Mount Dragon

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 GeneDyne’s 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 won’t open the other, at least open this. Be the one to expose GeneDyne’s 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 was still putting his foot into every trap.

“I can’t 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%—all victims 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. “Whatever’s inside will undoubtedly 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.

“There’s 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. He’d 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 wonder if I could have a few words with you.” The figure extended its hand.

“Why not,” Carson said, feeling foolish as he shook the inspector’s hand through several layers of rubber. “Have a seat.”

The figure looked around. “I still haven’t figured out how to do that while wearing this bloody suit.”

“I guess you’ll have to stand, then,” said Carson, moving forward and taking a seat at the worktable.

“Just so,” said Teece. “It’s 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 don’t think many people around here know. It’s 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.”

“He’s brilliant.” Carson looked appraisingly at the investigator. “Why did you ask that question about Brandon-Smith’s autopsy back in the conference room?”

There was a brief silence. Then Carson heard Teece’s 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 you’re a relatively recent arrival, and it was not aimed at you. I’d rather we talked about Mr. Vanderwagon for a