The young girl stammered, “In a cone or a cup?”
“A cone, please,” the scientist answered politely. As she scooped, her arm trembling visibly and with millions of people watching live around the globe, the scientist reached into his pocket and put a one-euro coin in the tip jar. By this time, his family had contacted authorities to inform them what they were already beginning to suspect, namely that the man was unbalanced but harmless. The syringe had been rushed off to a laboratory for analysis, and just as the mad scientist was finishing the last of his sugar cone, a laboratory official called police to tell them it contained nothing more than saline. The CEO’s nausea (he had been vomiting repeatedly) was entirely psychosomatic, which one can understand given the circumstances.
The mad scientist was transfixing. The video clip of him ordering ice cream was viewed over twenty million times. The phrase “Might I have two scoops?” entered the lexicon; young people used it in an ironic way in all kinds of circumstances. There was even a temporary surge in the popularity of chocolate almond ice cream. More serious people recognized the cleverness of the scientist’s fake scheme: infecting a victim (or millions of victims) and then using the antidote as leverage. The press clamored for evidence that the Capellaviridae was not a similar terrorist plot, leaving the Communications Director with the impossible task of proving a negative. “We have no evidence whatsoever that any human actors are involved in any criminal actions related to Capellaviridae,” he declared at an impromptu press briefing at the rear of Air Force One. “None. No ransom request, no biological evidence—nothing.”
“But it’s possible?” a Fox reporter asked.
The Communications Director, who had been sleeping even less than the President, snarled back, “Look, it’s possible this virus came to earth on a secret spaceship from Mars. I can’t prove it didn’t.”
Upon reading this exchange, a new and very young Ukrainian correspondent failed to recognize the Communication Director’s use of satire to make his point and reported earnestly back to her national news wire that the White House now believed it was possible that aliens may have introduced Capellaviridae to our planet. Several Ukrainian radio stations reported the story before the State Department set them straight. Meanwhile, the Onion—still the best source for real fake news—found dark humor in the Outbreak. The headline of the most recent issue proclaimed, “God Says Capellaviridae Is Punishment for Bears Not Winning Super Bowl.” The Bears had lost to the Broncos in a Super Bowl blowout a few months earlier; the Bears coach was a very religious man who wore that religion on both sleeves. Before the game, not only did he lead his team in prayer on the sidelines, but he told reporters, “I am certain that the Man Upstairs will lead us to victory.” In fact, God allowed the Bears defense to give up over five hundred passing yards and forty-one points. The Onion had been mining this humor trove for some time, beginning with the first headline after the game: “Man Upstairs Apologizes to Bears Fans for Crappy Pass Rush.”
Ellen was understandably eager to talk about what was happening. She was curious about the work I had been doing, and, like everybody else, she wanted to know how worried she should be about Capellaviridae. “I get it now,” she said, which I took to be an all-purpose apology for our squabbles in recent days, most of which had to do with my absences and general lack of attention. I wanted to sleep more than anything else, but I realized I owed Ellen at least a cursory discussion of the situation. “You met the President?” she asked.
“Just about every day,” I said.
“What’s he like?” she asked. I did my best to describe the President and the other senior officials with whom I had been interacting. Ellen had relatively little curiosity about my work but great interest in the people I had been doing it with. If I had been less exhausted I might have been more charitable, but I remember wondering if Ellen was going to have me describe their outfits, including the designers.
At about this time, I got a short text from Jenna: “Did you see the ice cream cone thing?”
“Sorry,” I said to Ellen. “I have to reply to this.” I felt awful in that moment, knowing I had exploited the situation to flirt with someone I had known for less than twelve hours. At the same time, I realized—and Jenna would later tell me that she had realized—that those three hours beginning on the bench were more than just three hours on a bench. Jenna was the person I wanted to be speaking to at that moment. I texted back: “Amusing but also a reminder that the guy with antivenom gets the ice-cream cone!” In hindsight, this was not as clever as I thought it was. (I have no future career with the Onion.) I went to bed thinking about Jenna and knowing that I should have been thinking about Ellen. But that is not the larger point here. I also went to bed with the German mad scientist on my mind. I remember thinking, The guy with the antivenom gets the ice-cream cone! was the kind of chippy thing Professor Huke would say.
In fact, it was exactly the kind of thing that Huke would say. Because it finally got me thinking like a virus (after eleven more hours of sleep).
64.
THE PRESIDENT AWOKE SHORTLY BEFORE AIR FORCE ONE touched down in Canberra. The exuberance of his exciting takeoff to the west had dissipated; the senior staff realized there was no plan once they arrived in Australia. As expected, the Chinese had made a new offer via the U.S. Embassy in Beijing, but they were still demanding that the U.S. walk away from the South China Sea Agreement, as well as an array of other unacceptable concessions. The press—both on board Air Force One and back home—had moved beyond the U.S.-China showdown and were asking the right questions: When would the Dormigen supply be exhausted? Who would be given priority as the supply ran out? And what would be the public health implications? The President asked for basically the same information upon landing. The Chief of Staff gave him a short briefing. “The Dormigen supplies have been secured,” she said, consulting the notes on her yellow legal pad. “We have tightened the prescription criteria so that no one is getting Dormigen who does not absolutely need it. That seems to be working okay.”
“Cecelia Dodds?” he asked.
“She’s still in intensive care. It’s a nasty infection. She’s tough and they’re doing what they can.”
“Tell me if she gets worse.”
“I will.”
“What about this high school principal in Arkansas?” the President asked, waving a copy of his daily press clips (a compilation of news stories from around the world that the White House Press Office felt would be of interest to the President). The Washington Post–USA Today had run a front-page story about a fifty-three-year-old man who arrived at a hospital with failing kidneys. He was correctly diagnosed with a raging kidney infection. He also had a serious heart condition that got less attention. Per the new guidelines, he was started on a traditional antibiotic rather than Dormigen. The infection responded to the antibiotic, as doctors had hoped, but his failing kidneys put unexpected strain on his heart and he died of a heart attack. The man, Paul Gannett, was a prominent member of the local community and his death had been a shock. Hence the national news story.
“He should have gotten Dormigen. It’s going to happen,” the Chief of Staff said. “Even that may not have saved him.” The President nodded in acknowledgment and she continued. “At the current run rate, the Dormigen supply will be exhausted in about five days.”