Jude wanted to know exactly how the Orderlies had been bred, along with other things, but even more, he wanted the key piece of the puzzle. He remained silent as the tea was brought in on a tray, taking a cup with two sugars. Baptiste did the same, stirring it in a thoughtful silence and then looking over at Jude.
"A minute ago, you accused us of killing people. If you were under that misimpression, did you never wonder why we didn't kill you?"
"I wondered about it. I'm sure you had chances."
"Many times. At least nine of them, by my count."
Jude remained silent.
"Did it never occur to you that these Orderlies, whose wrath you've just experienced, were perhaps not out to eliminate you? That perhaps they were actually protecting you?"
Jude was too stunned to speak.
"Or why we never killed Skyler? After all, he caused us a lot of trouble. His escape put us all in great jeopardy. In fact, it brought down the whole edifice — forced us to abandon the island."
"Why didn't you?"
"We didn't kill him because of you. Because you might need to live one hundred and sixty years yourself. You might be required to. You have been marked out to play a very special role in our great and historic drama."
"The drama of your death?"
"No, quite the opposite."
Baptiste was suddenly animated. He stood and walked in a circle, and as he came into the light, Jude saw for the first time that his hair was not black but gray.
"What is the opposite of death? Why, birth — of course. And that is why I am here, I and a few others, the select few who have assembled in this drab locale. I hasten to add that I am not speaking of those who are undergoing operations, who think only of themselves and their own lives. I am referring to the select few — those of us who are ready for the next stage, the final breakthrough."
"And what is that?"
"Don't worry, you shall witness it."
"But why me? What is this special role you're talking about?"
Baptiste just looked at him, long and hard, and finally said: "You poor boy. You simply have no idea — do you? Why don't you come with me? We'll go upstairs and you can see for yourself. But first, more tea."
He rang, and the black waiter returned and poured another cup for each. As he handed a cup to Jude with a strong hand, the waiter looked at him and said: "Tie yuh mout. Study yuh head."
"Cornelius," Baptiste said. "Our guest does not speak Gullah."
"What was that? What did he say?"
"Cornelius is my cook. He is such an artist in the kitchen, I bring him with me wherever I go."
"And what did he say?"
"A bit rude, I'm afraid. Literally, it would be: 'Keep quiet and use your head.'
The old black man leaned over and whispered something in Baptiste's ear. Baptiste stood up quickly, suddenly keen-eyed.
"He informs me that we do not have time to finish our tea."
"But where are we going?"
"Upstairs." He paused a heartbeat. "I think it's time you met Dr. Rincon."
The surgeon was worried by what she saw. At first, the operation had gone well. She had cut through the skin neatly and peeled it back with a symmetry that was undeniably the work of an expert. She had moved on quickly to the next stage, opening the chest cavity and widening the slit to expose the upper and lower abdomen.
It was then that she noticed that the organs did not look good. The color of the stomach was a little off, the texture of the liver was wrong, the feel of the intestines was flaccid.
"I don't understand it," she said through her mask. "I expected a clone to be in perfect condition. That's what he was raised for. How can we transplant these organs with any chance of success?"
"Something's wrong," said the second surgeon.
"Wait a minute," said the assistant, in a tone that overstepped her authority.
She removed the instruments that had been lying upon the sterile white sheet across the patient's lower body. One by one she placed them upon the tray, leaving a little trail of blood.
"What are you doing?" demanded the female surgeon.
"Checking," she replied as she began to roll down the sheet, exposing first the pubic hair, then the genitals and finally the thighs and legs.
They all saw it more or less at the same time and found it hard to speak for the shock of it — of what wasn't there on the thigh. There was no Gemini tattoo. It was not a clone they had been cutting into. It was a proto.
The assistant dropped the sheet.
"Higgins," shouted the surgeon, turning around. "You've made a mistake. A horrible mistake. You brought the wrong one."
She looked around the room, but Higgins wasn't there. He had slipped out at some point. She dropped the knife she was holding, ripped off her mask and ran through the double doors. She ran through the prep room and tried to get into the ward, but the door struck something. It was difficult to open, and she had to push it with her shoulder. When she did, and when she finally stepped inside, she saw what had been blocking it — Higgins's body. He had been knocked unconscious, lying there dressed in a pair of chinos and a pink-and-blue-striped shirt. She bent down to take his pulse. So involved was she in checking his condition that she did not know why those who rushed in behind her had lost their heads and were yelling.
But when she looked up, she saw why. She saw that all the beds that had been occupied by the clones were empty. The sheets were scattered upon the floor, the door at the end of the ward was wide open, and the thick belts that had strapped them in place were hanging down toward the floor, some of them still swinging gently.
Tizzie had been struggling with the key that the Orderly had left in the lock for almost a half hour. She took the unused safety pin from the back of her badge, bent the sharp end into a straight line and inserted it, trying to turn it so that the key aligned with the keyhole. Then she unscrewed her ballpoint pen and used the point on the plastic shaft to try to push the key outward. It was hard because she could not see — she needed two hands, which blocked the view of the keyhole — and because the key kept sliding back to its original position.
But eventually she got it — she felt the pin push forward and immediately heard the key hit the floor. The sound was softened a bit because it landed upon her blouse, which she had slipped under the door, spreading it out as best she could. Now, slowly and carefully, she reeled the blouse back in, praying that the key had not bounced away. She did not dare believe she had succeeded until she saw its rounded metal head peeking up at her.
It fit perfectly from inside and turned the lock in no time.
She ran down the corridor, past the open door of Jude's cell, and outside onto the staircase. It was getting dark. In the distance, she thought she heard muffled noises, the sound of people, vague shadows running. She would have to be careful.
She crept down the stairs and ran to the perimeter of the base, following the fence until she came to the quartermaster's office. She rushed in, grabbed the phone, and dialed Washington, D.C., information. She got the number of the FBI.
What's the man's name? What is it? Jude mentioned it.
The phone was ringing.
Oh, no. It's late. He won't be there. No one will be there.
But someone picked up. The name came to her.
"Brantley. Mr. Brantley. Ed Brantley. It's urgent."
"One moment, please."
And then, to her amazement, she was talking to him. And if he sounded much closer than Washington, D.C., that's because he was much closer.
At the top of the stairs, Jude was assaulted by a smell. It wasn't a good smell. It was strong and medicinal.
Baptiste had led him up the staircase, pulling himself up with his right hand on the banister and guiding Jude under the elbow with his left — which was curious considering that he was the feebler of the two. The old man was excited. They turned a corner, down a corridor, and now Baptiste seemed to be hurrying, as if he feared being late. They came to a door. Baptiste leaned one ear toward it and listened for a moment; Jude thought he could hear strange sounds inside, a moaning perhaps. Then it was quiet. Carefully and slowly, Baptiste turned the doorknob. He went in first. Then Jude.