Volescu choked out some words. “Fulfilling the terms of my grants.”

“Grants from whom?”

“The grant granters,” said Volescu.

“Lock this place down,” said Bean to Suriyawong. “I’ll call the Hegemon to request a Rwandan perimeter guard.”

“I think,” said Petra, “that our brilliant scientist friend had some bizarre notion of remaking the human race.”

“We need Anton to look at what this sick little disciple of his was doing,” said Bean.

“Suri,” said Petra. “Bean wasn’t really going to murder him.”

“Yes I was,” said Bean.

“I would have stopped him,” said Petra.

Suri barked out a little laugh. “Sometimes people need killing. So far, Bean’s record is one for one.”

Petra stopped going along on the interviews with Volescu. They could hardly be called interrogations—direct questions led nowhere, threats seemed to mean nothing. It was maddening and stressful and she hated the way he looked at her. Looked at her belly, which was showing her pregnancy more and more every day.

But she still kept on top of what they were calling, for lack of a better name, the Volescu project. The head of electronic security, Ferreira, was working most intensely on trying to track down everything Volescu had been doing with his computer and tracking his various identities through the nets. But Petra made sure that the database searches and indexes that they already had under way continued. These babies were out there somewhere, implanted in surrogate mothers, and at some point they were going to give birth. Volescu wouldn’t risk their lives by forbidding the mothers access to good medical care—in fact, that was bound to be a minimum. So they would be born in hospitals, their births registered.

How they would find these babies in the millions that would be born in that timeframe, Petra couldn’t begin to guess. But they’d collect the data and index it on every conceivably useful variable so it was there to work with when they finally figured out some identifying marker.

Meanwhile, Bean conducted the interviews with Volescu. They were yielding some information that proved accurate, but it was hard for Bean to decide whether Volescu was unconsciously letting useful information slip, or deliberately toying with them by bleeding out little bits of information that he knew would not be terribly useful in the end.

When he wasn’t with Volescu, Bean was with Anton, who had come away from retirement and accepted a heavy level of drugs to control his aversive reaction to working in his field of science. “I tell myself every day,” he said to Bean, “that I’m not doing science, I’m merely grading a student’s assignments. It helps. But I still throw up. This is not good for me.”

“Don’t push any harder than you can.”

“My wife helps me,” said Anton. “She’s very patient with this old man. And you know what? She’s pregnant. In the natural way!”

“Congratulations,” Bean said, knowing how hard this was for Anton, whose sexual desires did not tend in the same direction as his reproductive plans.