"Two days," Killgore said. "Maybe less."
"I'm afraid you're right," Dr. Archer agreed. She had all manner of ideas for handling this, from conventional-and almost certainly useless-antibiotics to Interleukin-2, which some thought might have clinical applications to such a case. Of course, modern medicine had yet to defeat any viral disease, but some thought that buttressing the body's immune system from one direction might have the effect of helping it in another, and there were a lot of powerful new synthetic antibiotics on the market now. Sooner or later, someone would find a magic bullet for viral diseases. But not yet: "Potassium?" she asked, after considering the prospects for the patient and the negligible value of treating him at all. Killgore shrugged agreement.
"I suppose. You can do it if you want." Killgore waved to the medication cabinet in the corner.
Dr. Archer walked over, tore a 40cc disposable syringe out of its paper and plastic container, then inserted the needle in a glass vial of potassium-and-water solution, and filled the needle by pulling back on the plunger. Then she returned to the bed and inserted the needle into the medication drip, pushing the plunger now to give the patient a hard bolus of the lethal chemical. It took a few seconds, longer than if she had done the injection straight into a major vein, but Archer didn't want to touch the patient any more than necessary, even with gloves. It didn't really matter that much. Chester's breathing within the clear plastic oxygen mask seemed to hesitate, then restart, then hesitate again, then become ragged and irregular for six or eight breaths. Then… it stopped. The chest settled into itself and didn't rise. His eyes had been semi-open, like those of a man in shallow sleep or shock, aimed in her direction but not really focused. Now they closed for the last time. Dr. Archer took her stethoscope and held it on the alcoholic's chest. There was no sound at all. Archer stood up, took off her stethoscope, and pocketed it.
So long, Chester, Killgore thought.
"Okay," she said matter-of-factly. "Any symptoms with the others?"
"None yet. Antibody tests are positive, however," Killgore replied. "Another week or so before we see frank symptoms, I expect."
"We need a set of healthy test subjects," Barbara Archer said. "These people are too-too sick to be proper benchmarks for Shiva."
"That means some risks."
"I know that," Archer assured him. "And you know we need better test subjects."
"Yes, but the risks are serious," Killgore observed.
"And I know that, " Archer replied.
"Okay, Barb, run it up the line. I won't object. You want to take care of Chester? I have to run over to see Steve."
"Fine." She walked to the wall, picked up the phone, and punched three digits onto the keypad to get the disposal people.
For his part, Killgore went into the changing area. He stopped in the decontamination chamber first of all, pushed the large square red button, and waited for the machinery to spray him down from all directions with the fog solution of antiseptics that were known to be immediately and totally lethal to the Shiva virus. Then he went through the door into the changing room itself, where he removed the blue plastic suit, tossed it into the bin for further and more dramatic decontamination-it wasn't really needed, but the people in the lab felt better about it then-then dressed in surgical greens. On the way out, he put on a white lab coat. The next stop was Steve Berg's shop. Neither he nor Barb Archer had said it out loud yet, but everyone would feel better if they had a working vaccine for Shiva.
"Hey, John," Berg said, when his colleague came in.
"'Morning, Steve," Killgore responded in greeting. "How're the vaccines coming?"
"Well, we have 'A' and 'B' working now." Berg gestured to the monkey cages on the other side of the glass. " 'A' batch has the yellow stickers. 'B' is the blue, and the control group is red."
Killgore looked. There were twenty of each, for a total of sixty rhesus monkeys. Cute little devils. "Too bad," he observed.
"I don't like it, either, but that's how it's done, my friend." Neither man owned a fur coat.
"When do you expect results?"
"Oh, five to seven days for the 'A' group. Nine to fourteen for the control group. And the 'B' group-well, we have hopes for them, of course. How's it going on your side of the house?"
"Lost one today."
"This fast?" Berg asked, finding it disturbing.
"His liver was off the chart to begin with. That's something we haven't considered fully enough. There will be people out there with an unusually high degree of vulnerability to our little friend."
"They could be canaries, man," Berg worried, thinking of the songbirds used to warn miners about bad air. "And we learned how to deal with that two years ago, remember?"
"I know." In a real sense, that was where the entire idea had come from. But they could do it better than the foreigners had. "What's the difference in time between humans and our little furry friends?"
"Well, I didn't aerosol any of these, remember. This is a vaccine test, not an infection test."
"Okay, I think you need to set up an aerosol control test. I hear you have an improved packing method."
"Maggie wants me to do that. Okay. We have plenty of monkeys. I can set it up in two days, a full-up test of the notional delivery system."
"With and without vaccines?"
"I can do that." Berg nodded. You should have set it up already, idiot, Killgore didn't say to his colleague. Berg was smart, but he couldn't see very far beyond the limits of his microscopes. Well, nobody was perfect, even here. "I don't go out of my way to kill things, John," Berg wanted to make clear to his physician colleague.
"I understand, Steve, but for every one we kill in proofing Shiva, we'll save a few hundred thousand in the wild, remember? And you take good care of them while they're here," he added. The test animals here lived an idyllic life, in comfortable cages, or even in large communal areas where the food was abundant and the water clear. The monkeys had a lot of room, with pseudotrees to climb, air temperature like that of their native Africa, and no predators to threaten them. As in human prisons, the condemned ate hearty meals to go along with their constitutional rights. But people like Steve Berg still didn't like it, important and indispensable as it was to the overall goal. Killgore wondered if his friend wept at night for the cute little brown-eyed creatures. Certainly Berg wasn't all that concerned with Chester-except that he might represent a canary, of course: That could indeed ruin anything, but that was also why Berg was developing "A" vaccine.
"Yeah," Berg admitted. "I still feel shitty about it, though."
"You should see my side of the house," Killgore observed.
"I suppose," Steve Berg responded diffidently.
The overnight flight had come out of Raleigh-Durham International Airport in North Carolina, an hour's drive from Fort Bragg. The Boeing 757 touched down in an overcast drizzle to begin a taxi process almost as long as the flight itself, or so it often seemed to the passengers, as they finally came to the US Airways gate in Heathrow's Terminal 3.
Chavez and Clark had come up together to meet him. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and Domingo held card with "MALLOY" printed on it. The fourth man was dressed in Marine Class-As, complete to his Sam Browne belt, gold wings, and four and a half rows of ribbons on the olive-colored uniform blouse. His blue-grayes saw the card and came to it as he half-dragged his canvas bag with him.
"Nice to be met," Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Malloy observed. "Who are you guys?"