“Admirable,” Jackson said. “ ‘Nevertheless, it moves,’ is that it, dear Kaye?”
“Robert, don’t be an asshole,” Nilson said.
“I am outnumbered, ladies,” Jackson said, pushing back his chair in disgust. He draped his napkin over his plate but did not leave. Instead, he folded his arms and cocked his head, as if encouraging — or daring — Kaye to continue.
“We’re behaving like children who don’t even know how babies are made,” Kaye said. “We’re witnessing a different kind of pregnancy. It isn’t new — it’s happened many times before. It’s evolution, but it’s directed, short-term, immediate, not gradual, and I have no idea what kind of children will be produced,” Kaye said. “But they will not be monsters and they won’t eat their parents.”
Jackson lifted his arm high like a boy in a classroom. “If we’re in the hands of some fast-acting master craftsman, if God is directing our evolution now, I’d say it’s time to hire some cosmic lawyers. It’s malpractice of the lowest order. Infant C was a complete botch.”
“That was herpes,” Kaye said.
“Herpes doesn’t work that way,” Jackson said. “You know that as well as I.”
“SHEVA makes fetuses particularly susceptible to viral invasion. It’s an error, a natural error.”
“We have no evidence of that. Evidence, Ms. Lang!”
“The CDC—” Kaye began.
“Infant C was a Herod’s second-stage monstrosity with herpes added on, as a side dish,” Jackson said. “Really, ladies, I’ve had it. We’re all tired. I for one am exhausted.” He stood, bowed quickly, and stalked out of the dining room.
Marge picked through her salad with a fork. “This sounds like a conceptual problem. I’ll call a meeting. We’ll listen to your evidence, in detail,” she said. “And I’ll ask Robert to bring in his own experts.”
“I don’t think there are many experts who would openly support me,” Kaye said. “Certainly not now. The atmosphere is charged.”
“This is all-important with regard to public perception,” Nilson said thoughtfully.
“How?” Cross asked.
“If some group or creed or corporation decides that Kaye is right, we’ll have to deal with that.”
Kaye suddenly felt very exposed, very vulnerable.
Cross picked up a strip of cheese with her fork and examined it. “If Herod’s isn’t a disease, I don’t know how we’d deal with it. We’d be caught between a natural event and an ignorant and terrified public. That makes for horrible politics and nightmarish business.”
Kaye’s mouth went dry. She had no answer to that. It was true.
“If there are no experts who support you,” Cross said thoughtfully, pushing the cheese into her mouth, “how do you make a case?”
“I’ll present the evidence, the theory,” Kaye said.
“By yourself?” Cross asked.
“I could probably find a few others.”
“How many?”
“Four or five.”
Cross ate for a few moments. “Jackson’s an asshole, but he’s brilliant, he’s a recognized expert, and there are hundreds who would agree with his point of view.”
“Thousands,” Kaye said, straining to keep her voice steady. “Against just me and a few crackpots.”
Cross waggled a finger at Kaye. “You’re no crackpot, dear. Laura, one of our companies developed a morning-after pill some years ago.”
“That was in the nineties.”
“Why did we abandon it?”
“Politics and liability issues.”
“We had a name for it…what were we calling it?”
“Some wag code-named it RU-Pentium,” Nilson said.
“I recall that it tested well,” Marge said. “We still have the formulae and samples, I assume.”
“I made an inquiry this afternoon,” Nilson said. “We could bring it back and get production up to speed in a couple of months.”
Kaye clutched the tablecloth where it crossed her lap. She had once campaigned passionately for a woman’s right to choose. Now, she could not work her way through the conflicting emotions.
“No reflection on Robert’s work,” Cross said, “but there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance the trials on the vaccine are going to fail. And that statement does not leave this room, ladies.”
“We’re still getting computer models predicting MS as a side effect for the ribozyme component,” Kaye said. “Will Americol recommend abortion as an alternative?”
“Not all on our lonesome,” Cross said. “The essence of evolution is survival. Right now, we’re standing in the middle of a minefield, and anything that clears a path, I’m certainly not going to ignore.”
Dicken took the call in the equipment room next to the main receiving and autopsy lab. He slipped off his latex gloves while a young male computer technician held the phone. The technician was there to adjust a balky old workstation used to record autopsy results and track the specimens through the rest of the labs. He stared at Dicken, in his green robe and surgical mask, with some concern.
“Nothing catching, for you,” Dicken told him as he took the phone receiver. “Dicken here. I’m elbow deep.”
“Christopher, it’s Kaye.”
“Hello-o-o, Kaye.” He did not want to put her off; she sounded gloomy but however she sounded, to Dicken, hearing her voice was a disturbing pleasure.
“I’ve screwed things up big time,” Kaye said.
“How’s that?” Dicken waved his hand at Scarry, still in the pathology lab. Scarry wagged his arms impatiently.
“I had a tiff with Robert Jackson…a conversation with Marge and Jackson. I couldn’t hold back. I told them what I thought.”
“Oh,” Dicken said, making a face. “How’d they react?”
“Jackson pooh-poohed it. Treated me with contempt, actually.”
“Arrogant bastard,” Dicken said. “I always thought so.”
“He said we need evidence about the herpes.”
“That’s what Scarry and I are looking for now. We have an accident victim in our pathology lab. Prostitute from Washington, D.C., pregnant. Tests positive for Herpes labialis and for hepatitis A and HIV as well as SHEVA. Rough life.”
The young technician grimly folded his tool kit and left the room.
“Marge is going to match the French on their morning-after pill.”
“Shit,” Dicken said.
“We have to move fast.”
“I don’t know how fast we can go. Dead young women with the right mix of problems just don’t come rolling in off the street every day.”
“I don’t think any amount of evidence is going to convince Jackson. I’m close to my wit’s end, Christopher.”
“I hope Jackson doesn’t go to Augustine. We aren’t ready yet, and thanks to me, Mark is already touchy,” Dicken said. “Kaye, Scarry is dancing around in the lab. I’ve got to go. Keep your chin up. Call me.”
“Has Mitch spoken to you?”
“No,” Dicken said, a deceptive truth. “Call rne later at my office. Kaye — I’m here for you. I’ll support you every way I can. I mean that.”
“Thank you, Christopher.”
Dicken put the receiver in its cradle and stood for a moment, feeling stupid. He had never been comfortable with these emotions. Work became all because everything else important was too painful.
“Not very good at this, are we?” he asked himself in a low voice.
Scarry tapped angrily on the glass between the office and the lab.
Dicken lifted his surgical mask and put on a new pair of gloves.
50
Baltimore
Mitch stood in the apartment building lobby, hands in his pockets. He had shaved very carefully this morning, staring into the long mirror in the communal bathroom at the YMCA, and just last week he had gone to a barber and had his hair styled — managed was more like it.