“The FBI botched a routine surveillance. Thought they were supposed to detain the people. Everything got confused, and by the time it was straightened out, one of them, Anton Kuryakin, was missing.”
“What of it?”
“Kuryakin is probably the Soviet Union’s top man in biochemistry. They’ve traced him to a flight out of San Francisco for Chicago. To me that means he’s coming here.”
“Isn’t that kind of a jump in logic?”
“Not really. The man is an Iron Curtain version of Kitzmiller. He tried to talk to Kitzmiller while they were here, but you know our Dr. K and his Commiephobia.”
“It sounds like you’ve got a touch of that yourself.”
“Maybe. But I’m as sure as I sit here that Kuryakin is on his way. Worse, Viktor Raslov and the two goons aren’t far behind. Just one more thing for me to worry about” — he paused for a beat — “in addition to writing handouts to keep the media pool off my back.” He looked up at Corey through knitted brows. “But none of this is your worry anymore, is it.”
“I’ll write the goddam handouts,” Corey said.
“You’re staying?”
“Gimme the ball, coach.”
Zachry came around the desk and wrung Corey’s hand. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He glanced at his watch. “And just in time. I promised the pool an extra briefing this evening when you got back from Milwaukee. Told them you were checking out some important new leads.”
“You son of a bitch,” Corey said.
“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.” He gave Corey the old all-American grin.
Corey found Dr. Kitzmiller in the laboratory, huddling with his associates. Dena cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. He gave her a tell-you-later look and managed to separate Kitzmiller from the others momentarily.
“I have a briefing scheduled with the reporters in a little while,” he said, “and I need some help from you.”
“I don’t care what you tell those dummkopfs, Mr. Macklin. Just keep them out of my hair.”
“Dr. Kitzmiller, I can’t go on feeding them the same baloney. These people are not stupid. If they seem intrusive, that’s their job. This is a terrible time for our country, but the people still have a right to know what’s going on. And we have a duty to tell them something.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I want to tell them about the blood test to detect presence of the parasite.”
“I have already explained to you that we have only preliminary data. Any announcement would be premature.”
“The old rules don’t apply anymore, doctor,” Corey said heatedly. “What might have been premature last year is damn near too late now. The people out there are waiting to hear what we’re doing to try to save them. I want to tell them.”
Kitzmiller took a step back as though to have a better look at Corey. “You sound different, young man.”
“Maybe I’m thinking different.”
“Very well. If you feel it is so important, tell the people about the blood test. Make it clear, however, that this is not a cure, nor will it necessarily lead to a cure.”
“I’d like to have the specialists themselves tell the reporters about it. It was Dr. Pena and Dr. Knight who developed the test, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was, but I could not possibly spare them for — ”
“Half an hour,” Corey said. “If we give the pool reporters half an hour of real news coming from somebody with real credentials, they’ll be a lot easier to live with.”
Dr. Kitzmiller sighed heavily. “Everywhere I turn today I meet with opposition. Very well, take my doctors, but not one minute more than your half hour, or I swear I will bar you from the laboratories, too.”
“It’s a deal.”
Corey put out a hand, but Kitzmiller ignored it and hurried back to his teammates.
Drs. Pena and Knight proved to be an unqualified hit with the reporters. Marcus Pena was relaxed and friendly, with the unlined face of a teenager and a respect for the intelligence of his audience. Dorothea Knight said little, but she had a sensational chest, which was more than enough for the news-starved media. At last television had something to show pictures of.
After the briefing was over, Corey returned the two doctors to Kitzmiller’s care and retired to his cramped little room. He turned the lamp to the wall, sat down on the bed, and pulled off his shoes. Then he lay back with his hands clasped behind his head and stared at the ceiling. A spider that had somehow gotten into the pesticide palace was optimistically spinning a web up in one corner. While Corey’s eyes followed the progress of the little creature, his mind was many miles away.
A knock at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened, and Dena Falkner stood there. Her caramel-colored hair was down and was given a soft halo effect by the brighter light out in the hall.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He hesitated, then said, “Not really.”
“Okay.” She turned to leave.
“No, wait, Dena. I guess I do want to talk.”
She came back in and closed the door.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“You’re different somehow.”
“Lou Zachry said almost the same thing to me. Even Kitzmiller. I must be easy to read.”
“You’re not so tough.”
“In more ways than one,” he said. “I wish I’d thought to pick up some bourbon while I was in Milwaukee.”
Dena pulled a flask from her laboratory smock and held it up for his inspection. “Is Canadian all right?”
“What’s that, a specimen bottle?”
“It’s Canadian Club. But if you’re squeamish — ”
“No,” he said quickly. “Canadian is terrific. And you must be clairvoyant.”
“Sympatico,” she corrected.
Corey produced two tumblers. They poured the whiskey, sat down side by side on the bed, and toasted each other silently.
“Doc Ingersoll’s dead,” he said.
Dena touched his hand.
“He shot himself today when he knew the brain eaters were in him.”
“Oh, Corey, I’m so sorry.”
“I was with him this morning. I was right there in Doc’s apartment when those little bastards were eating him up. The pain he felt must have been unspeakable. And I didn’t even notice.”
He paused for a swallow. Dena watched him silently.
“I was too wrapped up in my own miserable little complaints to notice that my best friend was in agony. How’s that for sensitive?”
“We’re all kind of unfocused these days,” she said.
“I can’t blame it on ‘these troubled times,’” he said. “It’s me. It’s the way I’ve always been. I’ve spent the better part of my life looking for the Big Story. Not because I gave a damn for the story but because it was going to make Corey Macklin rich and famous. A celebrity. Doc told me I was going to be a celebrity. That’s all the brain eaters meant to me. They were my Big Story. So a few people died. I couldn’t help that. So then a lot of people died. I still didn’t understand. Then Doc died. The one man in the world who was my friend. He damn near died in front of my eyes, and I didn’t see it. Some friend.”
Dena poured more whiskey into their tumblers. She said, “Okay, so you were a bastard. What are you going to do about it?”
“When I came back here, I was going to quit.”
“That’s no answer.”
“I see that now. I guess I’ll hang around and do whatever I can to be useful. Who knows? We might beat this thing yet.”
“Who knows.” She grinned at him.
“You sure don’t allow a guy much time for self-pity.”
“Not on my booze.”