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 won’t be spending much time there, but you can get somebody to take you through at your leisure, if you like. Our next stop’s 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 lab’s 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. “It’s not as good as hand-geometry readers or retinal scanners, but those don’t work through biosuits. And this one, at least, can’t be fooled by a tape recorder. You’ll 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 don’t 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.
“You’ve 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 it’s 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.”
“That’s good. I’m always worrying mine down to the quick, so I don’t have a problem.” He laughed. “You’ll find a pair of rubber gloves in that lower left compartment. No rings, right? Good. You’ll have to take off your boots and put on those slippers. And no long toenails. You’ll 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.
“It’s fully pressurized. See that metal valve at your waist? You’ll be on oxygen the entire time you’re inside. You’ll 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.
“I’m in the middle of something,” the voice came back.
“It’ll just take a few minutes.”
“Aw, for Chrissakes.” The voice cut off immediately.
Singer turned to Carson. “That’s Rosalind Brandon-Smith. She’s a little eccentric, I guess you could say.” He leaned toward Carson’s open visor conspiratorially. “Actually, she’s extremely rude, but don’t pay any attention. She was instrumental in developing our artificial blood. Now she’s 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. You’ll be meeting her inside, no reason for her to go through decontam twice.”
“Who’s 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. It’s not uncommon, you know. About a quarter of the people who come to Mount Dragon can’t finish their tour.”
“I didn’t know I was replacing anyone,” Carson frowned.
“You are. I’ll tell you about it later. You’ll be filling some large shoes.” He stepped back. “OK, finish up the zippers. Make sure you close and secure all three. We’ve 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 you’re standing next to somebody, it’s very hard to hear anything. Press this button on your forearm to speak over the intercom.”
He waved toward the door marked EXTREME BIOHAZARD. “On the far side of the air lock is a chemical shower. Once you’re inside, it starts automatically. Get used to it, there’ll be a much longer one coming out. When the inner door opens, go on through. Be especially careful until you’re 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 won’t be going in with you. It’s just ...” He hesitated. “Nobody goes into the Fever Tank unless they have to. You’ll 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. Everything—floors, wall tiles, ceiling—was painted a brilliant white.
Carson pressed the left button on his forearm, activating the intercom. “I’m 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, you’ll have to detach it and plug into another hose. Your suit has a limited supply of air, so don’t 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?”
