“My hero.”
Dena gave his arm a playful squeeze. He grinned at her and drove on.
The chain link gate at the main entrance to the Biotron plant was closed and locked. A guard in the company’s tan uniform stood beside it, a heavy-caliber revolver prominently holstered at his side.
The guard walked up to the window on the driver’s side when they drove up to the gate. Corey rolled down the window. Dena leaned across him to show her ID badge.
“I’m Dr. Falkner,” she said. “We’d like to go inside to talk to Dr. Kitzmiller.”
“Sorry, miss … uh, doctor, but the plant’s closed. Nobody gets in.”
“I’m a reporter,” Corey said, fumbling for his credentials.
“Reporters included,” said the guard.
“He’s Corey Macklin,” Dena put in. “He’s been doing the story on the brain eaters. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
The eyes of the guard ran coldly over Corey. “I’ve heard of you, but my orders were — ”
Dena cut him off. “Is Dr. Kitzmiller inside?” Her tone snapped with authority.
“He, uh, well, I …”
“Call him. Tell him Dena Falkner is here with the man who’s writing about the brain eaters. Now, please.”
“I suppose I could do that.” The guard was still hesitant.
“Thank you.” Dena sat back and folded her arms in an attitude that said the matter was settled.
The guard edged off to the wooden building beside the gate. They could see him using the telephone inside while he kept his eyes on them. After several minutes he laid the receiver down without hanging up and came back to the car.
“I can let one of you go in,” he said, “but not both.”
“No deal,” Corey told him. “We’re together.”
Dena touched his arm. “You go in, Corey. I have nothing new to say to Dr. K.”
“What’ll you do, wait out here?”
“If I can borrow your car, I want to pick up some things at my place. It’s just a few minutes from here.”
Corey frowned. “Be careful, will you?”
“It’s my own house. What could happen to me?”
“I don’t know. Just watch yourself, okay?”
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Okay.”
He got out of the car, and Dena came around and got in behind the wheel. He reached in through the window and squeezed her hand, then walked toward the wooden building where the guard was again talking on the phone.
“There’ll be someone out to take you inside,” the guard said.
“Thanks.” Corey watched Dena drive off up the road in his car. He tried to rid himself of the uneasy feeling that he should not have let her go.
The man who came out to get Corey was tall and slim with a 1950s Ivy League cut to his suit and his hair. He put out his hand and gave Corey a brief, dry grip.
“I’m Baldwin Edge. Department of Health and Human Services.”
The guard relocked the gate behind the two men, and they walked through the executive parking area toward the main building.
“Are you connected with the company?” Corey asked.
“No. That is, not officially. I was sent out here the end of last week when the plant was ordered closed. I’ve been reading your stories.”
They walked into the deserted lobby, past the glassed reception area where no receptionist waited. Their footsteps echoed in the empty building.
“They’ve given me an office here to use temporarily.” Edge indicated an open door. “If you’d care to come in and have a seat …”
Corey looked into the empty office. “It was Dr. Kitzmiller I wanted to talk to.”
“Yes, but if you don’t mind, there are a couple of things I’d like to discuss first.”
Corey shrugged and preceded the Department of Health man into the office. He dropped into a chair and waited while Edge took his place behind the desk.
“You’ve become rather famous in the past week.”
“My moment in the sun,” Corey said, wishing the man would get to the point.
“And you have certainly made these, uh, brain eaters famous.”
“I think they could have been just as big without me.”
“Perhaps. But the fact is, people look to you for authoritative news on these parasites.”
“Rather than to, say, the Department of Health?” Corey suggested.
Edge gave him a chilly smile. “That has been a matter of concern to some of my colleagues.”
“I’m glad to hear that your colleagues are getting concerned. I talked to one of them more than a week ago about the strange series of deaths. His opinion, as I remember, was that the whole thing was a case of mass hysteria.”
“Yes, I know about the incident,” said Baldwin Edge. “Unfortunate. The man has since been reassigned to other duties.”
“So you people are now ready to admit that the brain eaters really exist?”
“It seems we have no choice.”
“So it seems,” Corey agreed. “What can I do for you?”
“Actually, it’s the other way around. I’m here to offer you our assistance.”
“You’re about a week too late.”
Edge’s manner chilled. “I’ve already apologized for that.”
“Save it.”
“I don’t have to point out the effect your stories have had on the general population.”
“No,” Corey said, “you don’t.”
“In our department we have specialists on the use of the media in relation to mass psychology. When improperly used, the results can be devastating.”
“I don’t see where you’re taking this,” Corey said.
Baldwin Edge continued as though Corey had not spoken. “For instance, the publication of news about herpes probably did more than any single thing to reverse the so-called sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies.”
“Then the media’s got a lot to answer for.”
“In the same manner, just as homosexuals were gaining a measure of public acceptance, reports of the AIDS breakout gave people a legitimate reason to be antigay without losing their liberal credentials.”
“Mr. Edge, this is all interesting as hell, but I’ve got work to do.”
“In any disease story certain words can trigger a panic reaction in the public. Words like epidemic. And plague. In your case, the unfortunate coinage brain eaters is a glaring example. People reading the stories picture tiny creatures literally eating out their brains.”
“Then they’ve got a pretty accurate picture.”
“Mr. Macklin, I don’t seem to be making my point with you. What I’m saying is that if you continue to write your stories in such alarmist tones, you could be responsible for a national panic that will dwarf anything in our history. I am not in any way suggesting that your work be censored, merely that one of our media people work with you to minimize the fright quotient of your prose.”
Corey let several long beats go by before he answered.
“Okay, Mr. Edge, your point is made. You want me to submit my stuff to you before it goes to print. Not to censor it, of course, but to — what was your phrase? — minimize the fright quotient.”
“Essentially, that’s it.”
“Well, you can kiss my essential ass.”
All of Baldwin Edge’s Ivy League aplomb fell away like a broken shell. His face turned dark; his hands balled into fists. Corey had a wild happy moment when he thought the man was going to swing at him. However, Edge brought himself under control, breathing hard.
“Now you can take me to Dr. Kitzmiller,” Corey said. “He is here, I suppose.”
“He’s here,” said Edge through clenched teeth.
Without further conversation, he rose and marched out of the office. Corey followed, feeling good.