Mitch saw the morning headlines on a rack of Daily News at Perm Station:

He and Kaye had spent the night eating by candlelight and making love. Very romantic, very out of touch. They had parted just an hour ago; Kaye was getting dressed, choosing her colors carefully, expecting a difficult day.

He picked up a paper and boarded the train. As he took his seat and spread the paper open, the train began to pull out, picking up speed, and he wondered if Kaye was safe, whether the riot had been spontaneous or organized, whether it really mattered.

The people had spoken, or rather, snarled. They had had enough of failure and inaction in Washington. The president was meeting with security advisors, the joint chiefs of staff, the heads of select committees, the chief justice. To Mitch, that sounded like a soft approach preliminary to declaring martial law.

He did not want to be on the train. He could not see what Merton could do for him, or for Kaye; and he could not picture himself lecturing on bonehead bone-ology to college students and never setting foot on a dig again.

Mitch slipped the folded paper onto his seat and made his way down the aisle to the public phone box at the end of the car. He called Kaye’s number, but she had already left, and he did not think it would be politic to call her at Americol.

He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself, and returned to his seat.

Dicken met Kaye in the Americol cafeteria at ten. The conference was scheduled for six o’clock, and a number of visitors had been added: the vice president and the president’s science advisor among them.

Dicken looked terrible. He had not slept all night. “My turn to be a basket case,” he said. “I think the debate is over. We’re down, we’re out. We can do some more shouting, but I don’t know anyone who will listen.”

“What about the science?” Kaye asked plaintively. “You tried hard to bring us back in line after the herpes disaster.”

“SHEVA mutates,” Dickens said. He beat his hand rhythmically on the table.

“I’ve explained that to you.”

“You’ve only shown that SHEVA mutated a long time ago. It’s just a human retrovirus, an old one, with a slow but very clever way of reproducing.”

“Christopher…”

“You’re going to get your hearing,” Dicken said. He finished his cup of coffee and stood up from the table. “Don’t explain it to me. Explain it to them ”

Kaye looked up at him, angry and puzzled. “Why change your mind after so long?”

“I started out looking for a virus. Your papers, your work, suggested it might be something else. We can all be misled. Our job is to look for evidence, and when it’s compelling, we have to give up our most cherished little notions.”

Kaye stood beside him and poked her finger. “Tell me this is entirely about science.”

“Of course not. I was on the Capitol steps, Kaye. I could have been one of those poor bastards who got shot or beaten to death.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Tell me you returned Mitch’s call, after our meeting in San Diego.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Dicken glared back at her. “After last night, anything personal is trivial, Kaye.”

“Is it?”

Dicken folded his arms. “I could never present someone like Mitch to someone like Augustine and hope to build our case. Mitch had some interesting information, but it only proves that SHEVA has been with us for a long time.”

“He believed in both of us.”

“He believes in you more, I think,” Dicken said, his eyes darting away.

“Has that affected your judgment?”

Dicken flared. “Has it affected yours ? I can’t take a pee without someone telling someone else how long I spent in the John. But you, you bring Mitch up to your apartment ”

Kaye crowded in on Dicken. “Augustine told you I slept with Mitch?”

Dicken would not be crowded. He pushed Kaye gently back and sidestepped. “I hate this as much as anyone, but it’s the way we have to be!”

“According to whom? Augustine?”

“Augustine’s been burned, too. We’re in a crisis. Goddamn it, Kaye, that should be obvious to everyone by now.”

“I never said I was a saint, Christopher! I trusted you not to abandon me when you brought me into this.”

Dicken lowered his head and looked to one side, then the other, his misery and anger tearing him. “I thought you might be a partner.”

“What sort of partner, Christopher?”

“A…supporter. An intellectual equal.”

“A girlfriend?”

For a moment, Dicken’s face put on the expression of a small boy handed a crushing bit of news. He looked at Kaye with both longing and sadness. He could hardly stand up straight he was so tired.

Kaye pulled back and reconsidered. She had done nothing to lead him on; she had never regarded herself as a raving beauty whose attractions were irresistible to men. She could not fathom the depth of this man’s feeling.

“You never told me you felt anything more than curiosity,” Kaye said.

“I never move fast enough, and I never say what I mean,” Dicken said. “I don’t blame you for not suspecting.”

“But it hurt you that I chose Mitch.”

“I can’t deny it hurts. But it doesn’t affect my scientific judgment.”

Kaye walked around the table, shaking her head. “What can we salvage from this?”

“You can present your evidence. I just don’t believe it’s going to be compelling.” He swung around and walked out of the cafeteria.

Kaye bused her tray and dishes to the kitchen conveyer belt. She glanced at her watch. She needed a strong dose of the personal, the face-to-face; she wanted to speak with Luella Hamilton. She could make it out to NIH and be back before the meeting.

At the floor security desk, she called for a company car.

Mitch stepped out under the soaring white tent pavilion that covered the antique train station of the small town of Beresford. He shaded his eyes against the morning sun and glanced at a planter loud with yellow daffodils, near a bright red garbage can. He was the only one getting off the train.

The air smelled of hot grease and pavement and fresh-cut grass. He looked for someone to meet him, expecting Merton. The town, visible across the tracks, accessible by a pedestrian bridge, was little more than a row of shops and the Amtrak parking lot.

A black Lexus pulled into the parking lot, and Mitch saw a redheaded man step out, look through the chicken-wire fencing at the station, and wave.

“His name is William Daney. He owns most of Beresford — his family does, that is. They have an estate about ten minutes from here that rivals Buckingham Palace. I was nai’ve enough to forget what kind of royalty America cherishes — old money spent in strange ways.”

Mitch listened to Merton as the journalist drove him down a winding two-lane road between splendid hardwood trees, maple and oak, new leaves so intensely green he felt as if he were in a movie. The sun threw dazzles of gold across the road. They hadn’t seen another car in five minutes.

“Daney used to be a yachtsman. Spent millions perfecting a graceful big boat, lost a few races. That was more than twenty years ago. Then he discovered anthropology. Problem is, he hates dirt. Loves water, hates dirt, hates to dig. I love driving in America. But this is almost like driving in England. I could even” — Merton swerved briefly over the center line into the left lane—”Follow my instincts.” He quickly corrected, smiled at Mitch. “Pity about the riots. England’s still relatively calm, but I’m expecting a change of government any minute. Dear old PM doesn’t get it yet. Still thinks switching to the Euro is his biggest worry. Hates the gynecological aspect of this whole mess. How’s Mr. Dicken? Ms. Lang?”