“The patient was in flagrant septic shock when we started her on treatment. She died within fourteen hours of her first dose. You know antibiotics take a minimum of twenty-four hours to make a dent in any infection.” He sighed. “Her body had already shut down by the time we started the Oraloxin. She didn’t survive long enough for us to know whether it might have helped.”

“What makes you think it would have?” Horton muttered, gnawing at a fingernail.

“The culture results.”

Horton felt a flicker of excitement. “What about them?”

“We plated the Oraloxin samples against MRGAS,” Kilburn said. “And Ellen, it worked!”

She rose from her chair. “It did?” she said, stunned.

“Congratulations, Ellen!” He laughed. “You have created the only antibiotic shown to work against MRGAS.”

“I did?” she mumbled. “Have you tried it on other patients?”

“Not yet,” he said. “We only got the word on these results last night. But Ellen, I suspect we’ll need a lot more Oraloxin in a big hurry. Will that be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t be,” she said, feeling the excitement build. “We’re expecting FDA approval any day. The plant is all set up. We’ve already begun to manufacture pills in large quantity.” She paused. “But of course, I’ll have to run it by Luc.”

“Oh,” Kilburn’s tone chilled. “Dr. Martineau.”

“What’s wrong, Graham?” she asked.

“Let’s not forget how Martineau refused to authorize my use of Oraloxin for my dying patient,” Kilburn grumbled.

Horton dropped back down in her chair. “He what?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No,” she said, stinging from the betrayal. “But I’ll definitely have a talk with him.”

“Do you foresee a problem with access to more of the drug?”

“No,” she said distractedly. “I don’t.”

“Good.” On an upbeat note, he added, “And if I can speak on behalf of the entire planet: thank you.”

“Let’s hope that a planetary thank-you isn’t a bit premature,” she said. “I’ll give you a call as soon as I’ve had a chance to discuss this with Luc and my other colleagues here.”

After hanging up, she headed for the elevator, filled with a tumultuous mix of elation and anger. When she stepped into the forty-fourth-floor reception area, she stormed past Luc Martineau’s receptionist, yanked open the brass handle on the large mahogany door, and marched inside.

Martineau leaned comfortably back in the leather chair with an arm folded behind his head. Looking equally relaxed, Andrea Byington sat on the other side of the large oak desk with her legs crossed. Though separated by the desk, there was something painfully intimate to Horton in their body language; like two people taking a breather between episodes of lovemaking.

“Good morning, Ellen,” Byington said cheerily.

Martineau smiled broadly and stood to his feet. “Ellen, we were just talking about you.”

“And I you,” Horton said coolly, stopping beside his desk.