Climate controlled and fully automated, the presets adjustable through a small console just an arm’s reach away. The shushing of the corner humidifiers in concert with the drone of the ionizer and the whispering air-filtration system was like a mother’s reassuring hush. Every man, thought Eldritch Palmer, should slumber nightly in a womb. And sleep like a baby.

Dusk was still many hours away, and he was impatient. Now that everything was in motion—the strain spreading throughout New York City with the sure exponential force of compound interest, doubling and doubling itself again every night—he hummed with the glee of a greedy banker. No financial success, of which there had been plenty, ever enlivened him as much as did this vast endeavor.

His nightstand telephone toned once, the handset flashing. Any calls to this phone had to be routed through his nurse and assistant, Mr. Fitzwilliam, a man of extraordinary good judgment and discretion. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Who is it, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

“Mr. Jim Kent, sir. He says it is urgent. I am putting him through.”

In a moment, Mr. Kent, one of Palmer’s many well-placed Stoneheart Society members, said, “Yes, hello?”

“Go ahead, Mr. Kent.”

“Yes—can you hear me? I have to talk quietly…”

“I can hear you, Mr. Kent. We were cut off last time.”

“Yes. The pilot had escaped. Walked away from testing.”

Palmer smiled. “And he is gone now?”

“No. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I followed him through the hospital until Dr. Goodweather and Dr. Martinez caught up with him. They said Redfern is okay, but I can’t confirm his status. I heard another nurse saying I was alone up here. And that members of the Canary project had taken over a locked room in the basement.”

Palmer darkened. “You are alone up where?”

“In this isolation ward. Just a precaution. Redfern must have hit me or something, he knocked me out.”

Palmer was silent for a moment. “I see.”

“If you would explain to me exactly what I am supposed to be looking for, I could assist you better—”

“You said they have commandeered a room in the hospital?”

“In the basement. It might be the morgue. I will find out more later.”

Palmer said, “How?”

“Once I get out of here. They just need to run some tests on me.”

Palmer reminded himself that Jim Kent was not an epidemiologist himself, but more of a facilitator for the Canary project, with no medical training. “You sound as though you have a sore throat, Mr. Kent.”

“I do. Just a touch of something.”

“Mm-hmm. Good day, Mr. Kent.”

Palmer hung up. Kent’s exposure was merely an aggravation, but the report about the hospital morgue room was troubling. Though in any worthy venture, there are always hurdles to overcome. A lifetime of deal making had taught him that it was the setbacks and pitfalls that make final victory so sweet.