60

New York

On the train to Albany, surrounded by the musty smells of passengers, sun-warmed fabric, disinfectant, plastic, Mitch sank into his seat. He felt as if he had just escaped from Wonderland. Daney’s enthusiasm for bringing a “new person” into the family both fascinated and frightened him. The human race had grown so cerebral, and had assumed so much control of its biology, that this unexpected and ancient form of reproduction, of creating variety in the species, could be stopped in its tracks, or engaged in as if it were some kind of game.

He stared out the window at small towns, forests of young trees, bigger towns with gray expanses of warehouses, factories dull and dirty and productive.

61

Americol Headquarters, Baltimore

Kaye picked up the papers she had ordered from Medline through the library, twenty copies each of eight different papers, all neatly collated. She shook her head and skimmed one of the folios as she boarded the elevator.

She took an additional five minutes going through the security checkpoints on the tenth floor. Agents waved wands, scanned her photo ID, and then passed sniffers over her hands and purse. Finally, the head of the vice president’s Secret Service detail asked for someone inside the executive dining room to vouch for her. Dicken emerged, said that he knew her, and she entered the dining room fifteen minutes into the meeting.

“You’re late,” Dicken whispered.

“Caught in traffic. Did you know they’ve ended the special study?”

Dicken nodded. “They’re dancing around each other now, trying to avoid making any commitments. Nobody wants to take the blame for anything.”

Kaye saw the vice president sitting near the front, the science advisor beside him. The room held at least four Secret Service agents, which made her glad Benson had stayed outside.

Soft drinks, fruit, crackers, cheese, and vegetables had been set out on a table at the back, but no one was eating. The vice president clutched a can of Pepsi.

As Dicken led Kaye to a folding chair on the left side of the room, Frank Shawbeck finished a briefing on the findings of the NIH studies.

“That took just five minutes,” Dicken whispered to Kaye.

Shawbeck tapped his papers on the lectern, stepped aside, and Mark Augustine walked forward. He leaned on the lectern.

“Dr. Lang is here,” he announced neutrally. “Let’s move on to social issues. We have suffered twelve major riots across the U.S. Most seem to have been triggered by announcements that we are going to pass out free RU-486. No such plans were ever completed, but they were of course under discussion.”

“None of these drugs are illegal,” Cross said irritably. She sat to the right of the VP. “Mr. Vice President, I invited the senate majority leader to attend this meeting, and he declined. I will not be held responsible for—”

“Please, Marge,” Augustine said. “We’ll air our grievances in a few minutes.”

“Sorry,” Cross said, and folded her arms. The vice president glanced over his shoulder, surveyed the audience. His eye fell on Kaye and he seemed troubled for a moment, then turned again to face front.

“The U.S. is not alone in having to deal with civil unrest,” Augustine continued. “We’re heading toward a social disaster of major proportions. Plainly speaking, the general public does not understand what is going on. They react according to gut instincts, or according to the dictates of demagogues. Pat Robertson, bless him, has already recommended that God blast Washington, D.C., with Hell’s hottest fires if the Taskforce is allowed to go ahead with RU-486 testing. He’s not alone. There’s a real likelihood that the public will knock around until they find something, anything, more palatable than the truth, and then they’ll flock behind that banner, and it’s likely to have a religious aspect, and science will go right out the window.”

“Amen,” Cross said. Nervous laughter rippled through the small audience. The VP did not smile.

“This meeting was scheduled three days ago,” Augustine continued. “The events of yesterday and today make it even more urgent that we keep our ducks in a row.”

Kaye thought she could see where this was going. She looked for Robert Jackson and located him seated behind Cross. He angled his head, and his eyes swung left for the briefest moment, looking right at her. Kaye felt her face grow hot.

“This is about me,” she whispered to Dicken.

“Don’t be arrogant,” Dicken warned. “We’re all here to eat a little crow today.”

“We’re already tabling the research on RU-486 and what has very loosely, and in very bad taste, been labeled RU-Pen-tium,” Augustine said. “Dr. Jackson.”

Jackson stood. “Preclinical trials show no efficacy by any of our vaccines or ribozyme inhibitors against newly located strains of SHEVA, loosely referred to as SHEVA-X. We have reason to believe that all new incidents of Herod’s in the last three months can be attributed to lateral infection by SHEVA-X, which may come in at least nine different varieties, all with different coat glycoproteins. We can’t target the LPC messenger RNA in the cytoplasm because our current ri-bozymes do not recognize the mutated form. In short, we’re dead in the water on a vaccine. We probably won’t come up with alternatives for six more months.”

He sat down again.

Augustine pressed his fingers together symmetrically, making a flexible polygon. The room was silent for a long interval, absorbing the news and its implications. “Dr. Phillips.”

Gary Phillips, science advisor to the president, stood and approached the lectern. “The president wishes me to convey his appreciation. We had hoped for so much more, but no research effort in any other nation has done better than the NIH and the CDC Taskforce. We have to realize we face an extremely clever and versatile opponent, and we have to speak with one voice, with resolve, to avoid pushing our nation into anarchy. That is why I have listened to Dr. Robert Jackson and to Mark Augustine. Our situation now is very sensitive, publicly sensitive, and they tell me there is a potentially divisive disagreement between some members of the Taskforce, especially within the Americol contingent.”

“Not a split,” Jackson said acidly. “A schism”

“Dr. Lang, I have been informed you do not share some of the opinions expressed by Dr. Jackson and Mark Augustine. Could you please express and clarify your point of view now, so that we may judge them?”

Kaye sat in shock for a few seconds, then stood up and managed to say, “I don’t believe a fair hearing can be given now, sir. I am apparently the only person in this room whose opinion differs from the official statement you’re obviously preparing.”

“We need solidarity, but we need to be fair,” the science advisor said. “I’ve read your papers on HERV, Ms. Lang. Your work was seminal and brilliant. You could very well be nominated for a Nobel prize. Your disagreements have to be listened to, and we’re prepared to listen. I regret nobody has the luxury of sufficient time. I wish we did.”

He motioned for her to come forward. Kaye walked to the lectern. Phillips stepped aside.

“I’ve expressed my opinions in numerous conversations with Dr. Dicken, and in one conversation with Ms. Cross and Dr. Jackson,” Kaye said. “This morning, I put together a folder of supporting articles, some of them my own, and evidence gleaned from studies in the Human Genome Project, evolutionary biology, even paleontology.” She opened her briefcase and handed the stack of folders to Nilson, who passed them to her left.

“I do not yet have the conclusive linchpin that holds my theories together,” Kaye continued, then sipped from a cup of water handed to her by Augustine. “Scientific evidence from the Innsbruck mummies has not yet been released to the public.”