Dicken pushed the tray in and arranged his wheelchair. “I spend half my day waiting for myself to heal, worried that I’ll never recover full use of my legs or my hand…Trying to have faith in my body. The other half of the day I’m in rehab, pushing until it hurts. I don’t have time to moon over lost opportunities. Do you?”

“My girl in Leeds dumped me last week. I’m never at home. Besides, I turned positive. Scared her.”

“Sorry,” Dicken said.

“I just stopped by Augustine’s inner sanctum. He seems cocky enough.”

“The polls support him. Public health crisis blossoms into international policy. Fanatics push us into repressive legislation. It’s martial law in all but name, and the Emergency Action Taskforce sets down the medical decrees — which means they rule nearly everything. Now that Shawbeck has stepped down, Augustine is number two in the country.”

“Frightening,” Merton said.

“Show me something now that isn’t,” Dicken said.

Merton conceded that. “I’m convinced that Augustine is pulling strings to get our Northwestern conference on SHEVA shut down.”

“He’s a consummate bureaucrat — which means, he’ll protect his position using all the tools available.”

“What about the truth?” Merton said, his brow wrinkling. “I’m just not used to seeing government manage scientific debate.”

“You’re not usually so naive, Oliver. The British have done it for years.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve dealt with enough cabinet ministers to know the drill . But where do you stand? You helped bring Kaye’s coalition together — why doesn’t Augustine just fire you and move on?”

“Because I saw the light,” Dicken said glumly. “Or rather, the dark. Dead babies. I lost hope. Even before that, Augustine worked me around pretty well — kept me on as an apparent balance, let me be involved in policy meetings. But he never gave me enough rope to make a noose. Now…I can’t travel, can’t do the research we need to do. I’m ineffective.”

“Neutered?” Merton ventured.

“Castrated,” Dicken said.

“Don’t you at least whisper in his ear, ‘It’s science, O mighty Caesar, you could be wrong’?”

Dicken shook his head. “The chromosome numbers are pretty damning. Fifty-two chromosomes, as opposed to forty-six. Trisomal, tetrasomal…They could all end up with something like Down syndrome or worse. If Epstein-Barr doesn’t get them.”

Merton had saved the best for last. He told Dicken about the changes in Innsbruck. Dicken listened intently, with a squint in his blind eye, then turned his good eye to stare off at the wall of windows and the bright spring sunshine beyond.

He was remembering the conversation with Kaye before she had ever met Rafelson.

“So Rafelson is going to Austria?” Dicken poked with a fork at the steamed sole and wild rice on his plate.

“If they invite him. He might still be too controversial.”

“I await the report,” Dicken said. “But I’m not going to hold my breath.”

“You think Kaye is making a terrible leap,” Merton suggested.

“I don’t know why I even bought this food,” Dicken said, laying down the fork. “I’m not hungry.”

81

Seattle

The baby seems to be doing fine,” Dr. Galbreath said. “Second trimester development is normal. We’ve done our analysis, and it’s what we expect for a SHEVA second-stage fetus.”

This seemed a little cold to Kaye. “Boy or girl?” Kaye asked.

“Fifty-two XX,” Galbreath said. She opened a brown cardboard folder and gave Kaye a copy of the sample report. “Chromosomally abnormal female.”

Kaye stared at the paper, her heart thumping. She had not told Mitch, but she had hoped for a girl, to at least remove some of the distance, the number of differences, she might have to contend with. “Is there any duplication, or are they new chromosomes?” Kaye asked.

“If we had the expertise to decide that, we’d be famous,” Galbreath said. Then, less stiffly, “We don’t know. Cursory glance tells us they may not be duplicated.”

“No extra chromosome 21?” Kaye asked quietly, staring at the sheet of paper with its rows of numbers and brief string of explanatory words.

“I don’t think the fetus has Down syndrome,” Galbreath said. “But you know how I feel about this now.”

“Because of the extra chromosomes.”

Galbreath nodded.

“We have no way of knowing how many chromosomes Neandertals had,” Kaye said.

“If they’re like us, forty-six,” Galbreath said.

“But they weren’t like us. It’s still a mystery.” Kaye’s words sounded fragile even to her. Kaye stood up, one hand on her stomach. “As far as you can tell, it’s healthy.”

Galbreath nodded. “I have to ask, though, what do I know? Next to nothing. You test positive for herpes simplex type one, but negative for mono — that is, Epstein-Barr. You never had chicken pox. For God’s sake, Kaye, stay away from anyone with chicken pox.”

“I’ll be careful,” Kaye said.

“I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

“Wish me luck.”

“I wish you all the luck on Earth, and in the heavens. It doesn’t make me feel any better as a doctor.”

“It’s still our decision, Felicity.”

“Of course.” Galbreath flipped through more papers until she came to the back of the folder. “If this were my decision, you’d never see what I have to show you. We’ve lost our appeal. We have to get all our SHEVA patients to register. If you don’t agree, we have to register for you.”

“Then do so,” Kaye said evenly. She played with a fold on her slacks.

“I know that you’ve moved,” Galbreath said. “If I hand in an incorrect registration, Marine Pacific could get in trouble, and I could be called up before a review board and have my license revoked.” She gave Kaye a sad but level look. “I need your new address.”

Kaye stared at the form, then shook her head.

“I’m begging you, Kaye. I want to remain your doctor until this is over.”

“Over?”

“Until the delivery.”

Kaye shook her head again, with a stubbornly wild look, like a hunted rabbit.

Galbreath stared down at the end of the examination table, tears in her eyes. “I don’t have any choice. None of us has any choice.”

“I don’t want anyone coming to take my baby,” Kaye said, her breath short, hands cold.

“If you don’t cooperate, I can’t be your doctor,” Galbreath said. She turned abruptly and walked from the room. The nurse peered in a few moments later, saw Kaye standing there, stunned, and asked if she needed some help.

“I don’t have a doctor,” Kaye said.

The nurse stood aside as Galbreath entered again. “Please, give me your new address. I know Marine Pacific is fighting any local attempts by the Taskforce to contact its patients. I’ll put extra warnings on this file. We’re on your side, Kaye, believe me.”

Kaye wanted desperately to speak to Mitch, but he was in the University district, trying to finalize hotel arrangements for the conference. She did not want to break in on that.

Galbreath handed Kaye a pen. She filled out the form, slowly. Galbreath took it back. “They would have found out one way or another,” she said tightly.

Kaye carried the report out of the hospital and walked to the brown Toyota Camry they had purchased two months ago. She sat in the car for ten minutes, numb, bloodless fingers clutching the wheel, and then turned the key in the ignition.

She was rolling down her window for air when she heard Galbreath calling after her. She gave half a thought to simply pulling out of the parking space and driving on, but she reap-plied the emergency brake and looked left. Galbreath was running across the parking lot. She put her hand on the door and peered in at Kaye.

“You wrote down the wrong address, didn’t you?” she asked, huffing, her face red.

Kaye simply looked blank.

Galbreath closed her eyes, caught her breath. “There’s nothing wrong with your baby,” she said. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. I don’t understand anything. Why aren’t you rejecting her as foreign tissue — she’s completely different from you! You might as well be carrying a gorilla. But you tolerate her, nurture her. All the mothers do. Why doesn’t the Taskforce study thatl”