“This is an excellent idea,” Lowen said, and then jumped a little at the noise of the door of one of the berths flying open and slamming against the bulkhead.

Wilson looked toward the noise and saw Thierry Bourkou, looking frantic. “Is everything all right, Mr. Bourkou?” he asked.

Bourkou turned to Wilson, saw Lowen on his arm and rushed toward them. “Dani, Dani, come quick,” he said. “It’s Cong.”

“What’s Cong?” Lowen asked, less tired and slurred than moments before. Wilson could see the panic on her colleague’s face, and his alarmed tone was pushing the drunkenness down. “What is it?”

“He’s not breathing,” Bourkou said. “He’s blue and he’s not breathing.” He grabbed Lowen’s hand and pulled her down the corridor toward his berth. “He’s not breathing and I think he might be dead.”

*   *   *

“He was fine when he lay down,” Bourkou said. “He and I have both been feeling tired, so we both took naps at the same time. Then he started snoring, so I turned on the white noise machine. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up I told him I was going to get him some tea and asked him if he wanted any. He didn’t respond, so I went to shake him. That’s when I saw his lips were blue.”

All of the observers were in the Clarke’s medical bay, along with Wilson, Abumwe, Captain Coloma and Doctor Inge Stone, the Clarke’s chief medical officer. Liu was also there, on a stretcher.

“Did he say anything other than that he was tired?” Stone asked Bourkou. “Did he complain about any other pains or ailments?”

Bourkou shook his head. “I’ve known Cong for ten years,” he said. “He’s always been healthy. The worst that’s ever happened to him is that he broke his foot when a motorcycle ran over it while he was crossing a street.”

“What happened to him?” Franz Meyer asked. After Liu, he was the ranking diplomat among the observers.

“It’s hard to say,” Stone said. “It almost looks like carbon monoxide poisoning, but that doesn’t make sense. Mr. Bourkou here was unaffected, which he wouldn’t have been if it was carbon monoxide, and in any event there is nothing near those berths which generates or outputs that.”

“What about the white noise generator?” Lowen asked. She was alert now, through a combination of caffeine, ibuprofen and nerves. “Is that something that could have done this?”

“Of course not,” Meyer said, almost scornfully. “It has no moving parts other than the speakers. It doesn’t output anything but white noise.”

“What about allergies or sensitivities?” Stone asked.

Meyer shook his head this time. “He was lactose-intolerant, but that wouldn’t have done this. And other than that he was not allergic to anything. It’s as Thierry said. He’s a healthy man. Was a healthy man.”