


They stared at each other for a moment, motionless. Water dripped fromde Vacas 
fists onto the dark, warm surface of the pool. The echoes died away until the 
only sounds that remained were those made by the droplets of water, falling 
between their labored breaths. Suddenly, she grabbed Carson by the hair with 
both hands and crushed her mouth to his.


In a moment her hands were everywhere, sliding up beneath his shirt, caressing 
his chest, teasing his nipples, tugging at his belt and worrying down his fly 
and easing him out and stroking him with long urgent movements. She sat up and 
raised her arms as he shrugged off her top, tossed it aside, and then pulled 
hungrily at her jeans, already soaked black with the warm spring water. An arm 
went around his neck as her lips brushed his bruised ear and her pink cats 
tongue darted in and she whispered words that brought a burning to the back of 
his scalp. He tore her panties away as she fell into the water, gasping or 
crying, he wasnt sure which, her breasts and the small curve of her belly 
rising slick from the surface of the spring. Then he was in her and her legs 
were locked over the small of his back as they found their rhythm and the water 
rose and fell around them, crashing against the sand like the surf of the 
worlds dawn.


Later,de Vaca looked over at Carson, lying naked on the wet sand.


I dont know whether to stab you or fuck you, she said, grinning.


Carson glanced up. Then he rolled toward her, raising an arm to gently smooth a 
tangle of black hair that had fallen across her face.


Lets have another go at the latter, he said. Then well talk.


The dawn turned to noon, and they slept.


 





 


Carson was flying, soaring above the desert, the twisted ribbons of lava mere 
specks beneath him. He struggled higher, lifting himself toward the hot sun. 
Ahead, a huge narrow spire of rock thrust itself up from the desert, ending in a 
sharp point miles above the sands. He tried to crest the point, but it seemed to 
grow as he climbed, taller and taller, reaching for the sun. ...


He awoke with a start, heart racing. Sitting up in the cool darkness, he looked 
out at the mouth of the cave, then back toward its dim interior, as the 
realization that had escaped him earlier burned its way into him like a 
firebrand.


He stood, put on his clothes, and stepped outside. It was almost two oclock, 
the hottest time of the day. The horses had recovered well, but would need to be 
watered once more. Theyd have to leave within the hour if they wanted to make 
Lava Gate by sunset. That would get them to Lava Camp by midnight, or perhaps a 
little later. They would still have thirty-six hours to get their information 
into the hands of the FDA before the scheduled release of PurBlood.


But they couldnt leave. Not yet.


Turning to the horses, he tore two strips of leather from the saddle rigging. 
Then he gathered up an armful of mesquite sticks and dead creosotebush, which he 
arranged into two tight bundles. Lashing the bundles together with the leather 
strips, he turned and walked back toward the cave.


De Vacawas up and dressed. Afternoon, cowboy, she said as he entered the cave.


He grinned and approached her.


Not again, she said, poking him playfully in the stomach.


He leaned closer and whispered in her ear.Al despertar la hora el guila del 
sol se levanta en una aguja del fuego.


At dawn the eagle of the sun rises on a needle of fire, she translated, a 
puzzled expression on her face. That was the legend on Nyes treasure map. I 
didnt get it then, and I dont get it today.


She looked at him a moment, frowning perplexedly. Then her eyes widened. We saw 
an eagle this morning, she said. Silhouetted against the rear of the cave by 
the dawn sun.


Carson nodded.


That means weve found the place


The place Nye has been searching for all these years, Carson interrupted. 
The location ofMondragns gold.


Only he was off by almost a hundred miles.De Vaca glanced back into the 
darkness. Then she turned toward Carson. What are we waiting for?


Carson lighted the end of one of the bundles, and together they moved back into 
the recesses of the cave.


From the large pool where it emerged out of the earth, the spring flowed back 
into the cave in a narrow rivulet, sloping downward at a slight angle. Carson 
andde Vaca followed its course, peering into the ruddy gloom created by the 
torch. As they approached the rear wall of the cave, Carson realized it was not 
a wall after all, but a sudden drop in the level of the ceiling. The floor of 
the cave dropped as well, leaving a narrow tunnel through which they had to 
stoop. In the darkness ahead, Carson could hear the sound of splashing water.


The tunnel opened into a high narrow cavern, perhaps ten feet across and thirty 
feet high. Carson held the torch aloft, illuminating the mottled yellow surface 
of the rock face. He moved forward, then stopped abruptly. At his feet, the 
stream tumbled off a cliff, splashing down into a yawning pool of blackness. 
Holding the torch in front of him, Carson peered over the edge.


See anything?de Vaca asked,


I can just barely see the bottom, he said. It must be fifty feet down, at 
least.


There was a sliding sound and Carson instinctively drew back. A handful of small 
rocks crumbled off the lip of the cliff and bounced down into the darkness, 
echoing hollowly as they went.


Carson tested the ground in front of him. All of this rock is loose and 
rotten, he said, moving gingerly along the cliff face. Finding a more stable 
spot, he dropped to his knees and leaned over the edge again.


Theres something down there,de Vaca said from the far side of the cliff edge.


I see it.


If youll hold the torch,de Vaca said, Ill climb down. This way looks 
easier.


Let me do it, Carson said.De Vaca flashed him a dark look.


OK, OK, he sighed.


Moving toward a spot where the cliff face had collapsed,de Vaca half climbed, 
half slid down the rubbled slope: Carson could barely see her moving down in the 
gloom.


Throw the other torch down! she called at last.


Shoving a book of matches between the sticks, Carson tossed down the second 
bundle. There was a moment of fumbling, then the sound of a match being struck, 
and suddenly the chasm below was illuminated by a flickering crimson light.


Peering farther overthe edge, Carson could clearly see the outline of a 
desiccated mule. The animals pack was broken open and pieces ofmanta and 
leather were lying about. A number of large whitish lumps could be seen 
protruding through the ruined pack. Nearby lay the mummified body of a man.


In the lambent light of the brand, he could seede Vaca examine first the man, 
then the mule, then the ruined pack. She picked up several scattered objects, 
tying them into the loose ends of her shirt. Then she came scrabbling back up 
the talus slope.


What did you find? Carson muttered as she approached.


I dont know. Lets get into the light.


At the cave entrance,de Vaca untied the ends of her shirt. A small leather 
pouch, a sheathed dagger, and several of the whitish lumps tumbled onto the 
sand.


Carson picked up the dagger, carefully sliding it from its sheath. The metal was 
dull and rusted, but the hilt was intact, preserved beneath a mantle of dust. He 
wiped it against his sleeve and held it up to the sun. Chased in silver on the 
iron hilt were two ornate letters:D M.


Diegode Mondragn, he whispered.


Asde Vaca tried to open the stiff leather bag, it broke in half and one small 
gold coin and three larger silver coins fell onto the sand. She picked them up 
and turned them over in her hands, marveling as they glinted in the light.


Look at how fresh they are, she said.


What about the packs? Carson asked.


They were half-filled with white stones like these,deVaca said, pointing to 
the whitish lumps. There were dozens of them. The saddlebags were full of it.


Carson picked up one of the blocks and examined it curiously. It was cool and 
fine-grained, the color of ivory.


What the hell is it? he murmured.


De Vacapicked up the other piece, hefting it curiously. Its heavy, she said.


Removing his arrowhead, Carson scratched at the lump. But its fairly soft. 
Whatever it is, its not rock.


De Vacarubbed the surface with one palm. Why wouldMondragn have risked his 
life carrying this stuff, when he could have been carrying extra water and ... 
She stopped abruptly. I know what this is, she announced. Its meerschaum.


Meerschaum? Carson asked.


Yup. Used for pipes, carvings, works of art. It was extremely valuable back in 
the seventeenth century. New Mexico exported large quantities of it to New 
Spain. I guessMondragns mine was a meerschaum deposit. She looked at Carson 
and grinned.


A stricken look crossed Carsons face. Then he slumped back in the sand, 
laughing to himself, And all this time, Nye has been searching forMondragns 
lost gold. It never occurred to himit never occurred to anybodythatMondragn 
might have been carrying some other kind of wealth. Something practically 
worthless today.


De Vacanodded. But back then, the value of the meerschaum in that pack might 
easily have been worth its weight in gold. Look at how fine the grain is. Today, 
it might be worth four, maybe five hundred dollars.


What about the coins?


Mondragnsbit of spending money. The dagger is probably the only thing of 
real value here.


Carson shook his head, looking back into the cave. I suppose the mule began to 
wander into the rear of the cave, and he chased after it. Their combined weight 
must have collapsed the edge of that cliff face.


De Vacashook her head. When I was down there, I found something else. There was 
an arrow, lodged deep inMondragns breastbone.


Carson looked at her, surprised. It must have been the servant. So the legend 
was wrong: They werent looking for water. They hadfound water. But the servant 
decided to take the treasure for himself.


De Vacanodded. MaybeMondragn was looking for a place to hide his treasure, and 
didnt see the cliff edge in the darkness. There were loose pieces of lava lying 
on top of the body as well as around it. The mule was killed in the fall, and 
the servant decided there was no point in waiting around any longer.


You said the saddlebags were half-full, right? He probably putMondragn out of 
his misery, took what he could carry, and started back south. He would have 
taken the doublet as protection from the sun. Only it wasnt enough. He got as 
far as Mount Dragon.


Carson continued to stare at the cave mouth as if waiting for it to tell them 
the story. So thats the end of the Mount Dragon legend, he said at last.


Perhaps,de Vaca replied. But legends dont die all that easily.


They stood silently in the bright afternoon sun, staring at the coins inde 
Vacas outstretched hand. At last, she placed them carefully in the pocket of 
her jeans.


I think its time we saddled the horses, Carson said, picking up the dagger 
and shoving it into his belt. We need to get to Lava Gate before sunset.


 





 


Nye sat in his perch high up among the rocks, feeling the late-afternoon sun on 
his hat and the waves of solar radiation rising off the surrounding lava, 
clasping him in their stifling embrace. He raised his rifle and, using the 
scope, carefully scanned the southern horizon. No sign of Carson and the woman. 
He raised the sight, scanning again. No sign of circling vultures, either.


Theyre probably holed up somewhere, snogging. The boy threw a rock down the 
slope, clattering and bouncing. That girls just dead common.


Nye grimaced. Either theyd found themselves a spring, or they were dead. Most 
likely the latter. Perhaps it took a while for the rot to really set in and draw 
the buzzards. After all, the desert was large. The birds might have to follow 
the scent from quite a distance. How long in this heat would it take a body to 
really give off an odor: four, maybe five hours?


Game of come-catch-a-blackbird? the boy asked, shoving a grubby handful of 
lava pebbles at him. Well use these instead of aggies.


Nye turned to him. The boy was dirty and one nostril was rimed with dried snot. 
Not now, he said, gently. He raised his scope and panned the horizon again.


And then he saw them: two figures on horseback, perhaps three miles away.


 





 


Levine maneuvered himself quickly sideways as the gun went off. Turning the 
trackball, he saw a neat, round hole in the oculus window behind him. The 
Scopes-figure raised the gun again.


Brent! he typed frantically. Dont do this. You must listen.


Scopes sighed. For twenty years, youve been a thorn in my side. I did 
everything I could for you. In the beginning, I offered you an equal 
partnership, fifty percent of GeneDyne stock. Ive refrained from responding to 
your vicious attacks, while you grew fat and powerful by feeding off negative 
publicity about GeneDyne. You took advantage of my silence to attack me again 
and again, to accuse me of greed and selfishness.


You kept silent only because you hoped Id sign the corn-patent renewal, 
Levine typed.


Thats a low blow, Charles. I did it because I still felt a kind of friendship 
for you. At first, I confess, I didnt take your carping seriously. Wed been so 
close at school. You were the only person Id ever met who was my intellectual 
equal. Look what we did together: we brought X-RUST into the world. A bitter 
laugh sounded through the elevator speaker. Thats the side of the story you 
dont like to tell the press, do you? The great Levinethe noble Levinethe 
Levine that would never sink to the level of Brent Scopeswas thecoinventor of 
X-RUST. One of the greatest cash cows in the history of capitalism. I may have 
found the Anasazi corn kernels, but it was your brilliant science that helped me 
to isolate the X-RUST gene, to develop the disease-resistant strain.


It wasnt my idea to make billions off poor people in Third World countries.


What profit I made from it was minuscule measured against the productivity 
increase, Scopes replied. Have you forgotten that, with our rust-resistant 
strain, world corn output increased fifteen percent, and the price of corn 
actually dropped? Charles, people who would otherwise have starved to death 
lived because of the discovery.Our discovery.


It was our discovery, yes. But it wasnt my wish to turn that discovery into a 
tool for greed. I wanted to release it into the public domain.


Scopes laughed. I havent forgotten that naive desire of yours. And surely you 
havent forgotten the circumstances that allowedme to profit from it. I won, 
fair and square.


Levine had not forgotten. The memory seared his soul with a guilty fire. When it 
was clear that the two of them had irreconcilably different wishes for the 
X-RUST gene, they had agreed to compete for it. To play the game for it: the 
Game, the one they had invented at college. This time, it had been for the 
ultimate stakes.


And I lost, Levine replied.


Yes. But the last laugh is yours, isnt it, Charles? In two months, the corn 
patent expires. Since youve refused to renew your half, the patent will lapse. 
And the most lucrative discovery in GeneDyne history will be the worlds to use 
as they see fit, at no charge.


Suddenly, blending with the sound of Scopess voice, Levine heard a babble of 
other voices: loud and insistent, echoing harshly down the elevator shaft.


They were coming to get him in real space as well.


There was a lurch that pressed Levine against the elevator wall. Above him, a 
motor hummed into life, and the cool voice spoke once again:The malfunction has 
been corrected .We are sorry for the inconvenience.


The elevator groaned, thumped, then began to climb.


On the giant screen, Levine saw the Scopes-figure turn away from him, looking 
out one of the garret windows. It doesnt matter now whether I shoot you here 
or not, he said. When your elevator arrives on the sixtieth floor, youre 
corporeal body is going to be terminated, anyway. Yourcyberspatial existence 
will be moot.


The figure turned back and looked at him, waiting.


Levine glanced up at the floor display. It read: 20.


Im sorry it has to end like this, Charles, came the voice of Scopes. But I 
suppose my regret is just a nostalgic artifact, after all. Perhaps, once youre 
gone, Ill be able to honor the memory of the friend I once had. A friend who 
changed utterly.


The numbers were ticking off rapidly: 55, 56, 57. The whine of the lift motors 
lowered in a deepdecrescendo as the elevator slowed.


I could still sign the corn-patent renewal, Levine typed.


Sixty, said the voice. Levine yanked the network connection from the socket. 
Abruptly, the image of the misty garret winked out, and the flat panel of the 
elevator wall was black once more. Levine quickly switched off his laptop. If 
Mime was still in GeneDyne cyberspace, hed be thrown out immediately. But at 
least he could not be traced.


There was a silence as the elevator settled. Then the doors slid back and 
Levine, cross-legged on the floor, looked up to see three guards in the 
blue-and-black GeneDyne uniform staring down at him. All three were holding 
pistols. The lead guard raised his gun, aiming for Levineshead.


Im not cleaning it up, said a guard at one side.


Levine closed his eyes.


 





 


They had filled both canteens and drunk from the spring until their bodies 
refused to swallow any more. Now, as they rode along the base of the mountains, 
Carson could feel the coolness slowly creep back into the air. Overhead, a 
late-afternoon sun hung above the barren summits.


Another fifteen miles to Lava Gate, then perhaps twenty more to Lava Camp. Since 
most of their traveling would be under cover of darkness, they neednt fear 
running out of water again. The horses were probably each carrying fifty pounds 
of water in their bellies. There was nothing like a bad thirst to scare a horse 
into drinking when he had the water.


He dropped back slightly, watchingde Vaca. She sat erect in the saddle, her long 
legs relaxed in the stirrups, her hair floating behind like a black wind. She 
had a sharp, strong profile, Carson noticed, with a finely pointed nose and full 
lips. Odd hed never seen it before.Of course , he thought,a full biosuit isnt 
exactly the most flattering piece of clothing.


She turned. What are you looking at,cabrn? she asked. The golden afternoon 
light was refracting in her dark eyes.


You, he said.


What do you see?


Someone I He paused.


Lets get back to civilization before you make any hasty declarations, she 
said, turning away.


Carson grinned. I was going to say, someone Id like to pin to a bed. A real 
bed, not just a bed of sand. Writhing in ecstasy, preferably.


That bed of sand wasnt so bad.


He sat back in the saddle with an exaggerated grimace. I think half the skin of 
my back must be underneath your nails right now.


He pointed to the horizon. See that notch in the distance, where the mountains 
and the lava seem to meet? Thats Lava Gate, the northern end of the Jornada. 
From there, we just aim for the North Star. Its less than twenty miles to Lava 
Camp. Theyll have hot food and a phone. And maybe even a real bed.


Oh, yeah? askedde Vaca. Ouch. My poor butt.


 





 


Nye sighted down the barrel of the Holland & Holland, checked the brush scope, 
and secured the magazine. Everything was ready. Placing thebuttstock between 
his feet, he checked the muzzle end for any obstructions. Hed cleaned it a 
hundred times since that piss-artist Carson had plugged it up, that day in the 
desert. But it didnt hurt to make sure.


The two figures were now a mile away. In less than ten minutes, theyd be coming 
into range. Two fast, clean shots at four hundred yards. Then two more to pay 
the insurance, and a couple for the horses. Theyd never even see him.


It was time. He eased the rifle into position, then lay on the hard lava, 
snugging his cheek into the stock. He began taking slow, deep breaths, letting 
the air ease out his nostrils, slowing his heart rate. Hed shoot between 
heartbeats for greater accuracy.


He raised his head imperceptibly and glanced around. The boy was gone. Then Nye 
spotted him, dancing on a lava rock on the other side of the slope. Far away 
from the action.


He settled into position again, lining up the sights and slowly swiveling the 
barrel across the desert floor until the two figures appeared between the 
crosshairs.


 





 


 Dont shoot! came a voice from behind the guards. Ive got Mr. Scopes on the 
intercom. Words were exchanged. The gun barrel lowered, and one of the guards 
pulled Levine roughly to his feet.


He was led down a dim corridor, past a large guard station, then a smaller one. 
As the group turned into a narrow hallway flanked by rows of doors, Levine 
realized he had taken this trip once before: hours earlier, when he navigated 
through GeneDyne cyberspace with Phido at his side. As he walked, he could hear 
the hum of machinery, the low susurrus of ventilators and air exchangers.


They stopped outside the massive black door. Levine was instructed to remove his 
shoes and don a pair of foam slippers. A guard spoke into his radio, and there 
was the sound of electronic locks being released. There was a hissing sound, and 
the door popped ajar. As a guard pulled it open, air rushed out, buffeting 
Levines face. He stepped-inside.


The octagonal office looked nothing like the garret of Scopess cyberspace. It 
was vast, dark, and oddly sterile. The bare walls climbed ponderously to the 
high ceiling. Levines gaze moved from the ceiling, to the famous piano, to the 
gleaming inlaid desk, to Scopes. The CEO of GeneDyne sat on his battered sofa, 
keyboard on lap, looking sardonically back at Levine. His black T-shirt was 
dirty and stained with what appeared to be pizza sauce. In front of him, a giant 
screen still contained an image of the parapet outside the garret of the ruined 
house. In the distance, Pemaquid Point Light was blinking over the dark water.


Scopes stabbed a key, and the screen went abruptly black.


Frisk him for weapons or electronic devices of any kind, Scopes said to the 
guards. He waited until the guards withdrew. Then he looked at Levine, making a 
tent of his fingers. Ive checked the maintenance logs. You seem to have spent 
quite some time in that elevator. Fifteen hours, give or take. Would you care to 
refresh yourself?


Levine shook his head.


Have a seat, then. Scopes indicated the far end of the sofa. What about your 
friend? Would he like to join us? I mean, the one thats been doing all the 
difficult work for you. Hes left his signature all over the network, and Id 
very much like to meet him and explain the dim view I take of his activities.


Levine remained silent. Scopes looked at him, smiling and smoothing down his 
unruly cowlick. Its been some time, hasnt it, Charles? I must admit, Im a 
bit surprised to see you. But not half as surprised as I am by your offer to 
sign the renewal, after all these years of adamant refusal. How quickly we lose 
our principles when we face the ultimate test. It is easier to fight for ones 
principles than to live up to them. Or to die for them. Correct?


Levine sat down.  To have doubted ones own first principles is the mark of a 
wise man,  he quoted.


Thatscivilized man, Charles. Youre rusty at The Game. Do you remember the 
last time we played it?


A look of pain crossed Levines face. If Id won, we wouldnt be here today.


Probably not. I often wonder, you know, just how much of your frantic 
antigenetics campaigning over the years was really just self-loathing. You loved 
The Game as much as I did. You risked everything you believed in for that final 
game, and you lost. Scopes sat up and placed his fingers on the keyboard. Ill 
have the papers printed up for your signature right away.


You havent heard my terms, Levine said evenly.


Scopes turned. Terms? You dont seem to be in a position to dictate any. Either 
you sign, or you die.


You wouldnt actually murder me in cold blood, would you?


Murder, Scopes repeated slowly. In cold blood. I suppose such sensationalist 
language is your stock in trade now. But yes, Im afraid I wouldnot to put too 
fine a point on it, as Mr. Micawber would say. Unless you sign the patent 
renewal.


There was a silence. My terms are one more game, Levine said.


Scopes looked back in disbelief. Then he chuckled. Well, well, Charles. Awhat 
do they call itgrudge match? And for what stakes?


If I win, you destroy the virus and let me live. If I lose, Ill sign the 
corn-patent renewal and you can kill me. So you see, if you win, you get another 
eighteen years of exclusive royalties on X-RUST,and you can sell the virus to 
the Pentagon. If you lose, you lose both the corn patentand the virus.


Killing you would be easier.


But much less profitable. If you kill me, the corn patent will not be renewed. 
That eighteen-year renewal alone is probably worth ten billion dollars to 
GeneDyne.


Scopes thought a moment, letting the keyboard slide from his lap. Let me 
counter that last offer. If you lose, instead of killing you, Ill bring you 
aboard GeneDyne as vice-chairman and chief scientist. Its my original offer, 
updated, with a salary and stock options commensurate with your stature. Well 
turn back the clock, start all over again. Naturally, you will cooperate in 
every way, and cease these senseless attacks on GeneDyne and technological 
progress in general.


Instead of death, a pact with the devil, you mean. Why would you do this for 
me? Im not sure I trust you.


Scopes grinned. What makes you think Id be doing it for you? Killing you would 
be messy and inconvenient. Besides, Im not a murderer, and theres always the 
chance it would weigh on my conscience. Really, Charles, I havent enjoyed 
destroying your career. It was a purely defensive move. He waved his hand. 
However, just letting you go back into the world like a loose cannon, to snipe 
at me at your leisure, is not a viable option either. It is in my interests to 
convince you to join the company, cooperate, sign the usual nondisclosure 
forms. If you wished, you could sit in your office here all day, doing nothing. 
But I think you would find a much more rewarding path in research and 
developmenthelping to cure sick people. It doesnt necessarily have to be in 
genetic engineering, either. Pharmaceuticals,biomedical research, whatever: You 
could write your own ticket. Devote your life to creating, instead of 
destroying.


Levine stood up, facing the huge screen, now blank and featureless. The silence 
grew. At last, he turned to face Scopes. I accept, he said. However, I need a 
guarantee that youll destroy that virus if you lose. I want you to remove it 
from the safe and place it on this table between us. If I win, Ill simply take 
the vial out of here and dispose of it properly. If it is, in fact, the only 
vial.


Scopes frowned. You of all people should know that. Thanks to your friend 
Carson.


Levine raised his eyebrows.


So its news to you, is it? From the reports Ive received, it appears that son 
of a bitch blew up Mount Dragon. Carson Iscariot.


I had no idea.


Scopes looked at him speculatively. And I thoughtyou were behind it. I assumed 
it was revenge of a sort for what Id done to your fathers memory. He shook 
his head. Well, whats nine hundred million when ten billion are at stake? I 
agree to your terms. With one proviso of my own. If you lose, I dont want you 
to renege on the corn-patent renewal. I want you to sign the papers now, in the 
presence of a notary. Well place the agreement on the table in front of us, 
along with the vial. If I lose, you get both. If I win, I get both.


Levine nodded.


Pulling the keyboard back onto his lap, Scopes began typing rapidly. Then, 
reaching for a phone, he spoke briefly. A moment later, there was a chime; then 
a woman entered bearing several sheets of paper, two pens, and a notary seal.


Heres the document, Scopes said. Sign it while I get the virus.


He moved toward a far wall, ran his fingers along its surface until he felt what 
he was looking for, then pressed against it. There was a snap, and a panel swung 
outward. Scopes reached inside and quickly tapped a number of keys. There was a 
beep and a click, and then Scopes reached his hand farther inside and pulled out 
a small biohazard box. Bringing it to the inlaid table, he opened it and removed 
a sealed glass ampule three inches wide and two inches high. He carefully placed 
the ampule on top of the document Levine had signed, then waited until the 
notary left the Octagon.


Well play by our old rules, he said. Best two out of three. Well let the 
GeneDyne computer pick a topic at random from its database. If there are any 
challenges, do you agree that the computer should resolve them?


Yes, said Levine.


Scopes flipped a coin, slapped it onto the back of his hand. You call it.


Heads.


Scopes removed the covering hand. Tails. I start the first subject.


 





 


De Vacaceased singing the old Spanish song that had kept them company for the 
last several miles, and fell back slightly, taking a moment to breathe the 
desert air in deep, reverent draughts. The setting sun had tinged the desert 
with gold. It felt wonderful to be alive, to simply be on this horse, headed out 
of the Jornada and toward a new life. For the moment, it didnt matter what that 
life was. There were so many things she had taken for granted, and she swore 
never to allow herself to make that mistake again.


She looked at Carson, riding ahead on Roscoe, angling toward the high narrow gap 
of Lava Gate. She wondered, almost idly, how he would fit into that new life. 
Immediately, she dismissed the thought as being much too complicated. Plenty of 
time to think about that later.


Carson turned, noticed thatde Vaca was no longer beside him, and slowed. He 
turned back with a smile as she approached, then leaned over on impulse to 
stroke her cheek with the back of one hand.


She felt a sudden spray of wetness across her face. The sensation of moisture in 
the desert was so foreign that she automatically closed her eyes against it, 
turning her face away and raising her hand protectively. She wiped her face and 
her hand came away bloody, a small jagged shard that looked like bone stuck to 
one of her fingers. At the same moment she heard a loud crack roll across the 
landscape.


Suddenly, everything began to happen at once. She looked forward to see Carson 
toppling forward on his horse just as her own mount bolted at the sharp noise. 
She grabbed desperately at the saddle horn as something whined past her ear. 
Another report boomed across the desert.


They were under fire.


Roscoe was heading for the base of the mountains at a dead run.De Vaca urged her 
horse to follow, lashing her heels into its flanks, hugging its neck, hoping to 
make a smaller target. She craned her neck upward, trying to steady her vision 
against the lurching and pounding. Ahead, she could see Carson hunched over the 
saddle. Blood was running freely down Roscoes flank and shivering off in 
droplets, cascading into the sand. Another shot sounded, then another.


The horses dashed toward a cul-de-sac in the lava flow, and pulled up short. 
Several more shots came in rapid succession and Carsons horse whirled to 
escape, eyes wild, throwing Carson out of the saddle and onto the sand.De Vaca 
jumped from her horse and landed next to Carson as both animals ran blindly back 
out into the desert. There was another report, followed by the horrible scream 
of a horse in pain.DeVaca turned. Roscoes belly had been blown open, a length 
of intestine spilling out between his legs like a gray streamer. The animal ran 
for a few hundred yards, then came to a trembling stop. There was another 
report, andde Vacas horse fell kicking to the sand. Another bullet, and a fine 
red spray rose from its head. The animal jerked its hind legs twice, 
spasmodically, then lay still.


She crawled toward Carson. He was lying in the sand, curled in on himself, knees 
up around his chest. Blood was turning the sand around him to a slippery red 
paste. She turned him gently and he cried out. Quickly, her eyes searched for 
the wound. His left arm was completely soaked in blood, and she carefully pulled 
away a piece of his torn shirt. The bullet had taken a huge piece out of his 
forearm, shattering the radius and peeling the muscle and flesh back, exposing 
the ulna. In a moment the sight was obscured again by blood, which jetted freely 
from the severed radial artery.


Carson rolled sideways, his body stiffening in agony.


De Vacaturned quickly, looking for something she could use as a tourniquet. She 
didnt dare cross the field of fire toward the horses. In desperation, she 
ripped off her own shirt, rolled it tightly, and knotted it just below Carsons 
elbow, twisting it until the flow subsided.


Can you walk? she whispered.


. Carson was speaking under his breath. She leaned closer, listening. Jesus, 
she heard him moan. Oh, Jesus.


Dont crap out on me now, she said fiercely, tying off the tourniquet and 
grabbing him under the armpits. Weve got to take cover behind those rocks. 
With a supreme effort Carson rose shakily to his feet and staggered toward the 
cul-de-sac, then took a few steps into the rocks and collapsed again behind a 
large boulder.De Vaca crawled in behind him and examined his wound, her stomach 
rising at the sight. At least now he wouldnt bleed to death. She sat back and 
looked him over quickly. His lips looked oddly blue. There didnt seem to be any 
other wounds, but with all the blood it was difficult to tell. She tried not to 
think what it would mean if Nye hit him a second a time with that terrible 
rifle.


She had to think, and think quickly. Nye must have realized that he couldnt 
catch them by tracking. So hed somehow guessed they were headed for Lava Gate, 
and gone ahead to cut them off. Hed destroyed their horses, and soon hed be 
coming for them.


She tuggedMondragns dagger out of Carsons belt. Then she dropped it in the 
sand in frustration. What the hell good was it against a man with an express 
rifle?


She peered over the rock and there was Nye, in the open now, kneeling and taking 
aim. Immediately a bullet whined inches from her face, striking the rocks behind 
her. Powdered stone stung the back of her neck in a sharp spray. The guns 
report followed an instant later, echoing and bouncing among the rock 
formations.


She hunched down again behind the rock, then moved along behind it, peering out 
from another angle. Nye had risen to his feet once again and was walking toward 
them. His face was hidden in the deep shadow of his hat brim and she could not 
make out his expression. Only a hundred yards away now. He was simply going to 
walk up and kill them both. And there was absolutely nothing she could do.


Carson moaned and clutched at her, trying to say something.


She moved back behind the boulder, turning away from Nye, and waited. Waited for 
the massive blow to the back of her head that would signify the arrival of the 
bullet. She could hear boots crunching toward them, and she covered her head 
with her hands, closing her eyes tightly, preparing herself as best she could 
for death.


 





 


A single word appeared on the massive screen before them:


 


vanity


 


Scopes thought a moment in silence. Then he cleared his throat.  No place 
affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human hopes than a public 
library. Dr. Johnson.


Very good, said Levine.  A man who is not a fool can rid himself of every 
folly but vanity. Rousseau.


 I used to be vain, but now Im perfect. W.C. Fields.


Wait a minute, Levine said. Ive never heard that one.


Are you challenging me?


Levine thought a moment. No.


Then proceed.


Levine paused.  Vanity plays lurid tricks with the memory. Conrad.


Immediately, Scopes replied.  Vanity was Evolutions most obnoxious gift. 
Darwin.


 A vain man can never be utterly ruthless: He wants to win applause. Goethe.


There was a silence.


Have you run dry? Levine asked.


Scopes smiled. I am merely considering my selection. Every man at his best 
state is altogether vanity. Psalm thirty-nine.


I didnt know you were religious. Surely every man walk-eth in a vain show. 
Same psalm.


There was another long pause.


Scopes said,  I only know we loved in vain; I only feelfarewell! farewell! 
Byron.


Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I see, Levine snorted.


Your turn.


There was a long silence.  A journalist is a kind of con man, preying on 
peoples vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying 
them without remorse. Janet Malcolm.


I challenge you, said Scopes instantly.


Are you kidding? Levine asked. You cant possibly know that quotation. I only 
remember it because I incorporated it into a recent speech.


I dont know it. I do know, however, that to me Janet Malcolm is perhaps best 
known as a writer forThe New Yorker . I doubt their grammarians would have 
allowed such a phrase as con man. 


A far-fetched theory, Levine said. But if you want to base your challenge on 
it, be my guest.


Shall we see what the computer says?


Levine nodded.


Using the keyboard, Scopes entered a search string into the computer. There was 
a pause while the vast databases were scanned. At last, a quotation appeared in 
large letters beneath the word


 


vanity


 


Just as I thought, Scopes said triumphantly. Its not con man. Its 
confidenceman. The first round goes to me.


Levine was silent. Scopes instructed the computer to bring up another topic at 
random. The vast screen cleared, and another word appeared:


 


death


 


Broad enough, Levine said. He thought a moment.  Its not that Im afraid to 
die. I just dont want to be there when it happens. Woody Allen.


Scopes laughed. One of my personal favorites. Those who welcome death have 
only tried it from the ears up. Mizner.


Levine said.  We must laugh before we are happy, for fear of dying without 
having laughed at all.La Bruyre.


Scopes:  Most people would die sooner than they think; in fact, they do so. 
Russell.


Levine:  Misers are very kind people: theyamass wealth for those who wish 
their death. King Stanislaus.


Scopes:  When a man dies, he does not just die of the disease he had; he dies 
of his whole life.Pguy.


Levine:  Everyone is born a king, and most people die in exile. Wilde.


Scopes:  Death is that after which nothing is of interest. Rozinov.


Rozinov? Who the hell is Rozinov?


Scopes smiled. You wish to challenge me?


No.


Then proceed.


 Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves him.Forster. 


How nice. How Christian.


Its not just a Christian idea. In Judaism, the idea of death is meant to 
inspire one to live a righteous life.


If you say so, Scopes said. But Im not especially interested. Dont you 
remember?


Are you delaying because youve run out of quotations? Levine prompted.


 I am become Death: destroyer of worlds. The Bhagavad-Gita.


Very appropriate, Brent, for your line of business. Its also whatOppenheimer 
said when he saw the first atomic explosion.


Now it sounds like youre the one running out of quotations.


Not at all. Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death. 
Revelation.


Hisname that sat on him? That doesnt sound right.


Are you challenging me? Levine asked.


Scopes was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head.  Philosophy dies just 
before the philosopher. Russell.


Levine paused.Bertrand Russell?


Who else?


He never said any such thing. Youre making up quotations again.


Indeed? Scopes looked back impassively.


Your favorite trick in school, remember? Only I think I can spot them more 
easily now. Thats a Scopesism if ever I heard one, and I challenge you.


There was a short silence. At last, Scopes smiled. Very good, Charles. One for 
you, one for me. Now for the final round.


The screen cleared, and a new word appeared:


 


universe


 


Scopes closed his eyes a moment.  That the universe is comprehensible is 
incomprehensible. Einstein.


Levine paused. Youre not foolish enough to start making up quotes already, are 
you?


Challenge me if you like.


I think Ill let that one pass. Either we are the only intelligent life-form 
in the universe, or we are not. Either possibility is staggering. CarlSagan.


CarlSagan said that? I dont believe it.


Then challenge me.


Scopes smiled and shook his head.  It is inconceivable that the whole universe 
was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate 
sun. Byron.


 God does not play dice with the universe. Einstein.


Scopes frowned. Is it legal to use the same source twice in a single topic? 
Thats the second time youve done so.


Levine shrugged. Why not?


Oh, very well. Not only does God play dice with the universe, but sometimes He 
throws them where they cannot be seen. Hawking.


 The more the universe seems comprehensible, the more it also seems 
pointless.Weinberg.


Very good, Scopes said. I like that one. He paused.  True comprehension of 
the universe is given only to drugged teenagers and senile cosmologists. 
Leary.


There was a silence.


Timothy Leary? Levine asked.


Of course.


The silence lengthened. I dont think Leary would have said something quite so 
puerile, Levine said.


Scopes smiled. If you doubt it, challenge me.


Levine waited, thinking. It had been one of Scopess favorite stratagems, 
making up quotations toward the beginning and saving the real ones for later, as 
a way to play out Levines own store of quotations. Levine had known Leary from 
his Harvard days, and in his gut he felt this quotation sounded wrong. But then, 
another of Scopess tricks had been to use out-of-character quotations as a way 
to goad Levine into challenging him. He glanced at Scopes, who was staring 
back, impassively. If he challenged Scopes, and Learyhad said it, after all ... 
He shook the thought from him mind.


The seconds ticked away.


I challenge you, Levine said at last.


Scopes started visibly. Levine watched as the color drained from the face of the 
GeneDyne CEO. He was contemplatingjust as Levine had contemplated, years 
agowhat it meant to have lost on such a vast scale.


It burns, doesnt it? Levine asked.


Scopes remained silent.


Its not the losing so much, Levine continued. Itshow you lost. Youll think 
back on this moment, always. Wondering at how you threw it all away on such a 
trivial mistake. You wont be able to forget it, ever. I know I still cant.


Still, Scopes did not speak. Half-lost in an overwhelming sense of relief, 
Levine saw Scopess hand twitching and realizeda split second before it 
happenedthat the GeneDyne CEO would never give up his deadly virus. Twenty 
years ago, when Levine had lost at their ultimate round of the Game, hed stuck 
to his word. Hed signed the corn patent and let Scopes grow rich on the 
discovery, rather than giving the marvelous secret to the world. Now, Scopes had 
lost, on an even grander scale. ...


Levine grabbed for the ampule just as Scopess hands flashed out. Two hands 
closed around it at once. There was a brief struggle as each man tried to claim 
it for his own.


Brent! Levine cried. Brent, you gave your word


There was a sudden, dull popping sound. Levine felt a sharp sting; then a 
dampness spread across his palms.


He forced himself to look down.


The viral transport medium, with its deadly suspension of X-FLU II, was 
spreading in a puddle over the signed contract and running off the table onto 
the floor, staining the gray carpet black. Levine opened his hand: shards of 
glass were embedded in his palm, lines of blood diluted by the hot medium 
running down his wrist. His palm hurt as he flexed it.


He looked up again, watching as Scopes slowly opened his own hand. It, too, was 
torn and bloody.


Their eyes met.


 





 


Carson was tugging at her arm, trying to say something.Mondragns gold, he 
gasped at last.


What about it?de Vaca whispered.


Use it. A spasm of pain crossed his face and he fell back into the sand, where 
he remained, motionless.


As Nyes footsteps came closer, she suddenly understood what Carson meant. 
Digging into her pocket, she pulled out the four coins shed taken from the 
cave.


Nye! she called. Heres something that ought to interest you.


She lobbed the coins over the rock. The footsteps ceased. Then there was a sharp 
intake of breath, a whispered curse. The footsteps approached again, and then 
she could hear his heavy breathing, coming up between the rocks, and she 
crouched with her head bowed, waiting. Something she knew must be the barrel of 
Nyes big rifle was suddenly pressed hard against the base of her skull.


Count of three, she heard Nye say, to tell me where you got these.


She waited, saying nothing.


One..


She waited.


Two.


She sucked in her breath, squeezed her eyes tightly closed.


Three.


Nothing happened.


Look at me, Nye said at last.


Slowly opening her eyes, she turned around. Nye was standing above her, one 
booted foot balanced on a rock, his tall form silhouetted against the setting 
sun. The safari hat and long English coat that before had always seemed so 
ridiculous to her now seemed utterly terrifying, a strange specter of death in 
this remote desert. He was holding the gold coin in one hand. His bloodshot eyes 
dropped to her naked breasts a moment, then moved up again, his face 
expressionless. He shifted the barrel to her temple. More seconds passed. 
Turning on his heel, Nye strode back out into the sand.DeVaca waited a moment, 
then jerked spasmodically at the sound of another shot. There was a deep, wet 
sighing sound.


Hes killed Roscoe, she thought.Now hes looking through the saddlebags for more 
gold.


In a moment, Nye returned. Quickly, he reached down and grabbedde Vacas hair, 
yanking her rudely to her feet. She felt her roots ripping as he jerked her head 
hard to one side. Then, with a brutal shove, he threw her back against the rocks 
that rose at the end of the cul-de-sac. He swung the rifle around and jabbed it 
deep into her stomach. She bent forward, crying out, and he yanked her up again 
by the hair.


Listen to me very carefully now. I want to know where you got this coin.


She dropped her eyes and gestured with her chin to the sand at her feet. He 
glanced down, saw the dagger, and reached for it. He looked closely at the 
handle.


Diegode Mondragn, he whispered. Then he stepped closer. She had never before 
seen eyes so bloodshot; the edges of the whites were crimson, almost black.


You found the treasure, he hissed.


She nodded.


He swiveled the rifle back toward her face. Where?


She looked into his eyes. If I tell you, youll kill me. If I dont tell you, 
youll kill me. Either way, Im dead.


Bitch. I wont kill you. Ill torture you to death.


Try it.


He balled his fist and struck her directly in the face. She felt the shock of 
impact; then a terrific buzz sounded in her ears and a strange heat rushed into 
her head. She tipped forward, feeling faint, but he pushed her back against the 
sharp rock.


It wont work, she said again. Look at me, Nye.


He struck her again. The landscape around her turned white and featureless for a 
moment, and she felt blood gush from her mouth. Her sight returned and she 
raised a hand to her face, realizing she had lost a tooth.


Where, he said again.


She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and remained silent, stiffening for the next 
blow.


The footsteps moved away, and she heard Nye speaking in a low tone. She could 
hear the pauses as he waited for somebody else to answer. Who was he talking to? 
Singer, probably, or one of the Mount Dragon security guards. She felt the 
slender thread of hope inside her begin to part;, they had been so certain Nye 
was alone.


The footsteps came back and she slitted open her eyes. Nye was pointing his 
rifle at Carsons head.


Tell me or he dies.


She took a deep breath now, steadying herself. This, she knew, was going to be 
the hardest part. Go ahead and shoot thecabrn, she said as evenly as 
possible. I cant stand the redneck son of a bitch. And if you do, the gold 
will be all mine. Ill never tell you. Except ...


He swiveled the gun toward her. Except what?


A trade, she croaked.


She did not feel the blow as the butt of the rifle swung toward her head, but a 
pool of blackness rushed suddenly up to meet her. Consciousness returned, and 
with it a searing pain across one side of her skull. She kept her eyes closed. 
Again, a voice: Nye was still talking to someone. She listened for an answering 
voice, but it did not come. At last she cracked open her eyes. The sun had set, 
and it was much darker now, but she was still reasonably certain that he was 
speaking to no one.


Despite the pain, relief coursed through her. PurBlood was doing its terrible 
work.


Nye turned toward her, noticed she was conscious. What kind of trade? he 
asked.


She turned away, closing her eyes and bracing for another blow.


What kind of trade, she heard him repeat.


My life, she said.


There was a silence. Your life, he repeated. I accept.


My life isnt worth shit without a horse, that gun, and water.


There was a silence, and then another terrible blow came. This time, 
consciousness returned slowly. Her body felt heavy and full of sleep. Breathing 
was difficult, and she knew her nose must be broken. She tried to speak without 
success, and felt herself falling back into the sweet black pool of 
unconsciousness.


When she came to again, she was lying on soft sand. She tried to raise herself, 
but white-hot pain flashed through her skull and down her spine. Nye was 
standing over her, flashlight in hand. He looked worried.


One more blow like that, she whispered, and youll kill me, you bastard. Then 
youll never learn where the gold is. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes.


In a few minutes, she spoke again. Its a hundred miles from where you think it 
is.


Where? he cried.


My life for the gold.


Very well. I promise I wont kill you. Just tell me where the gold is. He 
turned suddenly, as if he had heard something. Yes, yes, I remember, he said 
to somebody else. Then he turned back.


The only way Ill live, she whispered, is with the horse, gun, and water. 
Without that, I die, and youll never know ... She lapsed into silence.


Nye stared down at her, gripping the coins so fiercely in one hand that his 
entire arm was shaking. A sound like a whimper escaped from his throat. From the 
way he was looking at her, she knew her face must look terrible.


Bring over your horse, she said.


Nyes mouth twitched spasmodically. Tell me now, please


The horse.


Her eyes closed of their own accord. When she was able to open them again, Nye 
was gone. She sat up, fighting against the pain in her head. Her nose and throat 
were full of blood, and she coughed several times, trying to breathe.


She saw Nye reappear at the opening in the rocks, his magnificent horse 
trailing behind him in the moonlight like a silent shadow.


Tell me where the treasure is, he said.


The horse, she replied, struggling to her feet and holding out her left hand.


Nye hesitated a moment, then handed her the reins. She grabbed the saddle horn 
and tried to climb into the saddle, almost falling from dizziness.


Help me. He cupped one hand beneath her boot, hoisting her up.


Now the gun.


No, Nye replied. Youll kill me.


Give it to me unloaded, then.


Youll double-cross me. Youll ride ahead and take my treasure.


Look at me. Look into my eyes.


Reluctantly, he looked up at her with his blood-rimmed eyes. Only now, as she 
looked into those eyes, did she realize how deeply the desire forMondragns 
treasure ran through him. PurBlood had turned a simple eccentricity into a 
ruinous obsession. Everything, even his hatred of Carson, was secondary to his 
need for the treasure. She realized, with a mixture of fear and pity, that she 
was looking on a broken man.


I promise, I wont take your treasure, she said almost gently. You can have 
it, all of it. I just want to get out of here alive. Cant you see that?


He unloaded the gun and gave it to her.


Where, he urged. Tell me where.


There were two water bags tied to the cantle, each one half-full. She unlooped 
one and gave it to Nye, then began backingMuerto away from him. Obsession or no 
obsession, she didnt want him trying to retrieve his gun after she had given 
him the location.


Wait! Dont go. Tell me, please


Listen carefully. Youre to follow our tracks back about ten miles, along the 
base of the lava. Watch for the spot where we hobbled our horses. Youll find a 
hidden cave in the lava there, at the base of the mountains. Inside the cave is 
a spring. At dawn, the sunlight entering the cave will throw an image against 
the rear wall in the shape of an eagle, balancing on a needle of fire. Just 
like on your map. But the wall doesnt lead all the way to the cave floor; 
theres a hidden passage at its base. Follow it.Mondragns body, his mule, and 
his treasure are at the bottom of a cavern.


He nodded eagerly. Yes, yes, I understand. He turned to his imaginary 
companion. Did you hear that? All this time, Ive been searching the wrong part 
of the desert. Id assumed the mountains on the map were the CerritosEscondidos. 
How could I have ... He turned again tode Vaca. Back this way ten miles, did 
you say?


She nodded.


Lets go, he said to his imaginary companion as he shouldered the water bag. 
Well split it fifty-fifty. Mum would have insisted.


He began walking out of the rocks and into the desert.


Nyede Vaca called out.


He turned.


Whos your friend?


Just a boy I knew once, he said.


Whats his name?


Jonathan.


Jonathan who?


Jonathan Nye. He turned and hurried away. She watched him shuffle off, talking 
excitedly. Soon he had disappeared around a point of lava and into the night.


De Vacawaited several minutes until she was sure he had gone. Then she 
dismounted and moved slowly toward Carson. He was still unconscious. She felt 
his pulse: weak and rapid, definitely shocky. Gingerly, she examined the 
shattered forearm. It was leaking blood, but only slightly. Loosening the 
tourniquet, she was relieved to see that the severed artery had sealed. Now she 
had to get him out before gangrene set in.


Carsons eyes fluttered open.


Guy! she said urgently.


The eyes turned, focusing on her slowly.


Can you stand?


Whether or not he had heard, she couldnt be sure. She grabbed him under the 
arms and tried to pull him up. He struggled feebly, then fell back into the 
sand. Pouring some water into her hands, she splashed it gently on his face.


Get up, she ordered.


Carson struggled to his knees, fell back on his good elbow, struggled up again, 
grabbed Muertos stirrup and pulled himself slowly to his feet.De Vaca helped 
him clamber onto the horses back, careful to keep his damaged arm from being 
jostled. Carson swayed, cradled his arm, blinked several times. Then he began 
to topple forward.De Vaca grabbed his chest, steadying him. She was going to 
have to tie him in place.


Nye had a cotton lead rope fixed to one side of the saddle. Uncoiling it,de Vaca 
tied the rope around Carsons chest, leaning him over the saddle horn, wrapping 
his left arm around the horn and tying it securely in place. As she worked, she 
realized, with almost complete detachment, that she was shirtless. But it was 
dark, and she had nothing to cover herself with. Somehow it seemed very, very 
unimportant.


She began leadingMuerto by the reins, walking directly toward the North Star.


* * *


They reached the line camp at dawn: an old adobe house with a tin roof, hidden 
among a cluster of cottonwood trees. Off to one side was a barn, a windmill and 
watertank, and a set of weathered corrals. A fresh breeze was cranking the 
windmill. A horse in the corral whinnied, then a dog began barking at their 
approach. Soon a young man, wearing red long Johns and a cowboy hat, was 
standing in the doorway, his mouth open as he stared at this topless woman, 
covered with blood, leading a magnificent paint horse with a man tied into its 
saddle.


 





 


Scopes stared at Levine, a mingled look of horror and disbelief on his face. At 
last he stepped away from the table, walked to a narrow panel in a nearby wall, 
and pressed a button. The panel slid up noiselessly, revealing a small wet bar 
and sink.


Dont rinse your hands, Levine said quietly. Youll send the virus down the 
drain.


Scopes hesitated. Youre right, he replied. Moistening a hand towel, he dabbed 
at his palms and picked out a few slivers of glass, then dried his hands 
carefully. Stepping away from the bar, he returned to the sofa and sat down. His 
movements seemed odd, hesitant, as if walking had become a suddenly unfamiliar 
act.


Levine glanced over from the far end of the sofa. I think youd better tell me 
what you know about X-FLU II, he said quietly.


Scopes smoothed back his cowlick with an automatic gesture. We actually know 
very little. I believe that only one human has been exposed to it. Theres an 
incubation period of perhaps twenty-four to sixty hours, followed by almost 
instantaneous death through cerebral edema.


Is there a cure?


No.


Vaccine?


No.


Infectiousness?


Similar to the common cold. Perhaps even more so.


Levine glanced down again at his cut hand. The blood was beginning to congeal 
around the broken shards of the ampule. There was no question they both had been 
infected.


Any hope? he asked at last.


None, Scopes replied.


There was a long silence.


Im sorry, Scopes said finally, in a tone so low it was almost a whisper. Im 
so sorry, Charles. There was a time when I would never have thought to do that. 
I He stopped. I guess Ive just grown too used to winning.


Levine stood up and cleaned his hand with the towel. There isnt time for 
recriminations. The pressing question is how we can prevent the virus in this 
room from destroying mankind.


Scopes was silent.


Brent?


Scopes did not respond. Levine leaned toward him.


Brent? he asked quietly. What is it?


I dont know, Scopes replied at last. I guess Im afraid of dying.


Levine looked at him. So am I, he said at last. But fear is a luxury we cant 
afford right now. Were wasting precious minutes. We must figure out a way to 
... well, to sterilize the area. Completely. Do you understand?


Scopes nodded, looking away.


Levine grasped his shoulder, shook him gently. Youve got to be with me on 
this, Brent, or it wont work. This is your building. Youre going to have to do 
whats necessary to make sure this virus stops with us.


For a long moment, Scopes continued to look away. Then he turned toward Levine. 
This room has a pressure seal, and is supplied with its own private air 
system, he said, collecting himself. The walls have been reinforced against 
terrorist attacks: fire, explosion, gas. That will make our job easier.


A tone sounded, and then the face of Spencer Fairley appeared on the giant 
screen before them. Sir, Jenkins from marketing is insisting on speaking with 
you, the face said. Apparently, the hospital consortium has abruptly canceled 
plans to begin transfusing PurBlood tomorrow morning. He wants to know what 
pressure youll be bringing to bear on their administrations.


Scopes looked at Levine, his eyebrows raised. Et tu,Brute? It appears friend 
Carson delivered his message after all. He turned back to the image on the 
screen. Im not going to bring any pressure to bear. Tell Jenkins that the 
PurBlood release should be rolled back, pending further testing. There may be 
adverse long-term effects of which we werent aware. He typed a series of 
commands. Im sending a Mount Dragon data file to GeneDyne Manchester. Its 
incomplete, but it may show evidence of contamination in the PurBlood 
manufacturing process. Please follow up, make sure they examine it carefully. 
He sighed heavily.


Spencer, I want you to run a diagnostic on the Octagons containment system. 
Make sure the seals are all in place and functioning normally.


Fairley nodded, then moved away from the screen. In a few moments, he returned.


The system is fully operational, he said. Atmospheric regulators and all 
monitoring devices are showing normal readings.


Good, Scopes said. Now listen carefully. I want you to instruct Endicott to 
unseal the perimeter around the headquarters building, and to restore all 
communication with the remote sites. I will be broadcasting a message to 
headquarters employees. I want you to send a message to General Roger Harrington 
at the Pentagon, Ring E, Level Three, Section Seventeen, over a clear channel. 
Tell him that I am withdrawing the offer and that there will be no further 
negotiations.


Very well, Fairley said. He paused, then looked more intently at the monitor. 
Are you all right, sir? he asked.


No, said Scopes. Something terrible has happened. I need your absolute 
cooperation.


Fairley nodded.


There has been an accident inside the Octagon, Scopes said. A virus known as 
X-FLU II has been released into the air supply. Both Dr. Levine and I have been 
infected. This virus is one-hundred-percent fatal. There is no hope of 
recovery.


Fairleys face betrayed nothing.


We cannot allow this virus to escape. Therefore, the Octagon must be 
sterilized.


Fairley nodded again. I understand, sir, he said.


I doubt you do. Dr. Levine and I are carrying the virus. It is multiplying in 
our bodies as we speak. You must, therefore, directly supervise our deaths.


Sir! How can I possibly


Shut up and listen. If you dont follow my instructions, billions will die. 
Including yourself.


Fairley fell silent.


I want you to scramble two helicopters, Scopes said. Youre to send one to 
GeneDyne Manchester, where it will pick up ten two-liter canisters of 
VXV-twelve. He did a quick calculation. The volume of this room is 
approximately thirty-two thousand cubic feet. So well also need at least 
sixteen thousand ccs of liquid 1,2 cyanophosphatol 6,6,6, trimethyloxylated 
mercuro-hexachloride. The second chopper can obtain the necessary supply from 
our Norfolk facility. It must be shipped in sealed glass beakers.


Fairley looked up from a computer screen at his side. Cyanophosphatol?


Its a biological poison. A very, very effective biological poison. It will 
kill anything alive in this room. Although its stored in liquid form, it has a 
low vapor point and will rapidly evaporate, filling the room with a sterilizing 
gas.


Wont it kill?


Spencer, well already be dead. Thats the point of the VXV canisters.


Fairley licked his lips. Mr. Scopes. He swallowed. You cant ask me to ... 
His voice dropped away.


Scopes looked at Fairleys image on the immense screen. Beads of sweat had 
sprung up around the corners of his mouth, and his iron-gray hair, normally 
smoothly coiffed, was coming loose.


Spencer, Ive never needed your loyalty more than I do now, Scopes continued 
quietly. You must understand that Im already a dead man. The greatest favor 
you can do for me now is not to let me die by X-FLU II. Theres no time to 
waste.


Yes, sir, Fairley said, averting his eyes.


Youre to have everything here within two hours. Let me know when both 
helicopters are safely on the pad. Scopes punched a key, and the screen went 
black.


There was a heavy silence in the room. Then Scopes turned toward Levine. Do you 
believe in life after death? he asked.


Levine shook his head. In Judaism, we believe its what we do in this life that 
matters. We achieve immortality through living a righteous life, and worshipping 
God. The children we leave behind are our immortality.


But you have no children, Charles.


I had always hoped to. Ive tried to do good in other ways, not always with 
success.


Scopes was silent. I used to despise people who needed to believe in an 
afterlife, he went on at last. I thought it was a weakness. Now that the 
moment of reckoning is here, I wish I had spent more time convincing myself. He 
looked down. It would be nice to have some hope.


Levine closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then he opened them suddenly. 
Cypherspace, he said simply.


What do you mean?


Youve programmed other people from your past into the program. Why not program 
yourself? That way, youor a part of youcould live on, perhaps even dispensing 
your wit and wisdom to all who cared to converse with you.


Scopes laughed harshly. Im not that attractive a person, Im afraid. As you 
well know.


Perhaps. But youre certainly the most interesting.


Scopes nodded. Thank you for that. He paused. Its an intriguing idea.


We have two hours to kill.


Scopes smiled wanly. All right, Charles. Why not? Theres one condition, 
however. You must put yourself into the program, as well. Im not going back to 
Monhegan Island alone.


Levine shook his head. Im no programmer, especially of something as complex as 
this.


Thats not a problem. Ive written a character-generating algorithm. It uses 
variousAI subroutines that ask questions, engage the user in brief 
conversations, do a few psychological tests. Then it creates a character and 
inserts it into the cypherspace world. I wrote it as a tool to help me people 
the island more efficiently, but it could work just as well for us.


He looked questioningly at Levine.


And perhaps then youll tell me why you chose to depict your summer house in 
ruins, Levine replied.


Perhaps, said Scopes. Lets get to work.


* * *


In the end, Levine chose to look like himself, with an ill-fitting dark suit, 
bald head, and uneven teeth. He turned slowly in front of the unblinking video 
camera in the Octagon. The feed from the camera would be scanned into several 
hundred hi-res images that together would make up the Levine figure that-would 
be taking up residence on Scopess virtual island. Over the last ninety 
minutes, theAI subroutine had asked him countless questions, ranging from early 
childhood memories to memorable teachers, personal philosophy, religion, and 
ethical beliefs. The subroutine had asked him to list the books he had read, and 
the magazines he had subscribed to during the different periods of his life. It 
posed mathematical problems to him; asked about his travels; his musical likes 
and dislikes; his memories of his wife. The subroutine had given him Rorschach 
tests and even insulted him and argued with him, perhaps to gauge his emotional 
reactions. The resulting data, Levine knew, would be used to supply the body 
of knowledge, emotions, and memories that his cyberspace character would 
possess.


Now what? Levine asked, sitting down again.


Now we wait, Scopes said, forcing a smile. He had undergone a similar process 
of interrogation. He typed several commands, then sat back in the couch as the 
supercomputer began to generate the two new characters for his cyberspace 
re-creation of Monhegan Island.


A silence fell onto the room. Levine realized that, if nothing else, the 
interrogation had kept him occupied, kept him from realizing that these were in 
fact the last minutes of his life. Now, a strange mix of emotions began to crowd 
in on him: memories, fears, things left undone. He turned toward Scopes.


Brent, he began.


There was a low tone, and Scopes reached over and pressed a button on the phone 
beside the couch. The patrician voice of Spencer Fairley sounded through the 
phones external speaker.


The helicopters have arrived, sir, he said. Scopes pulled the keyboard onto 
his lap and began typing. Im going to send this audio feed down to central 
security, as well as to the archives, just to make sure there are no troublesome 
questions later. Listen carefully, Spencer. In a few minutes, Im going to give 
the order for this building to be evacuated and sealed. Only yourself, a 
security team, and a bioemergency team should remain. Once evacuation is 
complete, you must shut off the air-circulation system for the Octagon. You are 
then to pump all ten canisters of VXV into the air supply, and restart the 
system. Im not exactly sure how long it will take to ... He paused. Perhaps 
you should wait fifteen minutes. Then, send the bioemergency team to the 
emergency pressure hatch in the Octagons roof. Have Endicott depressurize the 
hatch from security control, instruct the team to place the beakers of 
cyanophosphatol inside the hatchway, then seal and repressurize the outer hatch. 
Once the team is clear, have the inner hatch opened remotely from security 
control. The beakers will fall into the Octagon and break, dispersing the 
cyanophosphatol.


He looked at the screen. Are you following this, Spencer?


There was a long pause. Yes, sir.


Even after the cyanophosphatol does its work, there will still be live viruses 
in the room. Hiding in the corpses. So, as a final step, you must incinerate 
them. The heat will denature the cyanophosphatol as well. The fireproof shell of 
the Octagon will keep a fire in as well as it will keep a fire out. But you 
must be careful not to cause a premature explosion or a dirty, out-of-control 
fire that might spread the virus. A fast-acting, high-temperature incendiary 
such as phosphorus should be used first. When the bodies have completely burned, 
the rest of the room should be cleansed with a lower-temperature incendiary. A 
napalm derivative will do. Both will be available from the restricted laboratory 
supplies.


Listening, Levine noted the methodical detachment with which Scopes described 
the procedure:the corpses,the bodies.Those are our corpses , he thought.


The bioemergency team should then perform a standard hot-agent decontam on the 
rest of the building. Once thats finished Scopes stopped short for moment. 
Then I guess, Spencer, its up to the board of directors.


There was a silence.


Now, Spencer, please get my executor on the line, Scopes said quietly.


A moment later, a rough, gravelly voice sounded through the speakerphone beside 
the table. Alan Lipscomb here.


Alan, its Brent. Listen, theres to be a bequest change. Still on the line, 
Spencer?


Yes.


Good. Spencer will be my witness. I want fifty million set aside to fund an 
endowment for the Institute for Advanced Neurocybernetics. Ill provide Spencer 
with the details, and hell pass them on to you.


Very well.


Scopes typed quickly for a few moments, then turned to Levine. Im sending 
Spencer instructions to transfer the entire cypherspace databank, along with 
the compiler and my notes on the C3language, to the Institute for Advanced 
Neurocybernetics. In exchange for the endowment, Im asking them to keep my 
virtual re-creation of Monhegan Island running in perpetuity, and to allow any 
serious student access to it.


Levine nodded. On permanent display. Fitting for so great a work of art.


But not only on display, Charles. I want them to add to it, extend the 
technology, improve the depth of the language and the tools. I suppose its 
something Ive kept to myself far too long. He smoothed down his cowlick 
absently. Any last requests, Charles? My executor is very good at getting 
things done.


Just one, Levine said evenly.


And that is?


I think you can guess.


Scopes looked at him for a moment. Yes, of course, he said at last. He turned 
back to the speakerphone. Spencer, are you still there?


Yes, sir.


Please tear up that patent renewal for X-RUST.


The renewal, sir?


Just do it. And stay on the line. Scopes turned back to Levine, one eyebrow 
raised.


Thank you, Levine said.


Scopes nodded quietly. Then he reached for the phone and pressed a series of 
buttons. Attention, headquarters staff, he said into the mouthpiece. Levine 
heard the voice echoing from a hidden speaker and realized the message was being 
broadcast throughout the building.


This is Brent Scopes speaking, Scopes continued. An emergency has arisen that 
requires the entire staff to vacate the premises. This is a temporary measure, 
and I assure you that nobody is in danger. He paused. Before you leave, 
however, I must inform you that an alteration is being made in the GeneDyne 
chain of command. You will learn the details shortly. But let me say now that I 
have enjoyed working with every one of you, and I wish you and GeneDyne the very 
best of luck in the future. Remember that the goals of science are our goals, as 
well: the advancement of knowledge, and the betterment of mankind. Never lose 
sight of them. And now, please proceed to the nearest exit.


Finger on the switch hook, Scopes turned to Levine.


Are you ready? he asked.


Levine nodded.


Scopes released the switch hook. Spencer, you are topresent all tapes of this 
event to the board next Monday morning. They must carry on according to the 
tenets of the GeneDyne charter. Now, please begin introducing the VXV gas. Yes. 
Yes, I know, Spencer. Thank you. Best of luck to you.


Slowly, Scopes replaced the handset. Then he returned his hands to the keyboard.


Lets go, he said.


There was a humming noise, and the lights dimmed. Suddenly, the huge octagonal 
office was transformed into the garret room of the ruined house on Monhegan 
Island. Gazing around, stunned, Levine realized that not just one, but each of 
the rooms eight walls was a vast display screen.


Now you know why I chose the turret room, Scopes said, laying the keyboard 
aside again.


Levine sat on the sofa, entranced. Outside the garret windows, he could clearly 
see the widows walk. The sun was just coming up over the ocean, the sea itself 
absorbing the colors of the sky. The seagulls wheeled around the boats in the 
harbor, crying excitedly as the lobstermen rolled barrels of redfish bait down 
the pier and onto their boats.


In a chair in the garret, a figure stirred, stood up, stretched. It was short 
and thin, with gangly limbs and thick glasses. An unrepentant cowlick stood like 
a black feather from the unruly mass of hair.


Well, Charles, it said. Welcome to Monhegan Island.


Levine watched as another figure on the far side of the garreta bald man in an 
ill-fitting dark suitnodded in return.


Thank you, it said, in a voice hauntingly familiar.


Shall we wander into town? the Scopes-figure said.


Not just now, the Levine-figure said. Id prefer to sit here and watch the 
boats go out.


Very good. Shall we play the Game while we wait?


Why not? said Levine-figure. Weve got a lot of time to kill.


Levine sat in the darkened Octagon, watching his newly created character with a 
wistful smile.


A lot of time to kill, said Scopes from the darkness. An infinity of time to 
kill. So much time for them, and so little time for us.


I choosetime as a keyword, said the Levine-figure.


The Scopes-figure sat down again in the rickety chair, kicked back, and said:


 


There will be time, there will be time


To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;


Therewillbe time to murder and create ...


 


Levinethe real Levinesmelled a strange odor in the air of the Octagon; 
pungent, almost sweet, like long-dead roses. His eyes began to sting and he 
closed them, listening to the voice of the Scopes-figure:


 


And time for all the works and days of hands


That lift and drop a question on your plate;


Time for you and time for me ...


 


There was a silence, and the last thing Levine heard as he drew the acrid gas 
into his lungs was his own voice, reciting an answering quotation:  Time is a 
storm in which we are all lost ... 


EPILOGUE





 


 


The desert looked strange under the high thin covering of cirrus clouds. It was 
no longer a sea of light, but a darkening blue plain ending in distant, 
hard-edged mountain peaks. A chill, and the smell of the desert autumn, hung in 
the air.


From their vantage point atop Mount Dragon, Carson andde Vaca looked down on the 
blackened ruins of the GeneDyne Remote Desert Testing Facility. The massive 
underground bunker of the Fever Tank was now a jagged crater of darkened 
concrete and twisted rebar erupting out of the desert floor, surrounded by sand 
scorched a deep orange by fire. The plasmid transfection laboratory was merely 
as skeleton of I beams warped by the heat. The dormitories and their shattered, 
dark window-frames stared with dead eyes out over the landscape. Everything of 
value had been removed weeks before, leaving only the hollow shells of buildings 
as mute sentinels to what had been. There were no plans to rebuild. According to 
rumor, the Missile Range was going to use the remains as a bombing target. The 
only signs of life were the ravens plundering the destroyed canteen, circling 
and squabbling over something inside.


Beyond the ruins of Mount Dragon, the rubble of another vanished city rose from 
the landscape: Kin Klizhini, the Black House, felled by time, lack of water, and 
the elements. On the far side of the cinder cone, the cluster of microwave and 
radio towers sat silently, waiting disassembly. Far below, the pickup truck the 
two had driven in on sat where the perimeter had once been, a lonely spot of 
color in the drab wastes.


Carson stared mesmerized. Amazing, isnt it, that a thousand years separates 
those two ruins, he said quietly. Weve come a long way, I suppose. Yet it all 
ends up the same. The desert doesnt care.


There was a silence.


Funny they never found Nye,de Vaca said at last.


Carson shook his head. The poor son of a bitch. He must have died out there, 
somewhere, and become dinner for the coyotes and buzzards. Hell be found 
someday, just like we foundMondragn. A bleached skeleton and a sack of rocks. 
Carson massaged his left forearm, remembering. There was a lot of metal in it 
now, and it still ached in damp weather. But not here, in the desert.


Maybe a new legend of gold will grow up around the story, and in five hundred 
years theyll be looking for the Nye gold,de Vaca said, laughing. Then her face 
turned serious. I dont feel sorry for him at all. He was a bastard even before 
the PurBlood got to him.


The one I feel sorry for is Singer, Carson said. He was more than a decent 
guy. And Harper. And Vanderwagon. None of them deserved what happened.


You talk like theyre dead.


They might as well be.


De Vacashrugged. Who knows? With all the bad press its been getting lately, 
maybe GeneDyne will put its resources toward finding a way to undo what it did 
to them. Besides, in one sense, theyare guilty. Guilty of embracing a great and 
terrifying vision, with no thought to the consequences.


Carson shook his head. If thats true, I was just as guilty of that as they 
were.


Not quite,de Vaca said. I think there was something in the back of your mind 
that was always skeptical.


Ive asked myself that every day since the PurBlood rollout was terminated. Im 
not so sure. I would have taken the blood just like they did.


De Vacalooked at him.


Its true. There was a time I would have followed Scopes to the ends of the 
earth, if hed asked. He had that effect on you.


De Vacacontinued to look at him curiously. Not on me, she said finally.


Carson said nothing.


It was very strange, that fire, wasnt it?de Vaca asked.


Carson shook his head. Yes, it was. And Scopess confession. If you could call 
it that. Im sure well never know what really happened. There was unfinished 
business between those two, Levine and Scopes.


De Vacaseyebrows lifted. Well, I guess its finished now, she said.


Carson hesitated. I wonder if theyll ever go through with X-FLU, he said at 
last. Now that we solved the problem, I mean.


Never,de Vaca said emphatically. Nobody would touch it now. Its too 
dangerous. Besides, we dontknow all the problems have been solved. And the 
problem of altering future generationsof changing humanity itselfhas just 
begun. Were going to see some terrible things in our lifetime, Guy. You know 
this isnt the end of it.


The clouds had thickened and the desert darkened. They stood motionless.


Wed better go,de Vaca said at last. Its a long drive to SleepingUte 
Mountain.


Carson remained still, his eyes transfixed by the shattered grandeur of what had 
been Mount Dragon.


Youve got relatives who are waiting, eager to meet you. And a feast of mutton 
stew and fry bread. And dancing and singing. And the memory of old Great-Uncle 
Charley to honor, who saved our butts out there in that desert.


Carson nodded absently.


Youre not chickening out, are you, half-breed? She put her arm around his 
waist and smiled.


With an effort, Carson pulled his eyes away from the ruined complex. Then he 
turned to her and grinned.


Its been a long time since Ive had a good bowl of mutton stew, he said.


 


 


END.


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