“All the time,” Augustine confirmed. “We’re trying to be as quiet as we can, but—”

“They’re getting suspicious.” Kirby grabbed hold of her index finger and stared at a chipped, painted nail. The nail was teal blue. The surgeon general was sixty-one years old, but she wore teenager’s enamel on her nails. “It’ll be on the news any minute now. SHEVA is more than just a curiosity. It’s the same as Herod’s flu. Herod’s causes mutations and miscarriages. By the way, that name…”

“Maybe a bit on the nose,” Shawbeck said. “Who made it up?”

“I did,” Augustine said.

Shawbeck was acting watchdog. Dicken had seen him play the adversary with Augustine before, and never knew how genuine the role was.

“Well, Frank, Mark, is this my ammunition?” Kirby asked. Before they could answer, she made an approving and speculative face, pouching out her lips, and said, “It’s damned scary.”

“It is that,” Augustine said.

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Kirby said. “Something pops out of our genes and makes monster babies…with a single huge ovary? Mark, what in hell ?”

“We don’t know what the etiology is, ma’am,” Augustine said. “We’re way behind, down to minimum staff on any single project as it is.”

“We’re asking for more money, Mark. You know that. But the mood in Congress is ugly. I do not want to be caught in anything like a false alarm.”

“Biologically, the work is top notch. Politically, this is a ticking bomb,” Augustine said. “If we don’t go public soon—”

“Damn it, Mark,” Shawbeck said, “we have no direct connection! People who get this flu — all of their tissues are suffused with SHEVA, for weeks after! What if the viruses are old and weak and don’t have any oomph? They express because, what,” he waved his hand, “there’s less ozone and we’re all getting more UV or something, like herpes coming out in a lip sore? Maybe they’re harmless, maybe they have nothing to do with the miscarriages.”

“I don’t think it’s coincidence,” Kirby said. “The figures look too close. What I want to know is, why doesn’t the body eat up these viruses, shed them?”

“Because they’re released continuously for months,” Dicken said. “Whatever the body does with them, they’re still being expressed by different tissues.”

“Which tissues?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Augustine said. “We’re looking at bone marrow and lymph.”

“There’s absolutely no sign of viremia,” Dicken said. “No swelling of the spleen and lymph nodes. Viruses all over, but no extreme reaction.” He rubbed his cheek nervously. “I’d like to go over something again.”

The surgeon general returned her gaze to him, and Shaw-beck and Augustine, seeing her focus, grew quiet.

Dicken pulled his chair forward a couple of inches. “The women get SHEVA from steady male partners. Women who are single — women without committed partners — don’t get SHEVA.”

“That’s stupid,” Shawbeck said, his face curled in disgust. “How in hell does a disease know whether a woman is shacked up with somebody or not?” It was Kirby’s turn to frown. Shawbeck apologized. “But you know what I mean,” he said defensively.

“It’s in the stats,” Dicken countered. “We checked this out very thoroughly. It’s transmitted from males to their female partners, over a fairly long exposure. Homosexual men do not transmit it to their partners. If there is no heterosexual contact, it is not passed along. It’s a sexually transmitted disease, but a selective one.”

“Christ,” Shawbeck said, whether in doubt or awe, Dicken could not tell.

“We’ll accept that for now,” the surgeon general said. “What’s made SHEVA come out now?”

“Obviously, SHEVA and humans have an old relationship,” Dicken said. “It might be the human equivalent of a lysogenic phage. In bacteria, lysogenic phages express themselves when the bacteria are subjected to stimuli that could be interpreted as life-threatening — stress, as it were. Maybe SHEVA reacts to things that cause stress in humans. Overcrowding. Social conditions. Radiation.”

Augustine shot him a warning glance.

“We’re a hell of a lot more complicated than bacteria,” he concluded.

“You think SHEVA is expressing now because of overpopulation?” Kirby asked.

“Perhaps, but that isn’t my point,” Dicken said. “Lysogenic phages can sometimes serve a symbiotic function. They help bacteria adapt to new conditions and even new sources of nutrition or opportunity by swapping genes. What if SHEVA serves a useful function in us?”

“By keeping the population down?” Shawbeck ventured skeptically. “The stress of overpopulation causes us to express little abortion experts? Wow.”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Dicken said, nervously wiping his hands on his pants. Kirby saw this, looked up coolly, a little embarrassed for him.

“Who does know?” she asked.

“Kaye Lang,” Dicken said.

Augustine made a small gesture with his hand, unseen by the surgeon general; Dicken was on very thin ice. They had not discussed this earlier.

“She does seem to have gotten a leg up on SHEVA before everybody else,” Kirby said. Her eyes wide, she leaned forward over her desk and gave him a challenging look. “But Christopher, how did you know that…Way back in August, in the Republic of Georgia? Your hunter’s intuition?”

“I had read her papers,” Dicken said. “What she wrote about was intrinsically fascinating.”

“I’m curious. Why did Mark send you to Georgia and Turkey?” Kirby asked.

“I seldom send Christopher anywhere,” Augustine said. “He has a wolf’s instincts when it comes to finding our kind of prey.”

Kirby kept her gaze on Dicken.

“Don’t be shy, Christopher. Mark had you out scouting for a scary disease. I admire that — like preventive medicine applied to politics. And in Georgia, you encountered Ms. Kaye Lang, by accident?”

“There’s a CDC office in Tbilisi,” Augustine said, trying to be helpful.

“An office that Mr. Dicken did not visit, even for a social call,” the surgeon general said, brows coming together.

“I went looking for her. I admired her work.”

“And you said nothing to her.”

“Nothing substantive.”

Kirby sat back in her seat and looked to Augustine. “Can we bring her in?” she asked.

“She’s having some problems,” Augustine said.

“What kind of problems?” she asked.

“Her husband is missing, probably a suicide,” Augustine said.

“That was over a month ago,” Dicken said.

“There seems to be more trouble in store. Before he disappeared, her husband sold their company out from under her, to pay off an investment of venture capital she apparently did not know about.”

Dicken had not heard about this. Obviously, Augustine had been conducting his own probe on Kaye Lang.

“Jesus,” Shawbeck said. “So, she’s what, a wreck, we leave her alone until she heals?”

“If we need her, we need her,” Kirby said. “Gentlemen, I don’t like the feel of this one. Call it a woman’s intuition, having to do with ovaries and such. I want all the expert advice we can get. Mark?”

“I’ll call her,” Augustine said, giving in with uncharacteristic speed. He had read the breeze, saw the windsock swinging; Dicken had won a point.

“Do that,” Kirby said, and swiveled in her chair to face Dicken dead on. “Christopher, for the life of me, I still think you’re hiding something. What is it?”

Dicken smiled and shook his head. “Nothing solid.”

“Oh?” Kirby raised her eyebrows. “The best virus man in the NCID? Mark says he relies on your nose.”

“Sometimes Mark is too damned candid,” Augustine said.

“Yeah,” Kirby said. “Christopher should be candid, too. What’s your nose say?”

Dicken was a little dismayed by the surgeon general’s question, and reluctant to show his cards while his hand was still weak. “SHEVA is very, very old,” he reiterated.

“And?”

“I’m not sure it’s a disease.”