Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

Kenner said, "I must say, it was an excellent choice. Hapalochlaena fasciata, the most deadly of the three species of blue-ringed octopus. So named because when it is threatened it changes color and produces bright blue rings on its skin. It's found everywhere in the coastal waters of Australia. The animal is very tiny, the bite is small and almost undetectable, and envenomation is often deadly. There is no antivenom. And a bite's not likely to be quickly recognized at a hospital in Los Angeles. Really, a masterful choice."* Evans, who was lying in the emergency room at UCLA with a respirator on his face, just stared. He was still unable to speak. But he was no longer so frightened. Janis had gone home in a huff, mentioning something about teaching an early class. Sarah was sitting by his bed, rubbing his hand gently and looking beautiful. "Where would they have gotten one?"

"I imagine they have several," Kenner said. "They're delicate, and don't live very long anyway. But they are captured in fairly large numbers because the Aussies are trying to make an antivenin. You probably know the Australians lead the world in deadly poisonous animals. The most poisonous snake, the most poisonous mollusk, the most poisonous fishall from Australia or found there."

Evans thought, Great.

"But now of course UCLA has seen three cases. They're on it."

"Yes, we are," an intern said, coming into the room. He checked Evans's IV and his respirator. He said, "We have your preliminary blood work. It's a tetrodotoxin, like the others. You should be up and around in about three more hours. Lucky guy." He smiled winningly at Sarah, then walked out again.

"Anyway, I'm glad you're all right," Kenner said. "It would have been embarrassing to lose you."

Evans thought, What is he talking about? He was increasingly able to use his eye muscles, and he glanced over at Sarah. But she just smiled.

"Oh yes," Kenner said. "I need you alive, Peter. At least for a while."

Sitting in a corner of the room on his cell phone, Sanjong said, "Okay, we have some action."

Kenner said, "Is it where we thought?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"We just got the receipt notice. They rented an aircraft last month. A C-57 transport."

"Whew," Kenner said.

"What does that mean?" Sarah said.

"Big aircraft. They probably need it to spray."

She looked puzzled. "Spray?"

Sanjong said, "It's pretty clear they're going to disseminate AOB, ammonia-oxidizing bacteria, in large quantities. And perhaps some hydrophilic nanoparticles as well."

"To do what?"

"Control the path of a storm," Kenner said. "There's some evidence that disseminated AOB at altitude can shift a hurricane or cyclone track. Hydrophilic nanoparticles potentiate the effect. At least in theory. I don't know if it's been tried on a large system."

"They're going to control a hurricane?"

"They're going to try."

"Maybe not," Sanjong said. "Tokyo says some recent cellular and Internet traffic suggests that the project may be canceled."

"Then they don't have the initial conditions?"

"Looks like they don't, no."

Evans coughed. "Oh good," Kenner said. "You're coming around." He patted his arm. "Just rest now, Peter. Try and sleep if you can. Because, as you know, today is the big day."

"The big day?" Sarah said.

"The conference begins in about five and a half hours," Kenner said. He stood to go, then turned back to Evans. "I'm going to have Sanjong stay with you the rest of the night," he said. "I think you'll be all right here, but they've already made one attempt on your life, and I don't want them to try another."

Sanjong smiled and sat on the chair beside the bed, a stack of magazines beside him. He opened the latest issue of Time magazine. The cover story was "Climate Change Doomsday Ahead." He also had Newsweek: "Abrupt Climate ChangeA New Scandal for the Administration?" And The Economist: "Climate Change Rears Its Ugly Head." And Paris-Match: "Climat: Le Nouveau Pйril Amйricain."

Sanjong smiled cheerfully. "Just rest now," he said.

Evans closed his eyes.

At nine o'clock that morning, the invited attendees to the conference were milling around on the floor, not taking their seats. Evans was standing near the entrance, drinking coffee. He felt incredibly tired, but he was all right. He'd been a little shaky in his legs earlier, but that had passed.

The delegates were clearly academic types, many dressed casually in a manner to suggest an outdoorsy lifestylekhakis and L.L.Bean shirts, hiking boots, Patagonia vests. "It looks like a lumberjack convention, doesn't it?" Jennifer said, standing beside Evans. "You'd never know these guys spend most of their time in front of computer monitors."

"Is that true?" Evans said.

"A lot of them, yes."

"And the hiking shoes?"

She shrugged. "The rugged look is in, at the moment."

At the podium, Nicholas Drake tapped the microphone. "Good morning, everyone," he said. "We will begin in ten minutes." Then he stepped away, and huddled with Henley.

"Waiting for the TV cameras," Jennifer said. "They had some electrical problems this morning. Crews are still setting up."

"So, of course, everything waits for television."

At the entrance to the convention hall, there was a commotion and shouting. Evans looked over and saw an elderly man in a tweed coat and tie struggling with two security guards. "But I have been invited!" he said. "I am supposed to be here."

"Sorry, sir," the guards were saying, "your name is not on the sheet."

"But, I tell you, I have been invited!"

"Oh boy," Jennifer said, shaking her head.

"Who's that?"

"That is Professor Norman Hoffman. Ever heard of him?"

"No, why?"

"The ecology of thought? He's a famous sociologist, or should I say a notorious one. Extremely critical of environmental beliefs. A bit of a mad dog. We had him over to the war room to ask him his views. That was a mistake. The guy never shuts up. He talks a mile a minute and goes off on tangentsin every directionand you can't turn him off. It's like a TV set that changes channels every few seconds, and there's no remote."

"No wonder they don't want him here."

"Oh yes, he would cause trouble. He already is."

Over by the entrance, the old man was struggling with the security guards. "Let go of me! How dare you! I was invited! By George Morton himself. He and I are personal friends. George Morton invited me!"

The mention of George Morton sparked something. Evans went over to the old man.

Jennifer said, "You'll be sor-ry amp;"

He shrugged. "Excuse me," he said, coming up to the guards. "I'm Mr. Morton's attorney. Can I help you?"

The old man writhed in the grip of the guards. "I'm Professor Norman Hoffman and George Morton invited me!" Up close, Evans saw that the old man was messily shaven, unkempt, his hair wild. "Why do you think I would come to this horrible convocation? For one reason only: George asked me to. He wanted my impression of it. Although I could have told him weeks ago: There are no surprises to be had here, I can assure you. It will unfold with all the stately ceremony of any cheap funeral."

Evans was thinking Jennifer had been right to warn him about this guy. He said politely, "Do you have a ticket, sir?"

"No, I don't have a ticket. I don't need a ticket. What don't you understand, young man? I am Professor Norman Hoffman and I am a personal friend of George Morton's. Anyway," he said, "they took my ticket."

"Who did?"

"One of those guards."

Evans said to the guards, "Did you take his ticket?"

"He didn't have a ticket."