Banks gave Lou a sympathetic look and said softly enough so only he could hear, “I’m sorry for Sam’s behavior. He isn’t a bad guy, he just has very strong opinions, and as you seem to suspect, he’s under a huge amount of pressure.”

“But you don’t agree with his opinions?” Lou asked, gathering his papers.

Banks pursed her lips, giving her next words careful consideration.

“I think there is something to what you’re proposing,” she replied. “But Sam isn’t wrong. It would probably take a long time to perfect, and more manpower than we have.”

Or, Lou thought, the most brilliant microbiologist nobody has ever heard of.

“I don’t have many options left,” Lou said. “Thanks, Dr. Banks. You gave me something important.”

“And what is that?”

“You gave me a bit of hope.”

Banks returned a weak smile. Hope, her expression said, would not be enough.

“Please call me Vicki. Listen, Lou, I’m really very sorry about your friend. I deeply hope he makes it.”

“You and a lot of other people,” he said. “Thanks again for caring.”

Scupman was still on the phone, and Lou wondered in passing if there was anyone on the other end of the line. He had taken a step toward the door when Vicki blurted out, “Would you like to go out and get a drink sometime? I hate to think you’re by yourself in a city that’s not your own, dealing with what’s on your plate.”

“Thanks. I’m going to spend some more time reading about bacteriophage,” he said, thinking about the work that awaited him in Subbasement Two of Arbor General. Then, quickly, before she could acknowledge that turning her down was okay, he added, “Oh, hell, I’d love to. What works for you?”

“How about the day after tomorrow?” she said. “We have budget meetings this week. You can meet me outside this building at five. It’s a few blocks’ walk to a little place I like. The Blue Ox—long on atmosphere, a little short on delicacies.”

“How’d you know?” Lou asked.

“Know what?”

“How’d you know I needed a friend?”

Vicki’s smile was radiant. “I’ve always had an overabundance of woman’s intuition,” she said.

Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

Mark my words: August 14, 1935, is a date Americans will come to rue.

—LANCASTER R. HILL, PERSONAL COMMUNICATION TO JAMES KINCHLEY, ESQ., MARCH 1936

All the mice were dead.

Twenty cages, each occupied by one mouse of a genetically pure strain, were lined up along a bench in Kazimi’s laboratory. The Janus germ was not an airborne contaminant, but as a precaution, powerful HEPA filters droned on, continuously purifying the air. To prevent accidental spread, the lab contained a rack of level-B hazmat suits and a chemical shower for the decontamination process.