place.
There was a pause in the on-line conversation.
My reasons are my own, Mime responded. But I can guess yours. It’s the GeneDyne lawsuit. Not just for money this time, is it? Scopes is trying to hit you where you live. If he succeeds, you’ll 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.
You’re only half right, Levine typed back.
Then I suggest you tell me the other half.
Levine hesitated at the keyboard.
Professor? Don’t 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.
There’s 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. I’ll need his name in order to set up the channel, Mime responded at last.
Guy Carson, Levine typed.
Professor-man, came the response, you’re a sentimentalist at heart. And that’s a major flaw in a warrior. I doubt you’ll 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 routine—but a routine he felt he would never get used to.
He sat down at his desk and turned on his PowerBook 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 before de 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.
Carson paged Scopes through GeneDyne’s WAN service. The Gene Dyne CEO’s response was immediate, as if he had been waiting for the message.
Ciao Guy! What’s 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. I’ll discuss it with Rosalind today.
Good. Give me any updates immediately, please. Interrupt me no matter what I’m doing. If you can’t find me, contact Spencer Fairley.
I will.
Guy, have you had a chance to complete the white paper on your protocol? As soon as we’re sure of success, I’d like you to get it distributed internally, with an eye toward eventual publication.
I’m just waiting for some final confirmations, then I’ll 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 Vaca soon appeared in the hatchway, silently, and logged on to her machine. The bulky bluesuit hid the contours of her body, which was fine with Carson. He didn’t need any more distractions.
“Susana, I’d like to run a GEF purification on those proteins we discussed yesterday,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
“Certainly,” said de Vaca crisply.
“They’re 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 professional—as long as she didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 hasn’t even been a week,” Carson said.
“I know. You made pretty short work of him.”
“Where is he?”
“Still in the cage. Come on, I’ll show you. Besides the rapidity, there are some other unusual aspects you’d 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 Carson’s 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 handler’s 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 animal’s 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.
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 animal’s 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. “Must’ve been a particularly virulent strain you invented
