Greg Bear - Darwin's Radio

Voices immediately around him, whispering, subdued -

“Can’t”

“Children have the”

“My grandchildren will”

“The last generation”

“Book”

“Stop”

Then, an eerie quiet. Dicken was five people from the edge. They would not let him move any farther. Faces dull and resentful, like sheep, eyes blank, hands shoving. Ignorant. Frightened.

He hated them, wanted to smash their noses. He was a fool; he did not want to be among the sheep. “Excuse me.” No response. The mob’s mind had been made up; he could feel it deliberately pulsing. The mob waited, intent, vacant.

Light flared in the east and Dicken saw the Washington Monument turn white, brighter than the floodlights. From the dark muggy sky came a loose rumble. Drops of rain touched the crowd. Faces looked up.

He could smell the mob’s eagerness. Something had to change. They were being pressed by a single concern: something had to change.

The rain came pouring. People raised their hands over their heads. Smiles broke out. Faces accepted the rain and people spun as best they could. Others shoved the spinners and they stopped, dismayed.

The crowd spasmed and suddenly expelled him and he made it to the barricades and confronted a policeman. “Jesus,” the policeman said, dancing back three steps, and the mob shoved over the barricades. The horsemen tried to push them back, weaving through. A woman screamed. The mob surged and swallowed the policemen mounted and on foot, before they could raise their batons or unholster their guns. A horse was pushed up onto the steps and stumbled, falling over into the mob, its rider rolling off, a boot flung high.

Dicken shouted “Staff!” and ran up the Capitol steps, between the guardsmen, who ignored him. He was shaking his head and laughing, glad to be free, waiting for the melee to really begin. But the mob was right behind him, and there was barely time to start running again, ahead of the people, the scattered gunshots, the wet and spreading and stinking mass.

Mitch saw the morning headlines on a rack of Daily News at Perm Station:

He and Kaye had spent the night eating by candlelight and making love. Very romantic, very out of touch. They had parted just an hour ago; Kaye was getting dressed, choosing her colors carefully, expecting a difficult day.

He picked up a paper and boarded the train. As he took his seat and spread the paper open, the train began to pull out, picking up speed, and he wondered if Kaye was safe, whether the riot had been spontaneous or organized, whether it really mattered.

The people had spoken, or rather, snarled. They had had enough of failure and inaction in Washington. The president was meeting with security advisors, the joint chiefs of staff, the heads of select committees, the chief justice. To Mitch, that sounded like a soft approach preliminary to declaring martial law.

He did not want to be on the train. He could not see what Merton could do for him, or for Kaye; and he could not picture himself lecturing on bonehead bone-ology to college students and never setting foot on a dig again.

Mitch slipped the folded paper onto his seat and made his way down the aisle to the public phone box at the end of the car. He called Kaye’s number, but she had already left, and he did not think it would be politic to call her at Americol.

He took a deep breath, tried to calm himself, and returned to his seat.

Dicken met Kaye in the Americol cafeteria at ten. The conference was scheduled for six o’clock, and a number of visitors had been added: the vice president and the president’s science advisor among them.

Dicken looked terrible. He had not slept all night. “My turn to be a basket case,” he said. “I think the debate is over. We’re down, we’re out. We can do some more shouting, but I don’t know anyone who will listen.”

“What about the science?” Kaye asked plaintively. “You tried hard to bring us back in line after the herpes disaster.”

“SHEVA mutates,” Dickens said. He beat his hand rhythmically on the table.

“I’ve explained that to you.”

“You’ve only shown that SHEVA mutated a long time ago. It’s just a human retrovirus, an old one, with a slow but very clever way of reproducing.”

“Christopher…”

“You’re going to get your hearing,” Dicken said. He finished his cup of coffee and stood up from the table. “Don’t explain it to me. Explain it to them ”

Kaye looked up at him, angry and puzzled. “Why change your mind after so long?”

“I started out looking for a virus. Your papers, your work, suggested it might be something else. We can all be misled. Our job is to look for evidence, and when it’s compelling, we have to give up our most cherished little notions.”

Kaye stood beside him and poked her finger. “Tell me this is entirely about science.”

“Of course not. I was on the Capitol steps, Kaye. I could have been one of those poor bastards who got shot or beaten to death.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Tell me you returned Mitch’s call, after our meeting in San Diego.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Dicken glared back at her. “After last night, anything personal is trivial, Kaye.”

“Is it?”

Dicken folded his arms. “I could never present someone like Mitch to someone like Augustine and hope to build our case. Mitch had some interesting information, but it only proves that SHEVA has been with us for a long time.”

“He believed in both of us.”

“He believes in you more, I think,” Dicken said, his eyes darting away.

“Has that affected your judgment?”

Dicken flared. “Has it affected yours ? I can’t take a pee without someone telling someone else how long I spent in the John. But you, you bring Mitch up to your apartment ”

Kaye crowded in on Dicken. “Augustine told you I slept with Mitch?”

Dicken would not be crowded. He pushed Kaye gently back and sidestepped. “I hate this as much as anyone, but it’s the way we have to be!”

“According to whom? Augustine?”

“Augustine’s been burned, too. We’re in a crisis. Goddamn it, Kaye, that should be obvious to everyone by now.”

“I never said I was a saint, Christopher! I trusted you not to abandon me when you brought me into this.”

Dicken lowered his head and looked to one side, then the other, his misery and anger tearing him. “I thought you might be a partner.”

“What sort of partner, Christopher?”

“A…supporter. An intellectual equal.”

“A girlfriend?”

For a moment, Dicken’s face put on the expression of a small boy handed a crushing bit of news. He looked at Kaye with both longing and sadness. He could hardly stand up straight he was so tired.

Kaye pulled back and reconsidered. She had done nothing to lead him on; she had never regarded herself as a raving beauty whose attractions were irresistible to men. She could not fathom the depth of this man’s feeling.

“You never told me you felt anything more than curiosity,” Kaye said.

“I never move fast enough, and I never say what I mean,” Dicken said. “I don’t blame you for not suspecting.”

“But it hurt you that I chose Mitch.”

“I can’t deny it hurts. But it doesn’t affect my scientific judgment.”

Kaye walked around the table, shaking her head. “What can we salvage from this?”

“You can present your evidence. I just don’t believe it’s going to be compelling.” He swung around and walked out of the cafeteria.