White-cell count (per mm):3,100

Hematocrit (%):34.6

Platelet count (per mm):104,000

Glucose (mg/dl):79

Triglycerides (mg/dl):119

Erythrocyte sedimentation rate (mm/hr):48.21

He withdrew to speak with Dr. Bishop. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me," she replied. "You're the expert."

"I'm no expert. Just a fellow doctor looking for a little cooperation."

Bishop simply looked back at him. Crane felt the anger returning, stronger now: anger at all the inexplicable secrecy, anger at the meddling Commander Korolis, and particularly anger at the unhelpful, resentful Dr. Bishop. He'd take her down a peg, show her how much he did know.

He closed the clipboard sharply. "Did you think to do any antibody tests, Doctor?"

She nodded. "Viral hepatitis A and C, sulfatide IgM. All negative."

"Motor-conduction studies?"

"Normal bilaterally."

"Rheumatoid factor?"

"Positive. Eighty-eight units per milliliter."

Crane paused. These were, in fact, the tests he would have performed next.

"There was no history of arthralgia, anorexia, or Raynaud's phenomenon, for that matter," she offered.

Crane looked at her in surprise. It wasn't possible the same exotic conclusion had occurred to her as well. Was it?

He decided to call her bluff. "The incipient wasting of the hand muscles would seem to suggest syringomyelia. So would the loss of sensation in the upper trunk."

"But there's an absence of leg stiffiness," she replied immediately, "and little to no medullary dysfunction. It isn't syringomyelia."

Crane was now even more surprised by the depth of her diagnostic technique. But it couldn't hold.

Time to lay my cards on the table, he thought. "What about the sensory defects? The neuropathy? And did you notice the tonsils?"

Bishop was still staring at him, her face expressionless. "Yes, I did notice the tonsils. Enlarged and yellowish."

There was a silence.

Gradually, a smile crept over her features. "Why, Doctor," she said. "Surely you're not suggesting Tangier disease?"

Crane froze. Then slowly-very slowly-he relaxed. He found that he couldn't help smiling back. "As a matter of fact, I was," he said a little ruefully.

"Tangier disease. So, what: now we've got a hundred rare genetic diseases floating about this station?" But her voice was mild, and there was no hint of reproof that Crane could detect. Even the smile, he decided, might be genuine.

At that moment a series of alarms sounded, loud and fast, cutting through the wash of classical music. An amber light snapped on in the hallway outside.

The smile left Bishop's face. "Code orange," she said.

"What?"

"Med-psych emergency. Let's go." She was already running toward the door.

10

Bishop stopped at the front desk just long enough to grab a radio. "Get Corbett!" she called to a nurse behind the desk. Then she ran out of the medical suite and down the corridor, Crane at her heels, heading toward Times Square.

As she ran, she punched a code into the radio, dialed through the bands. "This is Dr. Bishop, requesting location of code orange."

There was a brief pause before the return squawk. "Code orange location: deck five, rover repair hangar."

"Deck five, roger," Bishop replied.

An elevator stood waiting beside the sidewalk café; they ducked inside and Bishop pressed the lowest button on the panel, 7.

She turned once again to the radio. "Request nature of emergency."

Another squawk. "Incident code five-twenty-two."

"What's that stand for?" Crane asked.

She glanced at him. "Floridly psychotic."

The doors opened again, and Crane followed her out into a brightly lit intersection. Corridors led away in three directions, and Bishop ran down the one directly before them.

"What about medical supplies?" Crane asked.

"There's a temporary infirmary on deck four. We'll get an MICU kit from it if necessary."

Crane noticed this deck felt a lot more confining than the ones he'd previously seen. The corridors were narrower, the compartments more cramped. The people they passed wore either lab coats or jumpsuits. He recalled this was the science level and computer center. Despite the audible rush of ventilation, the air was heavy with the smell of lab bleach, ozone, and hot electronics.

They reached another intersection and Bishop jogged right. Glancing ahead, Crane saw something unexpected: the corridor widened dramatically and ended in a black wall. This wall was smooth and broken only by a single airlock set in its center. The airlock hatch was guarded by four MPs with rifles, and a fifth sat in a high-tech pillbox to one side. A large LED above the airlock glowed red.

"What's that?" he asked, slowing instinctively.

"The Barrier," Bishop replied.

"I'm sorry?"

"Portal to the classified levels."

As they approached, two of the MPs took up positions directly before the airlock, rifles across their chests. "Clearance, ma'am?" one of them asked.

Bishop trotted over to the pillbox. The fifth MP stepped out and passed a bulky scanner over her forearm. There was a loud beep.

The MP glanced at a small LED screen set into the top of the scanner. "You're not cleared."

"I'm Michele Bishop, chief medical officer of the Facility. I have qualified emergency access to decks four, five, and six. Check again."

The MP stepped into the pillbox and consulted a computer monitor. After a moment, he came out. "Very well. Go on through. A security escort will be waiting on the other side."

Bishop stepped toward the airlock. Crane swung into place behind her, but the guards closed rank in front of him. The MP with the scanner came forward and ran it over Crane's arm.

"This man isn't cleared, either," he said.

Bishop glanced back. "He's a doctor, here on temporary assignment."

The MP turned to face Crane. "You cannot proceed, sir."

"I'm with Dr. Bishop," Crane said.

"I'm sorry, sir," the man said, his voice hardening. "You cannot proceed."

"Look," Crane said. "There's a medical emergency, and-"

"Sir, please step back from the Barrier." The pillbox MP exchanged quick glances with the others.

"I can't do that. I'm a doctor, and I'm going to assist with the emergency, whether you like it or not." And he stepped forward again.

Immediately, the men guarding the Barrier raised their rifles, while the MP with the scanner dropped a hand to his belt and drew out his sidearm.

"Stand down, Ferrara!" came a deep voice from within the darkness of the pillbox. "Wegman, Price, you others, at ease."

As quickly as they had raised their weapons, the MPs lowered them again and stepped back. Glancing toward the pillbox, Crane saw that it was in fact a portal to a far larger chamber, apparently a control room for the Barrier. A dozen screens were set into its walls, and countless small lights blinked and glowed in the dimness. A shape within drew closer then emerged into the light: a heavyset, broad-shouldered man in a white admiral's uniform. He had iron-gray hair and brown eyes. He glanced from Crane, to Bishop, then back to Crane.

"I am Admiral Spartan," the man said.

"Admiral Spartan," Crane said. "I'm-"

"I know who you are. You're Howard Asher's asset."

Crane did not know quite how to respond to this, so he merely nodded.

Spartan looked at Bishop again. "The emergency's on five, correct?"

"Yes, sir. The rover repair hangar."

"Very well." Spartan turned to the MP named Ferrara. "Clear him for this incident only. Make sure they're accompanied by an armed escort at all times, and take a nonsensitive route to the site. See to it personally, Ferrara."