Greg Bear - Darwin's Radio

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.

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.

His jeans were new. He had dug through his suitcase and pulled out a black blazer. He had not dressed to impress in over a year, but here he was, thinking of little else but Kaye Lang.

The doorman was not impressed. He leaned on his pedestal and watched Mitch closely out of the corner of his eye. The phone rang at the pedestal and he answered it.

“Go on up,” he said, waving his hand at the elevator. “Twentieth floor. 2011. Check in with the guard up there. Serious beef.”

Mitch thanked him and stood in the elevator. As the door closed, he wondered for a panicky moment what the hell he thought he was doing. The last thing he needed in this mess was emotional involvement. Where women were concerned, however, Mitch was guided by secret masters reticent to divulge either their goals or their immediate plans. These secret masters had caused him a lot of grief.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and resigned himself to the next few hours, come what may.

On the twentieth floor, he stepped out of the elevator and saw Kaye speaking to a man in a gray suit. He had short black hair, a strong thick face, a hooked nose. The man had spotted Mitch before Mitch saw them.

Kaye smiled at Mitch. “Come on in. The coast is clear. This is Karl Benson.”

“Glad to meet you,” Mitch said.

The man nodded, folded his arms, and stepped back, allowing Mitch to pass, but not without a sniff, like a dog trying for a scent.

“Marge Cross gets about thirty death threats every week,” Kaye said as she led Mitch into the apartment. “I’ve had three since the incident at NIH.”

“The game is getting tough,” Mitch said.

“I’ve been so busy since the RU-486 mess,” Kaye said.

Mitch lifted his thick brows. “The abortion pill?”

“Didn’t Christopher tell you?”

“Chris hasn’t returned any of my calls,” Mitch said.

“Oh?” Dicken had not told her the precise truth. Kaye found that interesting. “Maybe it’s because you call him Chris.”

“Not to his face,” Mitch said, grinned, and sobered. “As I said, I’m ignorant.”

“RU-486 removes the secondary SHEVA pregnancy if it’s used at an early stage.” She looked for his reaction. “You don’t approve?”

“Under the circumstances, it seems wrong.” Mitch peered at the simple, elegant furniture, the art prints.

Kaye closed the door. “Abortion in general…or this?”

“This.” Mitch sensed her tension and felt for a moment as if she were putting him through a quick exam.

“Americol is going to make its own abortion pill available. If it’s a disease, we’re close to stopping it,” Kaye said.

Mitch strolled to the large plate glass window, pushed his hands into his pockets, looked over his shoulder at Kaye. “You’re helping them do this?”

“No,” Kaye said. “I’m hoping to convince some key people, rearrange our priorities. I don’t think I’m going to succeed, but it has to be done. I’m glad you came here, though. Maybe it’s a sign my luck is improving. What brings you to Baltimore?”

Mitch pulled his hands out of his pockets. “I’m not a very promising sign. I can barely afford to travel. I got some money from my father. I’m on the parental dole big time.”

“Are you going on to somewhere else?” Kaye asked.

“Just to Baltimore,” Mitch said.

“Oh.” Kaye stood a long step behind him. He could see her reflection in the glass, her bright beige suit, but not her face.

“Well, that’s not strictly true. I’m going to New York, SUN Y. A friend in Oregon arranged for an interview. I’d like to teach, do field research in the summer. Maybe start over again on a different coast.”

“I went to SUNY. I’m afraid I don’t know anybody there now. Nobody influential. Please sit.” Kaye motioned toward the couch, the armchair. “Water? Juice?”