Darwin's Children Part 27

"He says that to everyone," Bloch said. Her smile was at once friendly and alarming; her expression reminded Kaye of a pug or a Boston terrier, and she could not seem to look directly at anyone.

"This has been my home away from home the last few days. I eat, drink, and sleep here." Gianelli offered his hand. "Thank you for coming."

Kaye shook the hand lightly. He let her determine the strength and duration of the grip.

"This is Laura Bloch. She's my right hand . . . and and my left hand." my left hand."

"We've met," Bloch said, and smiled. Kaye shook Laura's hand; it was soft and dry. Laura seemed to stare at Kaye's forehead and her nose. Suddenly, irrationally, Kaye liked and trusted her.

Gianelli she was not so sure about. He had moved up awfully fast in the last few years. Kaye had become suspicious of politicians who prospered in bad times.

"How's Mitch?" he asked.

"We haven't spoken for a few weeks," Kaye said.

"I like Mitch," Gianelli said with an undulating shrug of his shoulders, apropos of nothing. He sat behind his desk, stared over the crusted boxes, and frowned. "I hated to hear about what happened. Awful times. How's Marge?"

Kaye could tell he did not really give a d.a.m.n about Marge Cross, not at the moment. He was mentally preparing for the committee meeting.

"She sends her regards," Kaye said.

"Good of her," Gianelli said.

Kaye looked up at a framed portrait to the right of the big desk. "We were sorry to hear of Representative Wickham's death," she said.

"Shook up everything," Gianelli murmured, appraising her. "Gave me the boost I needed, however, and here I am. I am a whelp, and many kind folks in this building are bound and determined to teach me humility."

He leaned forward, earnest now and fully focused. "Is it true?"

Kaye knew what he meant. She nodded.

"Based on what data sets?"

"Americol pharmacy tracking reports. Drop-in data collection systems in two thousand area hospitals servicing epidemiology contracts with Americol." Kaye swallowed nervously.

Gianelli nodded, his eyes s.h.i.+fting somewhat spookily over her shoulder as he thought this through. "Any government sources?" he asked.

"RSVP Plus, Air Force LEADER 21, CDC Virocol, NIH Population Health Monitor."

"But no sources exclusive to Emergency Action."

"No, though we suspect they listen in on some of our proprietary tracking systems."

"How many will there be?" Gianelli asked.

"Tens of thousands," Kaye said. "Maybe more."

"Jesus, Homer, and Jethro Christ," Gianelli said, and leaned back, his tall chair creaking on old steel springs. As if to calm himself, he raised his arms and folded his hands behind his head. "How's your daughter?"

"She's in a camp in Arizona," Kaye said.

"Good old Charlie Chase and his wonderful state of Arizona. But how is is she, Dr. Rafelson?" she, Dr. Rafelson?"

"Healthy. She's found friends."

Gianelli shook his head. Kaye could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. "It could be a rough meeting," he said. "Laura, let's give Dr. Rafelson a quick tour of the subcommittee's players."

"I was briefed in Baltimore," Kaye said.

"n.o.body knows 'em better than we do, right, Laura?"

"n.o.body," Laura Bloch said.

"Laura's daughter, Annie, died at Joseph Goldberger," the senator said.

"I'm sorry," Kaye said, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

Bloch patted Kaye's arm and set her face in grim reserve. "She was a sweet kid," she said. "A little dreamy." She drew herself up. "You are about to testify before a baboon, two cobras, a goose, a certified bull ape, and a spotted leopard."

"Senator Percy is the baboon," Gianelli said. "Jakes and Corcoran are the cobras, lying low in the gra.s.s. They hate being on this committee, however, and I doubt they'll ask you anything."

"Senator Thomasen is chairperson. She's the goose," Bloch said. "She likes to think she's keeping the other animals in order, but she has no fixed opinions herself. Senator Chase claims to be on our side-"

"He's the bull ape," Gianelli said.

"But we don't know how he'll vote, push comes to shove," Bloch finished.

Gianelli glanced at his watch. "I'm going to bring you in first. Laura tells me the director is still stuck in traffic."

"Twenty minutes away," Bloch said.

"She's working hard to get the directors.h.i.+p of EMAC legislated into a Cabinet-level position, giving her sole budgetary control. The director is our leopard." Gianelli scratched his upper lip with a forefinger. "We expect you to help us counter her suggestions, which are bound to be nasty beyond belief."

"All right," Kaye said.

"Mark Augustine will be there," Bloch said. "Any problem with that?" she asked Kaye.

"No," Kaye said.

"You two get along?"

"We disagreed," said Kaye, "but we worked together."

Bloch made a fleeting face of dubiety.

"We'll take our chances," Gianelli said with a snuffle.

"You should never take chances," Bloch advised, producing another handkerchief from her purse.

"I always always take chances," Gianelli said. "That's why I'm here." He blew his nose. "G.o.dd.a.m.ned allergies," he added, and watched Kaye's reaction. "Was.h.i.+ngton is full of snotty noses." take chances," Gianelli said. "That's why I'm here." He blew his nose. "G.o.dd.a.m.ned allergies," he added, and watched Kaye's reaction. "Was.h.i.+ngton is full of snotty noses."

"No problem," Kaye said. "I'm a mommy."

"Good," Bloch said. "We need a pro."

6.

NEW MEXICO.

Dr. Jurie's office was small and crammed with boxes, as if he had arrived only a few days before. Jurie pushed back his old Aeron chair as d.i.c.ken and Turner entered.

The shelves around the office were lightly populated with a few battered college texts, favorites for quick reference, and binders filled with what d.i.c.ken a.s.sumed were scientific papers. He counted seven metal lab stools in the small room, arranged in a cramped half-circle around the desk. The desk supported a flat top computer with two panels popped up, displaying results from two experiments.

"Acclimatizing, Dr. d.i.c.ken?" Jurie asked. "Alt.i.tude treating you well?"

"Doing fine, thank you," d.i.c.ken said. Turner and Presky a.s.sumed relaxed hunched positions on their stools.

Jurie motioned for d.i.c.ken to sit in a second old Aeron, on the other side of the desk. He had to push past a stack of boxes to fit into the chair, which bent his leg painfully. Once he sat, he wondered if he would be able to get up again.

Jurie wore brown oxfords, wool slacks, a dark blue s.h.i.+rt with a broad collar, and a sleeveless, cream-colored knit sweater, all clean but rumpled. At fifty-five, his features were still youthfully handsome, his body lean. He had the kind of face that would have fit well right above the collar of an Arrow s.h.i.+rt in a magazine ad. Had he smoked a pipe, d.i.c.ken would have thought him a cliche scientist. His body was too small, however, to complete the Oppenheimer effect. d.i.c.ken guessed his height at barely five feet three inches.

"I've invited more of our research group heads to join us. I apologize for showing you off, Dr. d.i.c.ken." Jurie reached over to send the flat top into sleep mode, then rotated in his chair, back and forth.

A woman's head poked through the door and pushed a fist in to rap on the inside wall.

"Ah," Jurie said. "Dee Dee. Dr. Blakemore. Always prompt."

"To a fault," the woman said. In her late thirties, comfortably rotund, with long mousy hair and a self-a.s.sured expression, she pushed through the door and sat with some difficulty on a stool. In the next few minutes, four others joined them in the room, but remained standing.

"Thank you all for coming," Jurie started the meeting. "We are all here to greet Dr. d.i.c.ken."

Two of the men had entered holding cans of beer, apparently cadged from the party. d.i.c.ken noted that one-Dr. Orlin Miller, formerly of Western Was.h.i.+ngton University-still favored Bud Light over Heineken.

"We're a relaxed group," Jurie said. "Somewhat informal." He never smiled, and as he spoke, he made small, unexpected hesitations between words. "What we're essentially interested in, here at Pathogenics, is how diseases use us as genetic libraries and reservoirs. Also, how we've adapted to these inroads and learned to use the diseases. It doesn't really matter whether viruses are rogue genes from inside us, or outside invaders-the result is the same, a constant battle for advantage and control. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, right?"

d.i.c.ken could not disagree.

"I've listened to all the media babble about virus children, and frankly I don't give a d.a.m.n whether they're the products of disease or evolution. Evolution is is a disease, for all I know. What I want to learn is how viruses can recombine and kill us. a disease, for all I know. What I want to learn is how viruses can recombine and kill us.

"Not coincidentally, if we learn how that works, we have a pretty important weapon for both national defense and offense. This is the age of gene and germ, and whatever subtle little perversions we can think of, our enemies can also think of. Which is a pretty good reason to keep Sandia Pathogenics funded and running at fool steam, which we all will benefit from."

"Amen," said Turner.

I heard "fool steam," d.i.c.ken thought, and looked around the room. d.i.c.ken thought, and looked around the room. Did anybody else? Fool steam ahead. Did anybody else? Fool steam ahead.

"Dr. Presky, shall we show Dr. d.i.c.ken our zoo?" Jurie asked.

7.

NEAR LUBBOCK, TEXAS.

Mitch had lost everything important, but once again he had dirt and bone chips and pottery. He was back in the field, carrying a small spade and a kit full of brushes. Starting from scratch was an archaeologist's definition of workaday life, and he was definitely starting from scratch, all over again.

Around him, a neat square hole in the earth had been sculpted into many terraces on which sat fragments of flint, the crushed remains of what might have once been a wicker basket, a rough oval of shards from a small pot, and the thing that had absorbed his attention all day: an engraved sh.e.l.l.

The sun had set several hours ago and he was working by the light of a Coleman lantern. Down in the hole, all colors had long since turned to gray and brown. Brown was the color he knew best. Beige, gray, black, brown. The brown dust in his nose made everything smell like dry earth. A brown, neutral smell.

The sh.e.l.l lay in three pieces and was crudely engraved with what looked like a crosshatched bird's wing. Mitch had a hunch it might be similar to the sh.e.l.ls found at the Craig mound in Spiro, Oklahoma. If it was, that might generate enough publicity that they could persuade the contractors to pause for a few weeks.

The generator in the back of the truck had broken down the night before. Now, the lantern's gas was running out.

With a sigh, he turned the lantern off, laid his spade and kit on the side of the hole and climbed out carefully, feeling his way in the dark, putting a strain on his good arm.

As with most university-sponsored digs, the budget was minimal and equipment was precious, usually secondhand, and seldom reliable. Time was important, of course. In two more weeks bulldozers would move in and cover hundreds of acres with fill and concrete slabs for a housing tract.

The twelve students working the site had gathered under a tent and were sipping beer in the cooling twilight. Some things never changed. He accepted a freshly popped can from a twenty-year-old brunette named Kylan, then sat with a groan in a camp chair reserved for him in part because he was the most experienced and in part because he was the oldest and the kids thought he might require the bare minimum of comfort to keep functioning.

The gimpy arm drew sympathy, too. Mitch could only dig effectively with one hand, propping the handle of the shovel under his armpit.

The others squatted on the dirt or on the two rugged wooden benches pulled from the back of the single battered pickup, the same one that held the useless generator.

"Any luck?" Kylan asked. They were not very talkative this evening, perhaps because they saw the imminent das.h.i.+ng of their hopes and dreams. This dig had become their lives in the past few weeks. Two couples were already lovers.

Mitch held up his hand, made a grasping motion. "Flashlight," he said.

Tom Pritchard, twenty-four, skinny, with a head of dusty and tousled blond hair, tossed him a black aluminum flashlight.

The students looked at each other, blank-faced in the way kids have of hiding what might be an inappropriate emotion: hope.

"What is it?" asked tall, stout Caitlin Bishop, far from her native New York.

Mitch lifted his head and sighed. "Probably nothing," he said.

They crowded around, all pretense and weariness gone. They needed hope as much as they needed rehydrating fluids. "What?" "What is it?" "What did you find?"

Mitch said it was probably nothing; probably not what he thought it was. And even if it was, how did that figure into his plans? There were hundreds of sh.e.l.ls from Spiro scattered in private and university collections. So what if he had just found one more?