The Center
by
David Shobin

           St. Martin's Paperbacks

     NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be
aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book.,,

For Rick, Jon, and Jill.

May your ordeals bear no resemblance to those depicted here. Love, Dad

               ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

     The author would like to thank Donna Henry and Deanna Gebhart for
their help and technical assistance. For advice and support with
personal dilemmas, the author is grateful to Jim Byme, Bob Kaplan, Jerry
Levin, Bob Riley, and Jerry Garguilo. Thanks also to Henry Morrison for
sticking with me through lean times.

THE CENTER

Copyright 0 1997 by David Shobin. All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175
Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-96167-7

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin's Paperbacks edition/September 1997

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published, by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

                  Prologue THE CENTER WAS a world unto itself Innovation
was the watchword of the day. If there were a breakthrough, a
technological advancement, or a new medical concept, it would be found
at the remarkable edifice known as the Center. Patient charts, for
example, were unknown at the Center. Information and data were
transmitted electronically from the computer mainframe to peripheral
terminals, which executed the digitalized instructions. That day, the
order for patient transport was routed to a relay junction on the sixth
floor, which replaced the traditional nursing station. A service robot
was dispatched and motored silently down the corridor to the patient's
room. From her bed, the four-year-old girl peered listlessly at the
approaching autobot. Stealthy in appearance, the orninous black
rectangle would ordinarily terrify a young child. But this little girl,
like all patients under the age of fifteen, had been sedated from the
moment of her admission. Her pale blue eyes, dull and glassy, reflected
a peculiar apathy in an otherwise haunted expression. Soon, after the
child had been transferred to the cool, green sheet of the OR table, the
autobot returned to its station. In spite of all the mechanical activity
occurring within, the gleaming opera tory was largely silent, save for a
faint whirring as robotic arms raised and lowered. Like human eyes, the
optical sensors were dependent on light. A large overhead spotlight
clicked on, outlining the child in its beam. She squinted in the harsh
glare. Spots danced before her eyes, and the shimmering subliminal image
of real people floated upward from her retina, allaying her fear,
prompting a singsong verbalization. "I'm having my tonsils out," she
said, the words hoarse and imprecise. "I can have ice cream tonight."
She lifted her arm toward a softly flickering apparition. "Are you ...
are you . . ." For several seconds her hand wavered there before slowly
falling back to the mattress. Beside her head, a small nozzle with a
two-millimeter aperture silently began to emit a jet of colorless gas.
The volatile anesthetic, which customarily had an odor like cleaning
fluid, was cloaked in the fruity disguise of cherries Within fifteen
seconds, the last opaque glimmer had left the child's eyes, replaced by
a leaden, obtunded stare. In short order, an IV was begun and a
pediatric endotracheal tube inserted. The traditional presurgical
routine consisted of prepping and draping the operative field to reduce
the risk of bacterial contamination. In a tonsillectomy, the operative
field-the throat--could not be made antiseptic, since it normally teemed
with bacteria. Each of the Center's OR's had a technically sophisticated
prepping robot equipped with scrubbers and spraying devices. As the
little girl's level of anesthesia deepened, the autobot neared the
operating table and briefly hesitated. Then its automatic arm lifted the
pediatric gown and dowsed the child's abdomen with antiseptic. When it
had finished, the gleaming artificial surgeon motored into position.
Resembling some multi-amied Hydra, its numerous mechanical limbs could
perform many functions simultaneously, eliminating the need for
assistants. The surgical instruments had been delivered before the
patient arrived. All of a sudden the waiting tonsillectomy instruments
were replaced by a different tray. Each of the stainless steel sets had
an unusual bar code, which the surgical robot scanned. Yet the tray
still bore the manufacturer's logo, which read: ENDOSCOPY, GYN, BASIC.
To all appearances, the last-minute substitution seemed a completely
random act. But there was nothing haphazard about it. Everything that
occurred in the Center followed a precise choreography. The final
results were still produced by machines that complied with fundamental
principles of physics and electromagnetism. Yet however straightforward
the outcome, there was nothing direct about the reasons that now lay
behind it. For understanding, whether of method or motive, was a human
quality, a characteristic that still eluded the most sophisticated
machines. And so a- grand but incomprehensible design unfolded from the
very heart of the Center, where a powerful computer obeyed the soft-
ware of its silicon soul. In the operating room, the overhead spotlight
switched off. The room seemed irretrievably black, heavy and mutinous,
dark as death. On the operating room table, the girl remained quiet, in
steely anesthetic torpor. Her endotracheal tube had been removed. In the
darkness, the sound of her ponderous inhalations reverberated through
the air in, coarse and jagged breaths. The main video terminal came to
life in shades of dazzling blue. There was something soothing in the
rich, organic tones that lent the room an undersea quality. Cast in its
bluish glow, the girl's partially gowned torso seemed pale and
dreamlike, trapped between life and death. Three small Band-Aids on her
abdomen were the only evidence of her surgery. The sudden lettering on
the monitor was incandescent, lengthening into a scintillant word-string
that spelled out a frightening message. PROVISIONAL ANATOMIC DIAGNOSIS,
it   began. MALFORMATION,       MYOCARDIAL,        ATRIOVENTRICULAR
CONDUCTION SYSTEM. It was an unequivocal postmortem description of a
congenital cardiac abnormality for an autopsy not yet performed. There
was no one in the room to appreciate the fact that the description bore
no relation to the young patient on the operating table. Disposal, the
wording continued: CREMATION. The OR doors opened. An autobot silently
wheeled into the room, coming to rest parallel with the operating table.
Hydraulic transport arms extended. In incremental up-and- down
adjustments, they slid under the girl's still body, preparing to lift.
Obeying an internal signal, the autobot slowly swung the child up and
over, until she lay atop its transport mattress. The autobot paused,
awaiting further instructions. Someone was watching. In a distant
location, hidden eyes observed a remote monitor, taking in everything
that occurred. All was proceeding as planned. The figure's arms were
clothed in a white lab coat. Beyond its starched sleeves, carefully
manicured hands were poised over a computer keyboard. After a momentary
pause, the fingers typed the word "execute," then hit the ENTER key. On
the monitor, the autobot motored away in silence. The Center had no true
crematorium. What it did have, in a small room between the lab and the
morgue, was a medium-size incinerator for disposal of the larger human
body parts. The Karlson Model 12 was a four-foot-high rectangle resting
on a slab base. When properly sealed, its gas-powered furnace could
generate/1,700 degrees Fahrenheit. The Karlson was a necessary
concession to the past, utilizing technology that was eighty years old.
In state-of-the- art hospital pathology labs, there was rarely the need
for disposal by burning. Rather, when the pathological exam of a spleen
or a lung had been completed, what was left of the organ was quickly
decomposed in an industrial microwave oven. The residual debris was
funneled to a high- speed garbage disposal, where it was rapidly
pulverized and flushed down the drain. But on rare occasions, when a
specimen was exceptionally large, such as an entire leg, the incinerator
was used. Its intense heat could reduce the largest specimen to fine,
powdery ashes in less than an hour. The Karlson's physical dimensions
made it ideal for a four-year-old child. When installed in the Center,
the incinerator had been modified and upgraded with computerized
controls. It could be remotely operated from the computer center or
externally activated by a service robot. A receptacle located beside the
traditional manual controls housed an RX-32 cable interface for
inputting commands. The little girl was emerging from stupor when the
all- robot reached the incinerator room. Her heavy lids struggled to
open as her body metabolized the anesthetic. When the autobot entered
the room, the door closed behind it. Pulling up in front of the
incinerator aperture, the autobot inserted its adapter into the
receptacle and relayed digital instructions. The Karlson's heavy door
slid open. The incinerator had a metal specimen cradle not dissimilar to
a fireplace grating. She remained unaware of her surroundings as the
autobot slowly moved her into the oven. She did, however, perceive
something cold against her back. Her vision gleamed weakly through the
fog of her consciousness. She feebly pursed her lips, trying to force
sounds that would not come. On the oven wall beside her head, a small
pilot light flickered ominously. The autobot withdrew its adapter,
triggering the incinerator's digital starting clock. It showed
fifty-nine seconds, then fifty-eight. The autobot swiveled one hundred
eighty degrees on its wheeled axis before silently leaving the room.
Growing more alert, the little girl stirred. The darkness was thick
about her. "Maks?" she slurred. "Maks!" Outside, the timer had reached
forty-two seconds. She rolled heavily onto her side. Banging her head on
the incinerator sidewall, she began to whimper. She was- cold and
frightened, and her stomach hurt. Her sister told her she would be there
when she woke up, and she wasn't there. Chin quivering, the little girl
groggily sat up. She reached out and touched unyielding walls all about
her. She thought she was trapped in some sort of box. It was cold and
claustrophobic, enclosed on all sides but one. A dull, grayish light
outlined the open end. The dark confinement was scaring her, and her
lips turned down in a frightened child's grimace. The clock was down to
nineteen seconds and counting. In her mounting anxiety, the light was a
familiar ally. She moved with awkward, leaden clumsiness toward what
little she could see, crawling toward the opening on knees and elbows.
Her progress was painfully slow and unsteady. Finally she was drawing
abreast of the boxy perimeter when there was a click, immediately
followed by the hum of an electric motor. Ten seconds remained. The door
of her would-be tomb automatically began to close. She was
panic-stricken. The idea of being sealed up in a blackened, hostile
before the door closed entirely, she alertly grabbed its rubber-rimmed
leading edge. The door's progress-abruptly stopped. A laser safety
sensor, designed to detect impeding foreign objects, had caught her
small fingers in its beam. It signalled the electric motor to shut down.
She quickly drew her fingers back. The incinerator door remained not
more than a quarter inch ajar, barely enough to admit the faintest
light. But it was sufficient to indicate the freedom denied her. In the
icy grip of fear, the child- turned-captive shrieked heartbreakingly and
began, to flail helplessly at the door to her prison. She was convinced
that if she could only make someone hear her, she would be rescued. But
it was not to be. Her juvenile tantrum, charged with fright and fury,
lasted ten minutes. When it subsided, the little girl sank onto her
haunches-breathless, sobbing, and spent. Hours later, in the immutable
darkness, she lay on her side, cheeks wet with tears of neglect and
lament. Exhausted, wavering between sorrow and slumber, she alternated
whimpering with sucking her thumb. She was numb, beyond terror. Every so
often she was roused by a faint breeze which wafted through the slender
opening to her cell. She desperately had to go to the bathroom. Her
under- pants were gone, and all she wore was the thin hospital gown.
While she lay there yearning for her sister, she was startled by a
sudden humn-thing sound. Stale air began rushing past her. Craning her
neck in the near-darkness, she could make out a vague light from what
had been the blackest reaches of her confinement. Curious, she rolled
onto her stomach. Twice a day, whether the incinerator had been used or
not, it automatically vented itself for ten minutes. Fine, accumulated
debris and floating particulate matter were forcibly egressed through a
twelve-inch-wide galvanized pipe built into the oven's rear wall. The
ductwork twisted for thirty feet before reaching the building exterior.
Despite its serpentine course, when the vent was opened to the outside
world, enough light streamed back through the conduit to be detected by
the human eye. The little girl grew curious. Right behind her was some-
thing she hadn't noticed before-a sort of hole in the wall that
resembled a narrow tunnel. Air was rushing into it, and an impossibly
dim light came from somewhere in the distance. She extended her neck
turtlelike and peered into the recess. She couldn't make out a thing.
Yet the light remained, attracting her like a barely perceptible beacon.
Repressing her cries, she wriggled first into the aperture. It was a
surprisingly gutsy act for a four-year-old, but she was no ordinary
child. She had courage and tenacity far beyond her years. And she was
desperate. Behind her lay nothing but fear and abandonment. She had gone
only a few feet when she came to a bend in the ductwork. After a
moment's hesitation, she rounded the corner and was rewarded with
measurably brighter light. Her eyes widened with hope. As her
anticipation in- creased, so did her speed. Knee-to-elbow, her
lizardlike movements clattered noisily through the narrow pipe. In her
eagerness to escape, she couldn't detect the mounting strain her weight
was causing the thin ductwork. If evenly distributed to all fours, her
forty pounds could easily have been absorbed by the galvanized sheeting.
But as she lumbered headlong, it was more often dispersed to two limbs,
rather than four. The slender ductwork support brackets, designed to
sustain little more than the weight of air and dust, began to bulge at
their attachments. The weakest point in a ventilation system are the
joints beyond a right-angle turn. Plunging forward with abandon, the
little girl raced wildly past another corner toward the tantalizing
illumination. The heel of her palm struck the meager sheetmetal beyond
the seam. With a sudden rip, the ductwork unexpectedly gave way beneath
her weight. She screamed, plunging headlong through the opening. Her
small torso did a midair somersault before she landed heavily on her
back. The wind was knocked out of her. In that moment between clarity
and unconsciousness, all her senses became alive for one last instant.
She was in a lighted room, and she thought she smelled food. And then
her consciousness receded; but in the twilight before total darkness,
Christine Lassiter knew she was safe.

Chapter One.

"DR. DUNSTON, THIS is service. the phone. Can I patch?"

"What time is it?"

"Five after two."

"In the morning?"

"Yeah.

"Sure. Patch away."

"Go ahead, Porthaven."

"Dr. Dunston? This is O'Reilly in Porthaven ER. We've got a really bad
four-year-old MVA, and we wonder if you could come in and take a look."

"How bad?"

"Shocky. She's got' about forty percent third-degree burns, a compound
fracture of the right tibia, and some sort of abdominal or thoracic
trauma. Dr. Pardanani thinks it's a flail chest. They've done films and
labs, and the kid's going right to the OR once she's stabilized."

"Do they have anesthesia and a team?"

"On their way."

"Give me fifteen minutes." With an emergency of that severity, there was
no time to shower. Dunston was quickly out of bed and into his clothes.

Less than five minutes after he awakened, he was in his car, heading
west. At that time of night, with little or no traffic, the hospital was
a scant nine minutes away.

Soon his car careened into the ER lot, coming to rest next to an
ambulance whose ted-and-white lights still blinked ominously.

He caught up with the gurney as it was being wheeled to the elevator.

Dunston grasped the raised metal siderail and joined the procession
whisking the child away . As they hurried down the corridor, he made a
careful visual assessment. The child was pre-comatose, barely conscious.

Staring blankly past sunken lids, her clouded gaze was fixed on nothing.

Most of her hair was singed off, leaving random islands of short brown
tufts. Her arms and legs appeared to have suffered most in the tire:
hurriedly covered with a pasty smear of Silvadene cream, they were
crusted with a blackish eschar interspersed with patches of denuded
blisters, wet with weeping serum. Her lower left leg was encased in a
transparent vinyl cast, through which jagged shards of white bone were
clearly visible. An IV dripped into her right arm, and an endotracheal
tube was already in place, attached to a portable respirator.

As the entourage paused at the elevator, the staff Oeeted Dunston with
strained hellos. Dunston lifted the thin gown and took in the splotchy,
raspberry-colored welt covering the child's skin from sternum to
umbilicus. Each time the respirator cycled, the thorax expanded
asynchronously, with the right side rising while the ribs on the left
remained flat.

"Seat belt injury?" he asked, pointing to the ecchymosis.

"Probably," said O'Reilly, "It looks like it wasn't put on right. Must
have hit the seat's cross-bar, too."

"What's with the burns, gasoline?"

"We think so. A gas tank explosion."

"Christ, what a nightmare. Any family, parents?"

"Don't know."

"Terrific. These her films?"

"Yep. All yours." As they reached the OR, he took the x-rays to a nearby
viewbox while the transport team moved the child to a ready operating
table. The OR nurses had recently arrived and were busily opening and
counting sterile instruments.

In the background, the anesthesiologist questioned the ER physician
about IV fluids and lab data.

"Jesus," said Dunston of the films. "What a mess."

"How's it look, Chad?" asked the anesthesiologist. "A

"Yeah, on the left. But she's also got a chestful of guts.

Must have an event ration of the diaphragm, plus a halfdozen busted
ribs. I wouldn't be surprised if her spleen took a hit, too. We're going
to' need blood, lots of blood."

"Four units are on the way," said the OR circulating nurse.

"Who's the orthopod on call?"

"Nichols. His service is beeping him."

"How're her reflexes, Rich?" he asked the anesthesiologist.

"Basically good. No sign of cranial trauma."

"They didn't do a CT, by any chance?"

"No time. What're you going to start with, Chad?" Dunston was now at the
child's side, helping remove the spattered gown. The small girl looked
pathetically frail.

Dunston's trained fingers walked gingerly across the injured abdomen and
trunk, searching for telltale diagnostic clues. He didn't like the
doughy bulge in the upper abdomen. "There could be a liter of blood in
her belly. And that bowel's got to come out of her chest. I'll do a
quick laparotomy, stick the guts back where they belong, and sew up the
diaphragm. Run the bowel, check the spleen, that sort of thing. See if
anything else is ruptured."

"How about a chest tube?"

"First I've got to stop the bleeding. Then I'll place the tube and
debride the burns. All you have to do, Richie," he said to the
anesthesiologist, "is keep the kid alive." A bare bones trauma team was
comprised of four people-surgeon, anesthesiologist, scrub nurse, and
circulating nurse. Aware of the urgency, each of them worked furiously
as several ER personnel lingered in the background, paralyzed by
ghoulish curiosity. With the anesthesiologist drawing up injectable
drugs and placing EKG leads, the circulator gently prepped the child's
abdomen with brownish iodinated antiseptic. The scrub nurse, already
gowned, was finishing her sponge and instrument count as a capped and
masked Dunston vigorously lathered at-the scrub sink.

After an abbreviated three-minute scrub, he walked into the OR, his
uplifted forearms shedding bubbles of soap.

The scrub nurse handed him a towel and then helped him gown and glove.

Together, they applied sterile drapes to the operating field,
effectively covering their young patient, leaving only a small portal of
skin.

"Up and down, Dr. Dunston, or subcostal?"

"Vertical midline. I'll need all the exposure I can get.

How's she doing, Richie?"

"She could use a little help. She's taching like crazy, and it's all I
can do to keep her pressure over sixty."

"You giving her plenty of fluids?"

"Any more and she'll drown. They gave her half crystalloid, half-coho id
in the ER, and I'm pouring in Ringer's until the blood gets here."

"How's her oh-two sat?"

"It's all I can do to get it to ninety." He eyed an ominous blip on the
cardiac monitor. "Can you get started, Chad? This could turn cruddy any
second." Dunston's practiced hand made a vertical incision from sternum
to umbilicus, slicing through skin and subcutaneous tissue. Opening the
fascia, he exposed the peritoneum, whose purplish hue hinted at internal
bleeding.

"Hemoperitoneum," he said flatly. "I'll need a Poole sucker."

His meticulous opening of the peritoneum was greeted by a gush of
plum-colored hemorrhage. Dunston quickly inserted the suction tip and
aspirated a copious amount of blood and clots. As he widened his
peritoneal incision, the already rapid beeping on the cardioscope
accelerated, a staccato warble. Dunston hesitated, his startled eyes
immediately diverted to the waveforms on the oscilloscope.

"V-tach," said the anesthesiologist, a tense edge in his voice. "She's
got no hemoglobin. Christ, we need blood."

"Does she have a pulse?"

"Barely."

"You going to give her lidocaine?"

"What do you think I'm drawing up? I just hope it'll do the trick until
those red cells arrive. Do your surgeon stuff, Chad. Please, buy me some
time!', As Dunston started operating, a shrill alarm sounded on the
cardioscope.

The new pattern had degenerated into menacing, up-and-down complexes.

"Jesus," muttered the anesthesiologist. "She's in fib!

Get me the defibrillator!" he screamed to the circulator.

"And I've got to have that blood now!" The child's heart had ceased
beating effectively. The severely damaged organs were no longer being
perfused. The team's previous hurried deliberation became a rushed
frenzy as what had been an urgent situation now bordered on catastrophe.

The once-salvageable situation was complicated by severe loss of blood
and its components,'as red blood cells accumulated in the traumatized
abdomen and serum oozed through burned capillaries. Unless they could
get blood into the child quickly, their success at resuscitation would
require a miracle.

Dunston placed a moist towel over the incision and helped rip off the
drapes, exposing the fragile chest. The defibrillator paddles had to be
applied to bare skin. The nurse ran in with the crash cart and quickly
plugged the defibrillator into the wall socket.

"How much do you suppose she weighs?" shouted the anesthesiologist.

"Twenty kilos, maybe."

"Okay," he said, adjusting the energy level. "I'll start with fifty
joules. I really need that blood, people. Clear!" The small body went
rigid, rising slightly as the current surged through it. All eyes
instantly fixed on the monitor, where the morbid pattern persisted.

Until the blood circulation was restored, no amount of transfusions
would help. 'venty The anesthesiologist turned the dial to se -five
joules and shocked the girl twice more, to no effect. He threw down the
paddles disgustedly and yanked open his drug drawer. Dunston looked on
helplessly.

What can I do, Rich?"

"You can get her damn heart beating!" he said, drawing medication into a
syringe. He located the rubber hub on the IV tubing and quickly
injected. "See if you can find a vial of bretyllium on my cart!" In
short order he administered lidocaine, bretyllium, and procaineamide,
interspersed with more electroshock. Nothing worked. On the cardioscope,
the feeble waveforms were a taunting testimony to their ineffectiveness.
Dunston was impossibly frustrated. He felt that the gift of life had
been almost within his grasp, but he'd been denied the opportunity to
salvage it. The blood arrived. The circulating nurse perforated the
first unit with plastic tubing, whose needle she inserted into the main
line, waiting only for the restoration of blood flow.

Three minutes into the arrest, Dunston's sense of powerlessness was
total. He had a mental image of the fibrillating heart twitching
ineffectually, like a mass of writhing worms. But the image was
distorted by the cold reality of the child's injuries. He pictured the
depleted cardiac muscle, straddled by intestine invading its domain  ...
"Knife!" he snapped, to no one in particular. Quickly throwing aside the
sterile towel, he retrieved his scalpel from the Mayo stand. Dunston
quickly widened his incision, deftly slashing through the xiphistemum.

"Chad, what in God's name are you doing?"

"Anything I can. Maybe there's a damned good reason this kid's so
screwed up." Within seconds his hand was immersed in the abdomen,
reaching upward toward the chest. To his dismay, he found the traumatic
rent in the diaphragm much larger than he'd Suspected: the entire
stomach, part of the transverse colon, and loops of small intestine had
herniated into the left thorax. He quickly reduced the hernia, pulling
the bowels down and out like lengths of glistening sausage, which came
to lie in moist, pink coils atop the child's pale skin.

Dunston was fully aware that open cardiac massage had long since been
abandoned. Rather, what he was performing was a last-ditch search for
answers, for reasons the heart had stopped-a sheared aorta, perhaps, or
an unseen, penetrating cardiac injury. But as his hand encircled the
small mass of fibrillating muscle, he was unimaginably saddened to find
the heart encased by a rubbery envelope of semiclotted blood. He shook
his head.

"Cardiac tamponade," he managed. "Shearing trauma from the damn car
seat!" Although demoralized, he was not out of the fray. He nicked the
pericardium, the heart's outer sheath, and liberated the blood which was
smothering the underlying muscle. The myocardium fasciculated uselessly
in his palm. But he massaged it nonetheless, squeezing the ventricles
rhythmically between thumb and fingers, trying 'to urge the weary heart
back into vitality. He persevered for the next ten minutes, slowly
acknowledging his futility, realizing that he had acted just minutes too
late-nevertheless hoping that, through expertise and sheer
determination, he could coax the small and wounded organ to life.

Finally, he stopped. Dr. Chad Dunston hung his head and closed his eyes,
the silent-ache in his heart every bit as great as the pain in his soul.

It was 2:52 A.M.

Chapter Two.

"WHAT THE HELL is this?" thundered the bureaucrat. He stormed across the
room and threw the document on his assistant's desk as if it were
jettisoned waste.

Picking up the pages, the assistant briefly studied them before
returning to work. "Some kinda legal crap."

"Now, ain't you brilliant."

"Look, we've been through this already. Same old happy horsecrap.

"Yeah? This time it could be our ass." says who? I told you, we've got
nothing to give them."

"Run it through -again, all right?"

"But-"

"Just run it through, for Chrissake!"

He swiveled in his chair, turning to the computer console. "Waste of
time, if you ask me. Not even our department." He punched the buttons to
access the Medical Information Network, typing in the code for
Brookhaven National Laboratories. Then he hit a series of special
function keys linking him to Brookhaven's nearby Center for Human
Potential. C14P was the nation's premier hospital and medical research
facility.

The bureaucrat watched the screen. "Think it's a bluff?"

"Who's gonna sue us, a couple of peons in the Bureau of Vital
Statistics? All we do is collate the data and send it to Albany. Period.
We got nothin' to do with death certificates."

"I don't know. it still might be listed."

"Wasn't before." The assistant watched the flickering screen. "When was
this supposed to have happened?"

"March thirty-first."

"Coming up." of the New York State The Bureau of Vital Statistics
Department of Health kept detailed records of all births and deaths in
the state. Once the -data was on computer, the Bureau organized it by
county, date, ethnic characteristics, hospital or nursing home,
contributing medical factors, age, and other demographic information.

The data was a statistician's delight and a clerk's nightmare. When
called upon, the computer was designed to regurgitate the most
insignificant epidemiological detail.

"Okay, here we go. Thirty-one March. County, Suffolk." He punched
another button. "Hospital, CHP.

Deaths," he said, pointing to the zero on the screen, none.

How about the thirtieth? And April first?"

"Whatever you say." The assistant repeated the process, but the outcome
was identical. "Zippo."

"Try it by the town." Brookhaven Township, right?"

"Yeah.

What was the name again?"

"Lassiter. Christine."

"Sweet little Christine." He watched the screen change, then read aloud.

"Nearest we got is an old lady Laffabee, who croaked at home. No
Lassiter."

"Try the hospital computer itself."

"What'll it tell me I don't already know?" just do it, huh?"

The assistant shrugged, typing away. "Okay, we're in.

What should I ask for?"

"Well, the kid was admitted. Start there, I suppose.,,

"Admissions, alphabetical," he said, hunched over his keyboard. "CHP,
Brookhaven, month of March." Soon finished, he looked up. "Oh, momma."
His boss grew agitated. "What's that mean?"

"I don't know. Let me give it another shot." He repeated the process and
got the same result. "They jerkin' us around?"

"Cut the bullcrap!"

"Swear to God, I never saw that before! Hold on. Let me try through
Brookhaven's classified network." He worked feverishly, beads of sweat
breaking out on his forehead as he accessed the Department of Defense
linkup for Brookhaven National Laboratories. Once on-line, he plugged in
the parameters for CHP.

Flickering horizontal lines appeared on the screen. Then, with crystal
clarity, came the message: ACCESS DENIED.

"Jesus son of God," All at once, the monitor went totally blank.

One hundred fifty miles south of Albany, in a twenty-acre enclosure that
had once been pine barrens adjacent the Brookhaven National
Laboratories, the Center for Human Potential stood as a multi-tiered
monument to architecture and medical science All was now quiet in the
computer center, where scores of desktop computers were arranged in neat
rows, a mechanical phalanx linked in parallel with two enormous
supercomputers at room center. At terminal forty-seven, a cursor blinked
as the monitor sprang to life.

The lettering which appeared on the screen seemed to scintillate.

CHRISTINE LASSITER, it read. INQUIRY ABORTED.

Chapter Three.

CHERYL DIDN'T HAVE to watch the door to know when Maks arrived. In fact,
she didn't even have to look up. All she had to do was tune in to the
level of conversation in the room: its ebb and flow was a barometer. Her
chopsticks were barely moist when the customary lunchtime din diminished
with the rapidity of Moses parting the Red Sea.

Cheryl peered over the rim of her sunglasses toward the businessmen
lunching at the next table. Trained ferrets, she thought, as they all
simultaneously looked in the same direction. She sighed and looked up to
catch the last few strides of Maks' eye-turning approach.

"Now that's a dress with a serious attitude," she said of the cool,
white slip-on. "God, you always manage to look so incredibly hot."

"Thanks, Cher. Waiting long?"

"Nah. Just got here. One of those Mondays for you too, huh?"

"Oh, brother. Ever feel like you're playing pool with a ron? I can't
believe how much work can pile up in three days. As if I didn't have
enough to worry about."

"How'd your meeting go Friday afternoon?"

"I didn't get much accomplished." she said, giving her long, blond hair
a shake. "Sometimes I think I'm just spinning my wheels."

"You, Miss. Efficiency?" Cheryl said. Her twenty-seven-year-old friend
had a deliberation of action and movement that spoke of no wasted
effort. Maks now wore an expression of an intensity that Cheryl had
rarely seen. "That's hard to believe. What'd the guy say?"

"Typical lawyer-speak. Long on adjectives and hypotheticals. Did you
already order?"

"Yep. The eel for me, a California roll for you. So what was the bottom
line?" Maks shrugged. "His bag of legal tricks is empty. At least he's
honest enough to admit he's out of his league.

He wound up referring me to a specialist."

"You have a bad Pap smear or something?"

"Right field, wrong area. The guy he referred me to is some sort of
expert in hospital cases."

"Malpractice?"

"No, health laws and regulations, that sort of thing. I don't know. Ever
have days when you feel like you're bashing your head against a brick
wall?" Cheryl sipped her tea. "Story of my life."

"This business with Chrissie is like, that. It's like I'm going around
in circles. Talk about bureaucracy, I thought dealing with the Center
was bad enough. Remember, after Chrissie died, I spent entire days there
getting the runaround?"

"Vaguely."

"She died in March, and here it is the middle of the freaking summer,
and I don't have any more answers now than I did five months ago! What
does it take to get a copy of a measly death certificate, anyway? The
registrar in town hall tells me they never received a worksheet
thingamajig from the hospital, something they need to generate the
official paperwork. Fine. So I go back to the hospital, and for

God's sake-have you ever tried dealing with a place that has no humans?"

"Sure. Everyone I work with is in that category."

"That Center's filled with robots, video screens, and computerized
menus. You know how maddening it is to get one of those 'if you're
calling about your available balance, press one' recordings on the
phone? This was a thousand times worse. After a whole week of working
their computer, the only thing I got was cross-eyed. I couldn't get
those damn machines to admit they  had a sister who was a patient there,
much less that she'd died! Believe me, I'm not finished with them yet."

"Pretty frustrating." Maks shook her head. "That's not the half of it.

After I struck out at the hospital, I had to do battle with the
insurance company. Or rather, some company clerk. You know how it is.

They won't even begin to consider a claim, much less issue benefits,
without a bona fide death certificate, which the Center won't provide.

Just incredible."

"What's really incredible is your worthless attorney.

What are you paying him for?"

"Sometimes ' I wonder. Anyway, after getting nowhere with the insurance
company, I went back to town hall to plead my case. They dumped me like
a hot potato, giving me the number of some office in the State Health
Department that oversees births and deaths."

"You won't get anywhere with the State.,,

"Tell me about it. They looked at me like I had two heads. After about a
month of their Mickey Mouse nonsense, my attorney finally did
something-"

"Besides going to the bank?" Maks allowed a halfhearted smile. "He had a
writ issued to the Bureau of Vital Statistics. I guess he thought that,
in some convoluted way, threatening a lawsuit would make them force the
Center to come up with the death certificate.

But," she said, taking a sip of her tea, "it didn't work out that way."

"Naturally. Why should they be any different?"

"A lot of times everything seems so futile, I just want to give up. And
then I think about Chrissie, and how she wouldn't have wanted ' me to."

"So who's this new character your attorney referred you to?" Cheryl
asked, taking out a cigarette.

"Lester something-or-other. I have an appointment with him tomorrow,"

"I hate to sound like a pessimist, but do you have a fallback plan if
this lawyer doesn't work out either?"

"Like what?"

"That's what I'm asking. But, govermnent employee that I am, it seems to
me you might be barking up the wrong tree.

"Meaning what?"

"if I wanted to get information out of a bureaucracy, I wouldn't waste
time with the people who regulated it. I'd go right to the top, to the
people who designed it."

"And who might that be? I don't recall seeing a list of them
anywhere."

"Let me see what I can find Out. Maybe there's something on Brookhaven's
classified network." A waiter brought their orders on two wooden serving
blocks. As Maks watched Cheryl anoint a saucer with soy sauce and was
abi, she wondered just how far she was Prepared to go in pursuit of her
goal. One thing was certain: her will and resolve were stronger than
ever, and her determination grew hot and fierce inside her.

The day proved exhausting. Her backlog of work kept Maks at the office
until dusk. Returning home, she contented herself with iced tea and a
small salad from a local diner. Once in her bedroom, she turned the air
conditioning on high, slipped into a long, loose T-shirt, and checked
her e-mail. There was a message from Cheryl.

Maks yawned, too fatigued to check out the two names Cheryl had
unearthed. She printed the screen and set the hard copy aside for future
reference in the event she got nowhere with the legal specialist, dimly
wondering if one of the names had, in fact, helped design the Center.

She certainly had her share of questions to ask, if it came to that.

Maks had a daily ritual without which she was unable to sleep. A month
after her sister's death, she began making electronic inquiries of the
various online computer services to which she belonged. Posting messages
on computer bulletin boards and subscriber forums, she hoped to elicit
the assistance of a fellow networker in solving the riddle of
Christine's death. Once online, she generated the unvarying message
simply by pressing a function key: reward for confidential information
about the death of Christine Lassiter on 31 March at the Center for
Human Potential. Allowing for the occasional salacious response, no one
had showed the slightest interest. Nonetheless, bone weary though she
was, Maks went through the motions of fulfilling her debt of family
honor.

There was nothing on Compuserve or America Online.

Accessing the Internet, she routed her message and hesitated, overcome
by a headache, which had been growing all day. She interrupted her
search for a brief detour to the bathroom, passing Chrissie's vacant
bedroom enroute. She took two Tylenois from a bottle in the medicine
cabinet and downed them with a swig of tap water. Coming back, she
momentarily entered her sister's darkened room. She sat on the edge of
the bed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and massaged her sinuses.

Just for a moment, she told herself.

Maks stretched out on the twin bed's satiny, pressed quilt and rolled
onto her side. She closed her eyeg, her mind vibrant with bygone images
of shared hours and: kindred dreams. Without intending to, she quickly
fell asleep.

She was awakened by a click. There followed a faint electronic buzzing,
the familiar motorized changing of gears as her computer switched
drives. Maks opened her eyes. The lighted bedroom wall clock read three
A.m. She arose in lazy self-criticism when she remembered that her
computer was still online. Gliding back to her room, she squinted in its
brightness.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the image changing on her computer
monitor. The screen displayed not the Internet forum she recalled, but
the DOS main menu on her hard drive. Could she have changed  ...  no,
she distinctly remembered logging onto the Internet, something which,
for six hours of uninterrupted use, would cost her dearly. Maks frowned,
eyes fixed on the monitor.

Earlier in the year, her security-conscious employer had given all
workers a software package called Filesecure, for use at home. As the
name implied, it had special features to guard against electronic
espionage, in addition to enabling modern access. One of those features,
the "Watering Hole," was a small window in the screen's upper right and
corner that displayed the remaining megabytes of memory and the time of
last user access, denoting when the operator last "drank" from the
files. Watering Hole's digital clock read 02:55, little more than five
minutes previously.

Maks narrowed her eyes, perplexed. The only person who could have logged
onto her computer was her-PCRIOD. The Filesecure program required
multiple passwords, none of which she had given out. Moreover she was at
home by herself, and the computer couldn't have logged on by itself.

She gazed at the modem, suppressing a chill. Was it remotely possible
that some adolescent hacker could have rummaged through her internal
files by accessing them over the Internet?

She knew that the Internet had a myriad of features, such as the World
Wide Web and the File Transfer Protocol, which facilitated sharing of
information. Still, such digital tools were intended for communications,
not pilfering. And even if it were possible, Filesecure's safeguards
were specifically designed to thwart access.

No, Maks concluded, it simply was not possible. But she was shaken.

Unnerved, she hit a series of keys to exit the menu and to reveal
exactly which file had been reviewed.

After a transient delay, the screen reilluminated, revealing, to her
absolute astonishment, the words CHRISUNE.DOC, her file name for all the
information she'd collected which pertained to her sister.

Maks was dumbstruck. Her fair complexion grew pale as her mind struggled
to come to grips with the unseen intruder. Why should anyone concern
himself with her confidential investigation? And if someone were
interested, why not simply confront her or ask her directly?

A fear clouded by confusion descended upon her, leaving her cold and
uncertain. Something was happening that she didn't understand, and it
was beginning to scare her to death.

Chapter Four.

THE OBLONG PENINSULA of northeastern Long Island is a predominantly
rural community with a sound agricultural base. A patchwork of farms and
farmstands dots the land quiltlike, and the North and South shores
offer easy access to prime fishing grounds in the Atlantic and Long
Island Sound. But aside from the eye-catching beaches of the Hamptons,
nothing so typifies the Island's topography as its spectacular flatness.

The road most representative of such hotizontality was the Island's
ribbonlike interstate, the Long Island Expressway. With neither
mountains to cross nor rivers to ford, the traveler might just as easily
have been on the Great Plains.

It was that same lack of natural barriers that led to flourishing trade
between the Island's indigenous Indian tribes the seafaring Shinnecocks,
the Mattitucks, the agrarian Massapequas. Tribal boundaries were more a
matter of general agreement than geological division. Long before the
area provided a foothold for Dutch expansionism, and generations
thereafter for potato farming, vast, unplanned stretches were smothered
in thickets of robust black pine, through which deer and raccoon moved
unmolested.

Dr. Chad Dunston often reflected on the Island's boardlike evenness as
he drove on the Expressway. This morning, however, he was still too
emotionally numb from the night's disaster to think about much of
anything. He'd learned long ago that obsessing over circumstances he
couldn't control was to be avoided. When Ann left him, his detached,
psychological withdrawal nearly killed him.

Thus, he forced himself into mental diversion, to think, to act, to do
anything that reproved him from the pain of obsessional thinking-for to
be alone with himself in his mind was to be behind enemy lines.

He keyed the lapel mike to his pocket voice recorder.

Admitting to a poor memory, he had long made it a habit to dictate his
thoughts and recollections while he drove.

Knowing that his secretary would transcribe his dictation, he tried to
keep his recitations to medical matters; but the limitless highway often
caused his mind to wander, leading to rambling, personal monologues,
that were not quite as embarrassing to him as delightful to his
secretary.

"Wednesday the fourteenth, ten-thirty in the A.M., a lovely morning
following a disastrous night. Passing exit 66 and the Yaphank yahoos.

Man, I could definitely use some relaxation. I'd give my left arm to be
on my boat. right now. Well, not quite. But business is business, and
duty calls.  ...  Ceil, look up the CPT code for a cecopexy on that
patient for tomorrow, Robert what's-his-face. I haven't the faintest
what to charge. Make up a number.

Better yet, call Singh's office. They've got prices for procedures I've
never heard of. Sometimes I wonder if they make 'em up. Think so? Nah."
He paused, looking to his left, where a forest once stood.

Not long before, a clearing had been hewn for an astonishing medical
facility, eventually named the Center for Human Potential. When
construction was begun in 1996, CHP was a logical extension of medical
technology's most remarkable advancement: the evolution of completely
computerized medicine. The stimuli for such computerization had been
mounting for decades, as increasingly greater aspects of medical
performance were relegated from man to machine. There was little sense
having a technician perform blood counts, for example, when a computer
could do them more quickly, more comprehensively, and far more
economically. And as sophistication of computers increased, so too did
their impact on general medicine.

"Lord, I pray this meeting'll be quick. Arthur show.

He's no sweat. But if Merlin comes, I might have to push back office
hours. The guy's a genius, but he's also a marathon mouth, especially if
he's brought along one of his weird new gadgets. Roger and ten-four.

Computer advancements made steady and expected inroads into fields once
dominated by human endeavor. By the late 1980's, a Harvard-designed
software program led to the highly accurate differential diagnosis of
various diseases, simply by providing the computer with relevant signs,
symptoms, and lab data. By the early nineties, computerized x-ray
diagnosis had supplanted human interpretation at several leading medical
schools across the country.

Many soon held the view that not only was physician participation
superfluous, but it was too often flawed by human error, to the point of
becoming dangerous.

By 1994, the stage was set for the computerized takeover of many facet's
of medicine. The most significant breakthroughs were in the fields of
ophthalmology and neurology, where laser optics and holography provided
precise mapping of virtually any lesion. Once localized, the cataract-or
tumor, or cyst-could be stereoscopically excised by a robotic surgical
manipulator, whose astounding precision exceeded the skill of the most
accomplished physician. The phenomenal accomplishments prompted
development of a new generation of artificial surgeons.

"Ceil, remind me to call Sudo over at Hitachi about the cable guide for
the fiberoptic arterial threader. You want sushi? The Pfizer reps coming
today and I know he'd spring for some carryout." The expected stampede
of venture capital into the field was overwhelming. A glut of investment
excess led to keen competition, and inferior products soon fell by the
medical wayside. What resulted was a series of sophisticated machines
that shared several common characteristics, all computer-driven: optical
precision, for exacting dissection and excision; laser
photocoagulability, for virtually bloodless surgery; and a stepwise,
mathematical reasoning, a kind of artificial computer intelligence, that
passed for surgical judgment. The spectacular success of these surgical
devices was unprecedented.

Inevitably, the fallibility of the human surgeon was repeatedly called
into question, such that by the mid-nineties, medicine's greatest
historical bastion had been breached.

That the artificial surgeon prevailed was not unnoticed by political
decision-makers. indeed, it was considered the stepping stone of total
medical computerization, for surgical robotics was viewed as the most
formidable obstacle to realization of the concept. Once achieved,
everything else followed suit. it was too strange for the giant strides
in surgical robotics. One was the increasing use and sophistication of
endoscopic surgical instruments, many of which relied on ancillary
computerization, in fields such as gynecology and general surgery. The
other was refinements in virtual reality. The two, which often followed
parallel paths in development, inevitably merged; and once they did,
most other things fell into place. As it became second nature for a
computerized laparoscope to excise a gallbladder or remove an inflamed
appendix, tasks such as mechanical venipuncture and robotic physical
examination became virtual child's play.

Not everyone shared the medical establishment's general enthusiasm.

Several critics were quite vocal in their opposition to relinquishing
control of the human body to machines. Dunston called them "flamers,"
and as he neared his destination, he wondered if any of the ardent anal
types would be there with confrontation in mind.

He glanced at the cloudless sky. "Lord, I'd rather be fishin'." There
was no such opposition in Washington, however.

The debates in the Department of Health and Human Services, and shortly
thereafter in Congress, were short-lived and bipartisan. Within a matter
of months, and despite the Administration's disinclination toward social
spending, grants were forthcoming for models of entirely computerized
medical wards. Their unparalleled success led to an outpouring of funds
the Executive Branch considered its crowning glory: creation of the
Center for Human Potential.

Ironically, the project's most controversial aspect proved to be finding
a name for the technically dazzling institution.

One by one, suggested names were rejected because they sounded
mechanically imposing (Institute for Medical Robotics), because they
were too political (Republican National Disease

"Center), or because their acronyms were ludicrous (Computerized
Research and Prognostication, or CRAP). It was ultimately decided that
what was needed was an apolitical logo which imbued hope instead of fear
in prospective patients. Thus was born the Center for Human Potential,
whose only drawback was that its initials were the same as the
California Highway Patrol.

Dunston turned off the expressway at exit 68A, a newly constructed- ramp
built especially for the Center. It was a warm summer day, and he drove
with the top of his Mustang convertible down. The breeze sent his heavy
hair riffling, and brown strands danced spiderlike across his tanned
forehead. He considered his own appearance, if anything, more rugged
than handsome. But there was a bronzed outdoor shyness to the
thirty-five-year-old physician's features most women found quite
appealing. Soon he pulled the car into the Center's parking lot.

Given the size of the eight hundred-bed institution, the single
fifty-car parking garage seemed incongruously small.

But that was before recalling that the Center had no employees
whatsoever. Every aspect of its daily functioning was mechanical, from
the automated parking facility to the digitally run food service to the
twelve gleaming robotic opera tories. There were normally only four
occasions when people entered the Center: as patients, as visitors, as
supply vendors, or- as in the case of Dunston-what was called the "human
interface." Dunston pulled into the parking lane marked "permit holders,
only" and braked to a stop. He took his ID from his wallet and inserted
it into the designated slot outside the driver's window. There were
several seconds of audible whirring and clicking as the machine
validated the information on the card's magnetic stripe. Simultaneously,
a video surveillance camera rotated slightly to frame the driver's face.

Dunston looked up and said, "Cheese." Shortly, the card was returned to
him.

"Good morning, Dr. Dunston," said the computerized male voice.

"Morning to you."

"Please proceed to space number three. Have a nice day.

"You bet." The gate went up and Dunston drove forward, unclipping the
lapel mike and stowing the recorder in his glove compartment. He laughed
to himself and inhaled deeply-conscious acts intended to calm the
peculiar nervousness he sometimes felt upon entering the Center. Despite
the fact that he had been instrumental in the Center's development and
construction, it had an otherworldly remoteness, a kind of cold and
distant personality that he sometimes found disturbing

"But not today, pal," he said in forced self-assurance.

He left his car in the garage and began strolling across a carefully
reasoned bluestone walkway that would lead to the hospital's main
entrance. Head down in daydream, eyes fixed on the stone,- he'd gone no
more than ten yards when he heard a noise like chanting. He stopped,
looking in its direction. Some fifty feet from the hospital entrance
were perhaps two dozen marchers who Vpeared to be picketing.

Three police cars stood between them and the hospital, one with dome
lights flashing, behind an aligned row of wooden horses marked, POLICE
LINE-DO NOT CROSS.

"Not again," Dunston moaned. It was the flamers.

Trying to remain inconspicuous, Dunston hastily made a wide detour of
the assemblage. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two placards, one
reading, REAL DOCTORS FOR REAL PEOPLE, and the other, EXPERIMENT ON
DOGS, NOT HUMANS. He wondered what the animal rights activists would
have to say about the matter.

Another few strides and he'd be past them.

"Dr. Dunston!" called one of those being interviewed.

"Oh Christ," he mumbled, his pace slowing, torn between politeness and
the desire to make a single-finger gesture. He was no stranger to
journalistic inquisition.

He was approached by a well-coiffed, white-haired man in a pinstripe
suit. Smiling broadly, the man extended his hand as he grew nearer. The
newsmen were close on their heels.

"Howard Sapperstein," the man said, loudly enough to be heard on tape.

The journalists formed a loose circle, camcorders rolling.

Dunston shook hands unenthusiastically. "What do you want, Howard?" His
reply was modulated, and his lips scarcely moved. Sapperstein, a general
surgeon, was a local delegate to the American Medical Association's
Hospital Medical Staff Section, and a man Duriston had known for five
years. The AMA was in a bind. Although it had gone on record as
supporting the Center and its technology, some of its members complained
of being economically disenfranchised. "Whose bandwagon are you on this
time?" Sapperstein squeezed the handshake and laughed warmly as he
turned to the press. "Dr. Dunston wants to know whose bandwagon I'm on.
For those who may be unaware, Dr. Dunston has been instrumental in
creation of the Center." There was a chorus of boos from behind him.

When the jeers subsided, he looked back at Dunston. "My 'bandwagon,"
Doctor is the same that carries ninety-five percent of this counties
physicians. Not to mention untold thousands of nurses and trained
hospital personnel. A posture endorsed by the Joint Commission for
Accreditation of Hospitals, I might add."

"All. The wrath of the JCAH."

"Hardly wrath. Sound judgment would be a better term.

To those of us in the AMA, it doesn't make sense to throw out the baby
with the bathwater. For centuries there's been an ethical, professional
relationship between doctors and hospitals, all for the welfare of the
patient. It's a tried-and true union, proven beyond doubt. This new
hospital," he said, pausing to point an accusatory finger, "is risky
business, Doctor. I shudder to think what would happen if this
experimental venture caught on statewide. Then what-nationwide,
worldwide? It could blow up in everyone's face.

Take the human out of the equation and you're courting disaster, mark my
words."

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it?"

"My point exactly."

"Golly, you wouldn't by any chance happen to think there might be an
economic motive to your position?" Sapperstein's expression of outrage
was transparent. He made a point of wagging his finger in Dunston's face
"If I thought for one minute that these robots of yours could provide
better medical care than a trained physician with decades of experience,
I'd be the first to support this " he waved in the direction of the
building. Astrosity. But the facts prove otherwise."

"How do you respond to that, Doctor?" asked the Newsday reporter.

this time Dunston forced a smile, trying to ignore the camcorder but
distracted by the clicking of a camera's autowinder. "I don't know what
facts my colleague's referring to, but the ones I'm most familiar with
are the monthly quality assurance reports we send to the State Health
Department.

They're a matter of public record. Look 'em up. They speak for
themselves."

"Karen Kessler from News 12 Long Island," said a young woman who thrust
a microphone his way. "For the benefit of our viewers, can you explain
what you mean by quality assurance?"

"We call it QA. Basically, it's a sunn nary of mortality and morbidity
statistics, complication rates, or medical screwups. In a nutshell,
Miss. ...  "Kessler."

"-Kessler, the Center has never had a blunder and probably never will.

You might ask Dr. Sapperstein whether physician-manned hospitals make
occasional mistakes, known as 'state-reportable incidents," though I
doubt you'll get a straight answer. But I guarantee you, they do.

To err is human, as they say. The Center has no humans.

It makes no errors. And if you check with the Health Department, you'll
find that the Center's complications are so minor and so rare that
they're considered trifling, the lowest in the world. Now if you'll
excuse me-"

"But, Doctor, surely you can understand the fears of those people who
are, well, simply frightened by the idea of being a patient in a
hospital that has no human contact?"

"I'm afraid your facts are wrong. There's plenty of opportunity for
staying in touch with family or friends. Each patient has his own phone,
as well as a TV-type monitor through which he can communicate with
whomever he pleases."

"Then you don't consider this to be experimenting on people?" Dunston
chose his words carefully. "If by experimentation you mean progress, all
progress is experimentation.

Advances have to begin somewhere. And in medicine, that somewhere is
here and now. None of the Center's patients is experimented upon, in the
sense of a research project.

Everything performed here has. been thoroughly tested and never found
wanting. This place is not only good, hell it's the best there is."

"How would you feel about being a patient here yourself?" He was rapidly
losing patience. "I wouldn't give it a second thought." At the
hospital's main entrance, the sliding doors parted at his approach.
Escaping the newspeople, he sauntered into the lobby at a brisk pace. To
Dunston's eye, the lobby never varied: a square, compact room, forty
feet on a side, with off-white, sterile-appearing walls. The color
scheme of the furnishings was pink and light brown, and framed prints in
matching hues embellished the walls. Maintenance-free potted plants
softened the angularity of the room's corners, and seating was provided
by chrome-and-black naugahyde couches. At that hour, three "visitors"
were present.

The word was a misnomer, for friends and family did not, in fact,
"visit." Rather, they met with patients electronically, by means of
closed-circuit TV monitors. Several privacy-assuring booths were
provided for that purpose.

True bedside visiting was not only discouraged, but downright
impossible. No one was allowed to freely roam the Center's
corridors-including Dunston.

Two of those visiting were seated, while a third stood before a chromed
rectangular wall unit marked CASHIER.

The unit consisted of a recessed microphone/amplifier, a red LED screen
for message display, and a funneled credit card receptacle similar to a
bank's automated teller machine. Out of the corner of his eye, Dunston
noticed the LED screen enumerate a running readout of a patient's bill
able costs. The words drifted across the screen from right to left,
looking very much like stock market quotations.

There were several tastefully hidden doors in the lobby.

One, bearing the label PATIENTS ONLY, was a drop-off point for
inpatients, who were conveyed to and from the building's interior. by
mechanized wheelchair. But the door Dunston approached had no
identification. Its only feature was a bronzed card receptacle, into
which he inserted his ID. The door slid soundlessly open.

Stepping inside, he felt the barest rustling of air as the door
automatically closed beside him. He was in another squarish room,
starkly empty except for a conference table at room center. At Dunston's
approach, a man arose from the table and held out his hand.

"Good morning, Chad. How was your long weekend?"

"Hello, Arthur. It was super." He eyed the man's paunch. "I see we've
skipped the weigh-in?" Arthur Weiman, a heavyset man of fifty, reddened.

He released the handshake to pat his girth. "That bad, huh?

The Italians have landed. I swear, with my in-laws over, it's been two
straight weeks of pasta and pesto." He appraised Dunston's somewhat
haggard appearance and grinned. "Crowd got you outside, huh?"

"Yeah. That and a rough case last night. How'd you escape?"

"I got here just before they set up. I take it you were your usual
diplomatic self?" Chad smiled. "What's on the agenda today?"

"The usual. Admissions and procedure review. The pharmacy and
therapeutics figures. Quarterly morbidity stats, then the Interface. And
the memo requested we save some time at the end of rounds."

"For what?"

"I don't know. I suppose they want to surprise us."

"Terrific," Dunston said, shaking his head. "Randy coming?"

"No. Couldn't make it. The same goes for Merlin."

"All right. You and I make a cozy little group. Let's get on with it."

"Rounds" were a bimonthly meeting of the Interface Group, professionals
selected to interact with the Center via the main computer. Weiman, an
internist, was one such professional, as was general surgeon Dunston.

Merlin, whose real name was Marion Adams, was a Phd in electrical
engineering assigned to Brookhaven National Labs.

Merlin was an ingenious tinkerer and computer wizard, while Randall
McKenna, who had boards in psychiatry and neurology, was the fourth
member of their team. Other human staffers, including psychologists,
laboratory managers, and pharmacists, met less frequently, usually at
quarterly intervals. In addition to being medical professionals, they
all shared one thing in common: an intricate knowledge of, and an
interest in, computers.

Working quietly, the two physicians methodically. sifted through the
paperwork atop the desk, making checkmarks and notations as they went.

Soon Dunston put down the surgical morbidity summary. He slowly shook
his head as he eyed the totals.

"Unbelievable. A thousand cases a month, and the results never change. A
couple of wound infections, a few pneumonias, hardly any urinary
problems. Any other place, you're talking at least a fifteen percent
complication rate.

How the hell's this place do it?"

"By keeping us out," Weiman said. "You said so yourself. No human
contamination, and strict antisepsis."

"I said that?"

"Every month.

"Score one for me. But did you ever get the impression," he said, a
faraway look on his face, "that the results are, well, too perfect?"
Weiman's response was an unnerving, silent stare.

"Forget it," Chad said after an uncomfortable pause.

Swiveling to his right, he picked up a helmet from the seat beside him.

It looked like an ordinary motorcycle helmet, but its edges were
angular, giving it a squarish appearance. Instead of having a clear
visor, it sported an opaque, retractable facepiece. A cable dangled from
the back. Weiman plugged it into a nearby jack.

"Got anything for the Interface?"

"A little," Dunston said. "There's a new crazy glue for heart
prostheses, a synthetic polymer. Saves time and sutures- in open
hearts."

"Cut and paste, huh?

"Sort of," Dunston snugged on the helmet, connected the adapter, and
donned a pair of gloves. They were bulky, a hybrid of those worn by
hockey players and railroad engineers. They were, in fact, electronic,
and their wiring transmitted each of Dunston's finger movements to the
computer, where they could be simulated. A tracking device in the helmet
used low frequency Visual fields to monitor both the position of the
gloves and the direction of the operator's gaze. Finally, Dunsion
flipped down the visor.

For a moment, everything went blank. But then his vision was filled with
a whiteness like dazzling snow. The visor's inner surface lit u ' with
digital lettering.

VIEWS INTERFACE, VERSION 4.0, it read, followed by the date. Dunston's
name was next, surname first. Then came the message.

DO YOU WISH TO MAKE AN ENTRY?

There was no keyboard to type responses. Instead, Dunston gave his reply
via the newly refined technique of psychotranscription, in which he
visualized lettering in proper sequence. Sensors in his helmet picked up
his brain's electrical impulses and correctly deciphered what he "said."
First he thought of a Y, then concentrated on an E and S. SPECIFY
CATEGORY, his helmet read.

Database update, he thought. There followed a series of questions and
answers until he successfully linked up with the Interface. Once online,
the communication between man and computer was comparatively easy.

He simply had to relax and visualize what he wished to impart, much like
daydreaming. Optically enhanced electrodes built into the helmet
collected the images from his cerebral cortex and transmitted them to
the visor's interior pixels. Its surface illuminated with a hazy but
distinct image that corresponded exactly to what he was thinking. Only
his hands moved; and when they did, the motion of his fingers seemed the
scintillate inside his visor.

Soon, instructions for the psychotranscription were complete. The
computer understood that Dunston wished to "teach" it the mechanics of
the cardiac development he'd mentioned to Weiman.

LOWER OCULO-ADAPRER AND PROCEED.

Dunston pressed a button, and a faint whirring came from the helmet. A
rectangle, the thinness of a computer floppy diskette, lowered itself in
front of his face, millimeters from his eyes. Inside were two tiny video
screens, one for each eye. Special optics in the rectangle provided a
wraparound, stereoscopic view of the simulated realityin this case, the
actual cardiothoracic operating field.

Within seconds, the sight before Dunston's eyes became that of what
surgeons called a "cracked chest": the thorax of a patient, split down
the sternum to bare the heart and lungs. He lifted his right hand '
opening it palm up. On the screen, a simulation of his hand appeared. He
thought the word "knife," and a gleaming scalpel appeared in his
fingers. The operation began.

The beauty of the psychotranscription interface was that it enabled
Dunston to skip parts of an operation the computer already knew. Thus,
inasmuch as the computer was familiar with things such as incising the
rib cage, opening the pericardium, and placing the patient on a
heart-lung machine, Dunston sped ahead to the crucial operative
developments unknown to the computer. Within minutes, he was done. The
update finished, he left an imaginary assistant to finish the case. With
simulation, he'd accomplished in a short while what in reality would
have taken hours to complete.

But the process was taxing. When the Interface was over and Dunston
removed his helmet, droplets of sweat were on his upper lip. His neck
muscles ached. He took slow, deep breaths, willing himself to relax.

Weiman was staring at him.

"You look like you got hit by a truck."

"Wipes me out, it does." He looked at his watch. "God, it's almost
eleven. Are we done?"

"Not quite. We're supposed to hang around awhile, remember?"

This was unexpected. The computer had never made a similar request
before. "I'm supposed to be in the office by twelve."

"You and me both. I'm-" Weiman was interrupted by a hum from the
desktop. An almost-invisible surface panel retracted. Slowly, a small
video monitor rose and clicked into place when it reached eye level. A
cursor on its 'screen blinked on and off, and several seconds went by
before lettering appeared.

SELF-TEST COMPLETE, it began. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED TO INITIATE ALPHA
INTERCEPT.

"I give up," Dunston shrugged. "Mean anything to you?"

"Alpha  ..." Weiman pursed his lips, thinking. Then his eyes widened.

"Right. That's when it's supposed to have completed internal processing.

We thought it'd take another five years, not ten months. God, this
thing's advanced." Dunston remembered. He and the team that helped
create CHP had allowed for a period of mechanical growth and
development. The computer was self-adaptive, meaning that it learned
from its mistakes-from errors in internal processing, not patient care.
They estimated that ironing- out the kinks would require five years of
painstaking selfanalysis, after which the computer would be completely
autonomous, requiring little, if any, human intervention.

And, perhaps, eliminating the need for the Interface.

Dunston suppressed a shiver. Ever since he was a medical student, he'd
been completely absorbed in the computerization of medicine, looking
forward to the day when computer science would be sufficiently advanced
to remove the human element from the equation. Yet now that it was here,
he didn't feel quite ready. It wasn't that the concept was wrong. It was
simply that the power of the Center was so awesome that it sometimes
seemed spooky, to the point of being frightening. He forced a smile.

You're being ridiculous, he told himself.

The monitor's message continued. PROCEED TO LEVEL THREE.

"Level three?" he asked.

"Below ground, third level," Weiman said. "Heart of the computer center.

Remember the nickel tour just before the place went online?"

"Some. We weren't supposed to come back until  ... Well, I guess the
time has arrived. How do we get there?" As if in reply, there came a low
hydraulic hiss and a rustling of air. Behind them, a concealed door slid
open.

Beyond it was the upper landing of a stairwell.

"I guess that answers my question," said Dunston.

They proceeded together into the darkness. Infrared sensors detected
their presence and abruptly bathed the area in the pale orange glow of
halogen lamps. The stairway was poured concrete slab, with an iron
railing painted nautical gray. Dunston held out his arm.

"After you."

"Thank you, Doctor." They started down the steps. There was a whir above
and behind them as the door closed. They momentarily stopped, looking
one another in the eye before continuing.

The concrete walls had a honeycomb texture, cool and stark. Otherwise,
the wall was featureless.

"How can you get used to a building without signs or numbers?" asked
Weiman.

"Who's here to read them?"

"True. But how can we tell when we're on the right floor?" Again, a door
opened as if on command. Dunston shuddered.

"How's that for service?" Going through it, they came to a long, dark
corridor.

They paused, peering into the blackness before faint red lamps began to
glow overhead. Dunston felt as if he were in a darkroom. Weiman
hesitated.

"This is truly weird."

"Come on, Arthur. I've got patients to see."

"I was on a submarine once that had lighting like this.

During an alert."

"If I hear any depth charges, I'll let you know." They slowly walked
down the corridor, Dunston in the lead. Rounding a corner, they came to
a series of retractable doors, all unmarked.

"Is this it?" Weiman asked.

"No, I think it's farther on. If I'm not mistaken, this is the lab. You
know, one of these days I've got to review the plans."

"As long as we're here, why don't we take a quick peek?"

"You know as well as I do that we can't go anywhere without
authorization."

"Hey, who's gonna know? We helped design this place, right?" Dunston
sighed and nodded his acquiescence. The doors had no knobs. Beside each
partition was a large button, ostensibly for servicing or emergency
access. Dunston approached the middle door and pressed its button. The
door slid open.

Weiman entered first. The lab was a large square, roughly a hundred feet
on a side. Unlike the corridor, it was nearly totally dark, without
overhead lights. Yet there was enough illumination radiating from
lighted switches and digital readouts to enable sight, once one had
acclimated to the darkness. Weiman took small steps forward.

Dozens of machines lay side by side on slate countertops, arrayed in
long rows. They were auto-analyzers, devices designed to evaluate or
measure the constituents of a lab specimen. Each was different, having a
special function and unique gadgetry consisting of tubing, suction,
siphons, and glassware. Together they emitted a medley of primarily
liquid sounds, a plumbers' convention gone berserk. Dunston followed in
Weiman's footsteps, listening to the faint bubbling and squashing.

"Incredible," Weiman whispered. "I never dreamed it'd turn out like
this."

"How do they get the specimens down here?"

"Autobots. Those little service robots that General Dynamics developed,
remember?"

"Vaguely. Now, can we get going-" He stopped, his eyes drawn to an
inconstant flickering at the rear of the lab.

"Did you see that?"

"What?"

"Over there," Dunston said, walking in the direction he was pointing.

"Little flashes, sort of like twinkling." His pace quickened, and his
heart began to beat more rapidly.

He heard an indistinct hum, as if something were closing.

He traversed the room in a dozen long strides. Yet when he reached what
he thought he'd seen, he found nothing but a cool, dark wall. He ran his
hands uncertainly across its surface. His voice was flat. "I swear. I
saw something." Weiman was a few steps behind. "Like what?"

Dunston shook his head. "I  ...  Well, something. I don't know."

"The room ends here. Nothing but a wall."

"What's behind it?"

"Damned if I remember. but it's got nothing to do with the lab. Your
eyes are playing tricks." Dunston slowly exhaled. "Yeah, probably. Let's
get out of here.

They wound their way into the hall, walking quietly, purposefully.

Dunston had a resolute air about him, all business.

"Arthur, ever wonder if we bit off more than we could chew with this
project?"

"It's a little late to be philosophical."

"It's just all so  ...  fantastic."

"There's no fantasy involved, Chad. This hospital might be advanced
math, but it's still a simple equation. A leads to B leads to C. Period.

Don't look for something that isn't there.

Around another corner, a hundred feet down, they came to a room that was
unmistakably the computer center.

Though it had no lettering or designation, there was a perceptible aura
about it, a vibrancy that seemed to convey the rich Nnness of life.

Dunston entered first, Weiman close on his heels.

Inside, the air. itself seemed to throb. Dunston- held his breath and
surveyed the panorama before him. The room was vast, the size of an
airplane hangar. Spread out with mathematical precision were row upon
row of what appeared to be personal computers, each lying on its own
desktop. Dunston estimated there were hundreds of them.

They were all tethered together, umbilically linked with insulated,
heavy gauge coaxial cable. An armada, he thought.

Troops massed for battle.

Weiman gawked. "This someone's idea of an IBM commercial?" Dunston was
in awe. "Most of the stuff's Japanese," he said. His vision was drawn to
room center. "Jesus. Take a look at that." In- the middle of the huge
chamber were two massive rectangles, fifteen feet high and nearly half
as thick. These, he knew, were the supercomputers. Feeling strangely
drawn to them, he slowly began to walk in their direction.

"Incredible," he said in a modulated tone, not really caring if Weiman
heard. "It's one thing to imagine them or see them on the drawing board.

But up close? Positively awesome." The room had a heavy background
noise, a low hum that was throaty and rumbling. The atmosphere felt
charged, tense and electric like the moments before a thunderstorm,
smelling faintly of ozone. Dunston held up his hands, waving them
slowly, as if in a fog.

"Their power  ...  Can you feel it?" The floor beneath them had an
earth-tremor unsteadiness.

"Like vibrations. What is it?"

"Magnetic fields. Superconductors, remember? The world's first and only
superconducting supercomputers."

"Some sort of hybrid, isn't it?" asked Weiman.

"Right. Josephson logic circuits and semiconductor memory, all running
at seventy-seven degrees K. Parallel processing, high-speed interfaces,
you name it. The works."

"This stuff always fascinated you more than me."

"Why shouldn't it? I mean, these machines can do what no computer has
done before. Their speed alone is close to the human brain's. There's
nothing like it anywhere. It's what makes the Center the place it is."
As they neared the middle of the room, the temperature dropped
precipitously. Their breath became a frosty vapor.

Weiman rubbed his palms briskly together.

"What gives with the thermostat? It's like an icebox in here," Arthur
said.

"That's the coolant. Liquid nitrogen or liquid helium, I can't remember
which. Superconductivity works at very low temperatures. But some of the
coolant's going to escape no matter how well the place is insulated."
They were suddenly startled by the unexpected voice of the computer,
which resonated in their ears.

"Good morning, gentlemen," it began. It was the same synthesized male
voice Dunston had heard before, but now it seemed deeper, richer. Still,
it retained an oddly mechanical quality, less than human. The two men
stopped in their tracks and shared a glance. The mist of their breath
hung about them wreathlike. They waited, but the computer was silent.

There was apprehension in Weiman's voice.

"If this is Oz and that thing calls me Dorothy, I'm outta here.

"Take it easy, Arthur. Don't twist this into something supernatural.

We're in charge here. We came down to finalize authorization, and that's
it. It must be waiting for us to do something." He studied the huge
machines that towered before him, now only feet away. In the room's dim
light, they seemed to pulsate. Finally, he spotted one of the ubiquitous
video cameras on top of the console. The lens of its mechanical eye
constricted, focusing on them. "Well, well. Hi, guys. What's the magic
word?" Two segments of the floor retracted, leaving gaping open squares
between man and machine. Almost immediately two chairs rose from below
floor level, 'snapping into place with a mechanical click. They resembled
sleek dental recliners. Simultaneously, two sliding doors hidden on the
computers' paneled surfaces opened., Mechanical arms extended, to the
ends of which were attached bulky helmets, replete with wiring that
linked the mainframe with the recliners. Weiman was puzzled.

"Another VIEWS Interface?" Dunston's brow wrinkled, then he brightened.

"No, I think these are the new MRI's we heard about. Portable magnetic
resonance helmets for imaging the brain.

"We're supposed to give authorization by getting scanned?"

"Well, it does make sense. The first big commercial use of
superconductivity was magnetic resonance imaging in medicine." He
motioned toward Weiman's chair. "Ready when you are, amigo.

As if sensing hesitation, the computer spoke again.

"Please don helmets to initiate Alpha Intercept."

"Here goes nothing," Weiman sighed.

In tandem, the two physicians sat down, leaned back, and put on the
helmets. Dunston knew that magnetic resonance imaging, or MRI, used a
superconductivity magnet to align the body's hydrogen nuclei. Radio
impulses jostled the nuclei, which, when they wobbled back into
alignment, emitted weak but detectable radio signals. These, in turn,
could be converted to a visual image. But as far as he was aware,
magnetic resonance was used only in imaging-creation of a picture which
revealed potential abnormalities within the body. Yet doubtless the
technology had other applications of which he was unaware.

Dunston was in good health, only once being on the receiving end of
medicine when he'd torn knee ligaments in college. He therefore felt the
same anticipatory anxiety as any other patient about to undergo a
diagnostic procedure.

He tried to relax, breathing deeply, aware that his heart was beating
more rapidly than usual-but nonetheless supremely confident in the
technology.

You can read my mind, can't you? he thought..

He closed his eyes and stared at the dark images which flickered behind
his eyelids. Suddenly a blinding whiteness exploded in his brain,
brighter than the sun's full glare. He involuntarily winced, and his
helmeted head snapped back against the cushion. Then the brilliance
receded, and with it, his consciousness, as the whiteness dulled to
gray, and then to black.

Chapter Five.

"ARE YOU ALL right, Dr. Dunston?"

"What?"

"You haven't heard a Word I've said,", said his receptionist.

"Forget it, Ceil. Mind was elsewhere, that's all."

"Should I bring the patients in?" He nodded. "Let's get started." The
middle-aged woman lingered, a concerned look on her face. She was
tempted to say something but thought better of it. Walking to the
waiting room door, she showed the first two patients into examining
rooms. It was a familiar routine-the signing in, the weighing, pulling
the charts. And even when one of the elements was out of sync, it
functioned smoothly enough. She concluded there was no reason to press '
him if he was intent on remaining silent.

In truth, there was precious little he could have told her.

Dunston's memory of what happened at the Center was hazy, a poorly
remembered dream. He recalled standing in the hospital lobby at
twelve-thirty and looking at his watch.

The marchers were gone. Everything that happened after he donned his
helmet was a blur.

He felt annoyed and more than a little embarrassed. But he was also
concerned. He'd never had a blackout before.

Could it have been a seizure? He had no history of cerebral trauma, and
he didn't do drugs. Well, not since college. It had to be some sort of
syncope-fainting. He'd wanted to ask Weiman about it, but when he came
to his senses, Weiman was gone. He presumed the Intercept had gone
smoothly, although he lacked the courage to call his friend to find out.

Clearly if anything even remotely like a blackout happened again, he'd
have to undergo a complete neurologic workup.

His fuguelike state lasted most of the afternoon. He worked
mechanically, changing dressings and examining incisions in near
silence, speaking only when spoken to, largely ignoring the hushed
murmuring around him. Neither patient nor staff could recall his ever
being so reticent.

Sensing he was preoccupied, they left him alone. It wasn't until his
hours were nearly over that he snapped out of it.

He was sitting at his desk, going over paperwork, when his receptionist
interrupted. She handed him a business card.

"Can you spare five minutes to see someone?"

"What's it, a drug rep? The guy from Pfizer?"

"No, she says it's personal."

"That usually means trouble. Like getting a certified letter." He
glanced at the card. It was inscribed with the name Maxine Lassiter,
along with an address and phone number.

The expected company name wasn't there. He thought that either very bold
or very foolish. "Bet she sells insurance."

"I don't think so. And she does look like someone who might brighten
your day." He put the card on his desk, crisply snapping its corners.

"Now that you've whetted my appetite, how can I refuse?" Ceil smiled and
left the room. She returned moments later, accompanied by a young woman.

Dunston rose and shook her hand. The grip was firm and the body language
direct, suggesting a no-nonsense straightforwardness.

"Maks Lassiter, Doctor. Thanks for seeing me."

"You've given- up on Maxine?"

Only my parents called me that. To everyone else, it's just Maks."

"Just as well. You don't look like a Maxine." In fact, she looked like
something out of the Sports IILUSTRATED swimsuit edition. Maks Lassiter
was an absolutely stunning woman with poise that matched her good looks.

Dunston estimated her height at five-seven, six inches shorter than he.

She had sparkling blue eyes and shimmering blond hair that tumbled over
her shoulders in enticing disarray. He motioned toward a chair. She sat
down with casual elegance, leaning forward with directness. She brushed
back her hair and immediately came to the point before he could ask what
brought her there.

"I hope you can help me, Dr. Dunston. It's about my sister.

What was it, he thought, about her hair? Was it the way she touched it,
banishing a wayward strand from her forehead? Even when she sat still,
her hair appeared to be moving, a restless motion like the sea.

"Is she one of my patients?"

"No, she was a patient at the Center for Human Potential. Almost six
months ago." He pursed his lips and nodded, saying nothing.

"Christine died, Doctor. She was four years old." He hesitated, making a
steeple of his fingers. "I'm sorry about that, Miss. Lassiter. Or is it
Mrs.?"

"Miss."

"What happened?"

"I I really don't know. She went in to have her tonsils out, but
something went wrong. Or so they said."

"When was this?"

"March thirty-first." Dunston looked away, frowning as he jotted down
notes.

His memory for statistics was good, and he didn't recall any pediatric
deaths at that time. "Are you sure?"

She bristled. "Am I sure of what?"

"Don't misunderstand me, Miss. Lassiter. But we're pretty familiar with
that place, and it's not the sort of thing I'd have forgotten.

She reached into her purse. "Maybe this will help." The telegram was
dated April first. Dunston read it quickly, astonished. Then he
carefully reread each of the terse lines. It was exactly as she'd
claimed. Christine Lassiter, it explained, died from unexpected
intra-operative complications. In accordance with institutional policy,
an autopsy was performed; the results would be forwarded when available.

Dunston put the notice down.

"My apologies, Miss. Lassiter." Her upturned lips hinted at a smile.

"Call me Maks?" He smiled back. "Sure. So: how can I help you?"

"I don't know that you can. Trying to get information out of that
hospital is like pulling teeth."

"Everything's on computer."

"So I've heard. But I can't seem to get any answers.

That place is worse than the phone company. I was hoping to talk with
someone who works there, someone with clout.

A real flesh-and-blood person, like with a pulse? Apparently there is no
such animal. But the more I looked into it, the more your name kept
popping up. Which is why I'm here." Again, her captivating smile. To
Dunston, Maks conveyed a sense of drive and purpose that matched her
beauty.

He looked into her eyes, and at her flawless complexion.

She had great skin. "I do head over there every so often.

But back up a minute. What did the autopsy results show?"

"I never found out." He was confused. "But-"

"No letter, no telegram. Nothing."

Dunston rubbed his chin in thought. "Miss. Lassiter  ...  I'm sorry.

Maks. That's it? Everything?"

"The whole kettle of fish."

"All right. Let's say I can find out the autopsy results.

What then?" She breathed deeply, composing herself. "This is much more
complicated than it should be. It's like this. Except for the telegram,
I have no way of proving Christine is dead. And the insurance company
insists on it."

"Health insurances"

"No, life insurance. You see, Chrissie had a hundred thousand dollar
policy. And before you accuse me of being mercenary-"

"I'm not accusing you of anything."

"-let me explain that it's for a scholarship fund. I want to set one up
in her name."

"Okay. But why don't you just show them the death certificate?" She
looked exasperated. "That's the whole point.

Apparently, the hospital is supposed to fill out some sort of worksheet
listing the cause of death before the town, or Board of Health, or
whoever, issues a formal death certificate. I've been to the town I
don't know how many times, and they insist they never got anything from
the hospital.

It's a runaround."

"Sounds like you need an attorney, not me."

"God, it's a mess. I did hire a lawyer, supposedly an expert. He yelled
and screamed, threatened to sue, the whole nine yards. He had a
show-cause order issued to the State Health Department, but  ...  well,
it just didn't work out." She leaned forward, intent. "Dr. Dunston, is
there any way you can help me?" Something about her fascinated him. "No
promises. But I'll do my best."

"That's all anyone can ask."

They rose and shook hands. He picked up her card.

"This your office number?"

"No, that's home. Leave a message on the machine if I'm out." She lifted
an eyebrow. "Or are you shy when it comes to machines?"

"Oh no, no. MacHines and I get on famously. I'll let you know as soon as
I find anything out." She turned and was gone. Dunston stared at the
empty doorway long after she'd gone, lapsing into a wry grin. He was
nobody's gofer, but this had all the makings of a job he couldn't
refuse. And once he discovered what she was looking for, he'd have the
opportunity to see her again. A pleasing prospect indeed.

He sat down, swiveling in his chair to face his personal computer. The
PC was seven years old-an IBM clone but it suited his needs, accessing
databases and opening up networks. On the monitor, the prompt was idly
blinking on and off. Finding what Maks Lassiter needed should be child's
play. With any luck, he'd have the hard copy in ten minutes. He leaned
forward and began to type.

Forty minutes later,'he was still sitting there. His brows were
contracted in a sullen, determined scowl. There had to be a glitch in
the system. Finding an autopsy result should have been simple enough,
especially since he was one of the few people privileged to log onto
HEALTHNET, the statewide conduit for confidential information that also
served as the Center's in-house communications grid. Yet each time he
typed in the name of Christine Lassiter, his monitor unaccountably went
blank, as if interrupted by a power surge. Frustrated, he tried a more
roundabout approach, going through the back door by searching CLEAR,
RETRIEVE, EMSCOPES, and MEDLINE. Each time the results were
disappointingly similar.

This is nonsense, he thought. First you faint during the Interface, then
your computer goes haywire. Helluva day.

His thoughts strayed to Maks Lassiter, and he brightened.

Eventually, he- knew, he'd find what he was looking for, if for no other
reason than as an excuse to see her again. If electronic sleuthing
failed, he'd ferret out the information on his next visit to the.
Center. There hadn't been many deaths in the hospital, and what
autopsies there were should be readily retrievable.

At the same time in the Center's lab, the clatter died.

The analyzers shut down in unison, and the room was filled with a heavy,
expectant silence. A nearby wall slid open, revealing a dark and hidden
chamber whose air was lush, teeming, fragrant with vitality. A chill
mist flowed noiselessly inside. It drifted eerily across the floor, a
gray and heavy vapor that rose like cemetery fog. The glass receptacles
were etched with what seemed to be frost. But death cold, from the room
came a steady, inexorable beat.

Chapter Six.

QUITE SEPARATE FROM the development of the Center for Human
Potential-but occurring at roughly the same time-was establishment of
the Human Genome Project.

Ever since the days of Gregor Mendel, a nineteenth-century Austrian monk
considered to be the father of genetics, scientists had been fascinated
by the prospect of deciphering the complete human genetic message stored
on the DNA molecule.

"The message on the genome "The entire set of instructions for making a
human being?" Merlin stopped walking to look at the young man beside
him. Seth Bentone, a Phd candidate in bioengineering, was one of the few
students Merlin had ever taken under his wing. Merlin, a tinkerer and
inventor of ingenious gadgetry, was a practical man who had little use
for theory. But Her-" tone's mind was so sharp that Merlin -thought the
student had real possibilities. Introducing the young man to the staff
at Brookhaven National Laboratories would pay off down the road and
would add one more to the list of Merlin's large net of connections.

"Everyone likes a cute ass," said Merlin. "But nobody likes a smartass.

Let me do the lecturing, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And cut out that 'sir' crap. Anyway, the idea of unraveling the genome
was first proposed about 1985, even though individual genes, which are
small fractions of the actual genome, had been studied for years."

"How many genes are there?" Merlin resumed their walk, knowing full well
Bentone already knew the answer. "The best estimate is that about one
hundred thousand genes populate the genome. By 'ninety-six, only seven
thousand had been identified, or seven percent of the total. There are
those who suggest that the technology to do the job in a reasonable time
just isn't there. Then you have guys who freak at the total cost of the
project. The initial estimate, back in the eighties, was three billion
bucks."

"Lot of money."

"Better believe il But despite the naysayers and budget cutbacks, a
couple of government agencies had real interest in gene research. One
was the Department of Energy, which is where we're headed now." them?"

"The DOE is responsible for investigating radiation induced DNA damage.

As an offshoot of that work, they launched their own independent genome
program in 1987.

Then others jumped on the bandwagon. What really turned the tide was a
1988 report by the National Research Council that endorsed a coordinated
genome study. Congress took the bait and rushed to hold committee
hearings. The results made them drool. So, by eighty-nine, financial
constraints notwithstanding, Congress allocated fifty million dollars to
the DOE, the National Library of Medicine, and the National Institutes
of Health."

"All three?"

"Yep. Medical breakthroughs fascinate the boys on the Hill. They voted
for more gene research the same year they appropriated funding for CHP."

"It's a twofold process isn't it? Understanding the message on the DNA
molecule?"

"Right. The DNA molecule is a twisted ladder with connecting rungs
called base pairs. Humans have three billion of 'em. First came proper
identification of all- base pairs.

The second part of this twofold process, as you call it and even more
formidable for geneticists-was listing the precise order of the' base
pairs. It's that order which constitutes the letters of the genetic
message."

"Isn't that called sequencing?" Merlin paused, rubbing his thin
mustache. Bentone probably knew most of this already. But it was
precisely such insight which led him to invite the student to . a DOE
brainstorming session.

"Exactly. The problem was, sequencing base pairs had always been a
tedious, time-consuming process. The NIH formed a Human Genome Advisory
Committee. At its inaugural 'eighty-nine meeting, the Committee
suggested the solution lay in automation. Their reasoning was,
sequencing is largely an engineering project, our field. If they could
develop a computerized, assembly-line approach, it might be possible to
sequence up to a million base pairs a day."

"Even at that rate it'd take years."

"You want me to explain this, or what?"

"Sorry.

"What the HGAC did was to collate and coordinate data from various
groups and projects across the country. Theoretically, each group was
answerable to its own department. By sharing common goals, they worked
in pretty much the same direction. Still, no matter how much the data
piled up, the overall progress was a snail's pace."

"They needed to build a better mousetrap."

"That's why I invited you, my friend." They had nearly reached their
destination, the Department of Energy's Brookhaven Area Office in Upton,
Long Island. As work on the Genome Project progressed, Upton became one
of the three regional genome centers for the DOE, largely due to its
access to the sprawling scientific campus at the nearby Brookhaven
National Laboratories.

The Upton group's genome researchers conferenced every other Monday.

Merlin made his way to the conference room and introduced his prot6g6 to
those assembled. After an exchange of formalities, everyone took his
seat and deferred to the group leader, geneticist Victor Sawyer.

Summer was drawing to a close, and attention turned to how the change in
weather might affect outdoor studies in progress. "Suggestions, anyone?"
asked Sawyer.

"Just a second," interjected Cheryl McKitrick. "Before we get to that, I
have an update on a report that's a little freaky.

"Namely?"

"The one I mentioned ten months ago. About missing data, remember?"
Sawyer frowned. "Vaguely. Go on." McKitrick took a deep breath. She had
a reputation for refreshing, almost brazen insouciance. The
twenty-eight-year-old computer scientist turned bioengineer had
intensified her studies a year before, when she first detected hints of
duplicated data. After a preliminary report to the grou during which
she'd down played the finding, she began months of checking, tracking,
and cross-checking. She was now convinced that data had not only been
copied, but diverted.

"Most of us are working on sequencer and computer hardware projects,"
she resumed. "We've emphasized speed and decreased cost. One of my pet
goals has been to develop databases and computer programs to scan the
data."

"What's your point, Cheryl?"

"Just this. That in scanning the data, I've come to the conclusion that
some data is, well, missing."

"What do you mean 'missing'?"

"I mean gone. Blotto. Disappeared."

"How's that possible? What data? And how much?"

"Good question. First, as to what. That came up during last year's
research on molecular magnification. Some of the files on experimental
microscopy, files I'd designed myself, were simply gone. I thought it
was a glitch, because it only involved a few files. But it wasn't. Then
I thought it might be a computer virus, like maybe someone was breaking
and entering our programs. So I showed it to Jim," she said, nodding to
a colleague. "He convinced me." I Sawyer lit his pipe and began puffing
furiously, lost in thought, looking at everyone in turn. He eyed Seth,
wondering if the grad student Merlin touted as a genius might have
useful suggestions. He doubted it; the problem was too complex. Then he
gazed at Merlin. The man looked nothing like his namesake wizard. When
they first met, years ago, Sawyer had expected someone with that moniker
to have the wild-eyed stare of the institutionalized, with electrified
hair that stood on end. Instead, bespeckled and balding, and with a
considerable paunch that rendered his pencil-thin mustache incongruous,
the middle-aged Merlin was more like a hybrid of grease monkey and
accountant.

No matter, Sawyer concluded, this wasn't up Merlin's alley. His eyes
fixed on the man next to Cheryl. "James?"

"No virus, for sure. When a virus gets into a computer, it's usually
through a communications network. But all of Cheryl's files were
in-house, off network. When a virus does sneak through, most files are
deleted. Sometimes whole software programs. But it didn't happen here.

It took me months to double-check everything, but it looks like certain
files, selected files, were missing. In other words, it looked like
they'd been copied rather than nabbed."

"What files?"

"Mainly ones related to how microscopy might help crack the genetic
code.

"Can they be replaced?" he asked Cheryl.

"Oh sure. I've replaced most of them already. But that's not the point.

The important question is who did it. And why."

"And?" She shrugged. "Got no answers there, boss. I have some thoughts,
but they're wild guesses. Now, the second part of your question, about
how much data. I had a hunch that if some of my files were copied or
missing or whatever, then maybe some other people's were, too. So I
asked around, and guess what? There must be a dozen guys who thought
that some data was gone. They all thought they'd just made an error."
From around the conference table, there was a hushed murmur, and several
heads nodded slowly.

But they hadn't," she went on. "So I went back to Jim. We came up with a
program that had the ability to sift through all our combined in-house
computer memory and find out if other files were missing." She held up a
ream of computer print-outs. "I won't bore you with what we learned,
other than to say it's pretty impressive. Somebody's got us."

"Jesus," said Sawyer. He read the concern in everyone's eyes, but the
room was silent. "I'd put my money on the Japanese."

"Possible," said Jim. "We know the Japanese have a consortium of
high-tech companies that compete with us in gene, research. But this?

Not their style."

" I somehow doubt it's MITI," said Cheryl. "They've said hands off to
industrial espionage ever since State slapped their wrist in that Soviet
fiasco in the eighties,"

"That's not to say they're beyond doing it again."

"True. In fact, now that you mention it, I have a contact who might know
just what they're up to."

"See to it."

Chapter Seven.

"LET ME LOOK it up on my screen," Maks said into the phone as she eyed
her monitor. "Yes, I have it. No problem. I'm going to put on my
receptionist. Tell her what you want, and she'll fax it to you." She put
the caller on hold and pressed the intercom button. "Dottle, pick up on
three four. Fax some junk to this guy in the city, okay?"

"Sure." Dottie pressed the blinking button. "Hi, this is, Dottie, junk
laxer." Overhearing the light exchange, Maks smiled. Dottie was as
pleasant and logical as they came, an invaluable assistant. But even
more than being her right hand, Dottie was a friend, a confidant to whom
she could tell anything. Well, almost anything. What was happening with
Dunston was as yet too formless to discuss.

"Cancel my three o'clock, Dottie," she said over the intercom. "See if
you can put it on for next week."

"You going for cocktails, or what?" Maks smiled. "That'll be all,
Dottie. Thank you." Cocktails? She wouldn't mind. But Dunston hadn't
mentioned it when he called to ask if she could meet him that afternoon
at the Vanderbilt Museum.

All he said was that it concerned Christine. Why he couldn't discuss it
over the phone, or why he didn't want her to come to his office, he
didn't say. She simply knew that in the two weeks since she'd met him,
he'd been constantly on her mind, surfacing in her thoughts at the
oddest times; and if he hadn't called her first, she darn well might
have called him within a couple of days herself. The museum? Maybe he
was a history buff.

She straightened up her desk and removed her work coat, a beige smock
that was the signature of Kashiwahara Electronics. Though she was well
up in the company hierarchy as East Coast sales director, the uniform
was de rigeur of all Kashiwahara employees. She wielded a modest amount
of power in her position, and that alone made her somewhat unusual, for
women were rarely accorded preferential treatment in Japanese concerns.

But it wasn't dumb luck that landed her the job. She earned it. A
computer major in college, Maks's brilliant thesis on optical computers
had AT&T nearly knocking down the employment door before she
graduated.'She was on the verge of signing when Kashiwahara's lucrative
offer and promise of free departmental reign steered her their way.

The digital wall clock read 2:45. She estimated she had just enough time
to leave her Hauppauge office and return home for a quick do-over before
the short trip to the museum. Outside, it was a brilliant late summer
day with a high sky of dazzling clarity. She felt exhilarated, as by the
weather as the prospect that her elusive search might finally be nearing
an end. She got into her Acura coupe and followed the highways and the
winding length of Route 25A until she reached the narrow back roads to
her home.

Turning into the driveway, her tires kicked up stray bits of dirt and
gravel until she pulled to a halt.

Going inside, she dashed upstairs and shed her garments in a way that
was at once haphazard yet punctilious, leaving a concise, tidy trail.

She turbaned her hair in a thick bath towel and stepped into the shower.

She was out in less than two minutes, wrapping herself in a terry robe
as she sat down to her makeup mirror.

There was little she needed except blush and eyeliner and some color to
enhance her lips. She didn't wear perfume.

A few strokes of a brush were sufficient for her fine hair.

Then it was on to her wardrobe. She had a general idea of what might
constitute museum wear, although she somehow had a feeling she wouldn't
be spending much time indoors. She took a hint from the weather and
decided on rich knit separates, whose soft textures, properly
coordinated, were as much at home-on the beach as in front of a Van
Gogh. After an indecisive moment for color selection, she opted for the
simplicity of black and white: a small dotted tee, pull-on pants and a
striped bandeau, very Arabian. She put everything on and cocked her
head, satisfied.

Then she locked up and returned to her car.

Living close to the museum, she was there after a ten minute drive. It
was well before rush hour, and her upbeat mood left her looking and
feeling good. She spotted Dunston as soon as she pulled into the
museum's nearly empty lot. He was leaning against the door of his
Mustang, arms folded across his chest and one foot tucked around the
other. When she saw him, her first thought was that she was overdressed.

All he wore was a V-neck tennis sweater, shorts, and Nikes. Yet her
second thought banished any thought of being out of place. He looked
somewhere between fabulous and gorgeous, but with a masculine rather
than pretty manner, with a well-muscled physique, tousled wavy hair that
looked as if he were plucked from a volleyball match and an even tan
suggesting a lot of time spent outdoors. Best of all, he was smiling at
her.

"Right on time," he said, without looking at his watch.

"Did I miss something? If we're playing tennis, my Reeboks are
light-years away." He laughed. "I haven't played in years. No, I thought
we might take in a little cruise."

"On what?"

"My boat. Spend some time on the water, get a little fresh air. Talk
about your sister along the way. Come on, get in." She walked around the
front of his car. "You mean we're not going to compare the merits of
nineteenth-century impressionists?"

"Hell no. This was just a convenient place to meet."

"Convenient to what?"

"Centerport Harbor. My boat's tied up there. It's not very far, but the
directions are kind of confusing. Do you mind?" Maks just smiled. Mind?
She was thrilled. And provided they weren't planning a cruise on the
Trump yacht, her outfit was fine. She opened the passenger door and got
in.

In the convertible, the swiftly rustling air precluded conversation. As
they drove toward the harbor, she was content to lean against the
headrest and soak up the waning rays of afternoon sun. They arrived
moments later. Dunston parked the car and walked around to her door.

"You didn't ask if I get seasick," she said.

"Should I have brought along one of those patches?" She gave her head a
shake. "Actually, we used to sail a lot when I was a kid. My dad had an
endless succession of these little boats, like Sunfish."

"No kidding? Does he still -sail?

"My parents died not long after Christine was born." He seemed to
stiffen. "Christ, I'm sorry." He smacked himself apologetically in the
head. "I had no idea." She followed him as they started down the dock.

"No apology necessary. How could you have known?"

"Well, I might have guessed it from the computer. Christine's hospital
admission form listed you as next of kin.

With a kid her age, that's kind of unusual. Pretty stupid of me." I

"What else did you find out?"

"Not much. In fact, I'm hoping some nautical relaxation can make up for
what I didn't find."

"Did you track down the autopsy?"

"That much, yes. At least on one of the hospital's video monitors. For
some reason I'm having a helluva time generating hard copy, but I'm sure
it's only- a question of time.

They reached his boat, but she was too wound up to look it over. "And?"

"Your sister had a congenital anomaly."

"A what?"

"Birth defect. A pretty unusual one, at that. It's got an
unpronounceable name I won't bore you with. Basically, it was a heart
problem."

"Heart problem? Her pediatrician said she was in perfect health, except
for her tonsils."

"And so she was, if it weren't for this little bit of heart muscle
called the sinus node. I'll explain it in a sec. Can you untie that line
in the back?" Maks unlashed the stern rope while Dunston removed the bow
line. When she straightened, she paused to glance at the craft. It was
magnificent-a sleek, white launch that was a powerboat in every sense of
the word, where speed was paramount and how fast you went was as
important as where you went. Gracefully tapered to a point at the bow,
it rode low in the water, neat and compact, a statement of simplicity of
design and function. She knew he must be very proud of it.

"She's beautiful. What's it, about thirty feet?"

"Twenty-eight."

"How long have you had it?"

"Oh, two weeks tomorrow."

"Two weeks! No wonder you're so anxious to get out here."

He nodded. "I've become addicted to it."

"I don't suppose you can just say no." She eyed the spotless foredeck.

"Nary a scratch on ' 'er."

"And destined to stay that way. Allah willing." He offered his arm.

"Now, can I interest milady in a new level of cruising fun?" She
fluttered her eyelids, liking the feel of the sinew below his elbow.

"Depends what you've -got in mind."

"How about seventy miles an hour against a flat horizon?"

She gave a nervous cough and thumped her chest. "My, we live
dangerously. You do carry life jackets, I hope?"

"What's a life jacket?" Then he laughed, helping her over the gunwale
and gesturing toward one of the contoured bucket seats, snatching aside
a wayward snorkel, stowing it along with diving gear. "I don't suppose
you dive, do you?"

"Is this one of I those times I'm supposed to say I'll try anything
once? No. I don't dive." She sat down and propped her arms on the soft,
cushioned holsters. "Full speed ahead, scuba man." The lowering sun cast
a strong glare, and she put on a pair of Camera's while he puttered in
the back. Shortly, he was beside her, leaning over and pushing the boat
away from the slip, putting distance between them and the dock.

Then he broke the spell, resuming his medical explanation.

"This sinus node," he went on. "It's sort of an electrical junction box,
the heart's natural pacemaker. In your sister, it wasn't developed
normally. In lay terms, I guess you could say there was something wrong
with the heart's wiring."

"But don't people with heart trouble get short of breath, or have chest
pain.?" He shook his head. "Not in her case. She probably had no
symptoms whatsoever. Until she was under stress."

"You mean like tension?"

"No." He worked the ignition, and the boat shuddered as the twin
Mercruisers throbbed to life. Together, they developed over seven
hundred horsepower, and although the engines were idling, Maks could
feel the raw power of a thinly restrained beast. Dunston barely
throttled forward, and the craft seemed to lurch. Despite doing barely
five knots, the engines' throaty rumble was the voice of raw brutality.

Something told her that "picking up speed" would be euphemistic
understatement for this boat. Dunston had to shout to be heard.

"Are you still with me?"

"I reckon for about a minute ' before deafness sets in."

"Good. Now when I say stress, I mean physical stress.

Like pumping adrenaline, and raised blood pressure. In surgery, even
elective surgery like Christine's, one of the greatest stresses is the
anesthesia. The body doesn't like being put to sleep. All sorts of
reflexes kick in, and the cardiovascular system's under a tremendous
burden for a few minutes. Most people weather the storm fine."

"But not my sister."

"I'm afraid not. Her sinus node couldn't handle it. She developed a
fatal arrhythmia. Her heart sort of short circuited. It wasn't built to
handle it." She fought back the tears. "I see." They both fell silent,
not speaking for the next few minutes as they slowly cruised past
Eaton's Neck. Finally, the land was behind them.

Well out into the Sound, with no other vessels in sight, Dunston leaned
toward her.

"Shall I put her through her paces?"

"She's all yours, Cap'n." He throttled up. The inboards roared, and the
bow angled skyward as the props churned water into froth. Maks was
thrust sharply back and had to grip her seat tightly. The boat seemed to
have an appetite for speed.

They raced relentlessly toward the horizon, hurtling forward, kissing
the crest of each wave with the grace and power of a rocket. Maks' gaze
was locked straight ahead in a kind of tunnel vision as she learned the
meaning of acceleration firsthand. Although her toes seemed glued to the
deck, there was something immensely pleasing about the marriage of speed
and gut-wrenching power, and about the arrowlike smoothness of their
watery trajectory. But there was no way she could express that to him.
The wind and sea have ways of thwarting communication; and anyway, she
could barely move her head, although she did manage a glimpse at the
gauges.

Somewhere below seventy miles per hour, and with the needle off the tach
at 5,300 rpm, their surroundings became a tunnel of wind and water. The
rest of the world seemed to disappear, and she entered a vortex of
suspended reality.

Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, and her sunglasses pressed
flush against her sockets. Her cheeks wanted to wrap around her ears,
and she felt force-fed on rushing air. Finally, when she was beginning
to suspect that at any minute she might need resuscitation, it was over.

The engine roar lessened to a throaty growl.

"My God," she murmured.

"Say what?"

"Do you do this often?"

"Only before brain surgery."

"How long have we been out here?" He looked at his watch. "Forty-three
minutes." Her jaw dropped. "You're joking!" He smiled. "Kind of does
that to you, doesn't it? When the engines are at max, sucking on vapor,
and when you're planing along, voom! You think, it's been what-five
minutes? Ten? Next thing you know, you check out the time, and the day's
slipped by." The boat slowed as he throttled back even more, aiming the
bow toward the harbor. "Some tension reliever, huh?

Beats having a drink."

"You might say that. You must have a lot of tension in your line of
work. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

"Trauma surgeon."

"What's a trauma surgeon?"

"Car crashes, stab wounds. That sort of stuff. Humpty Dumpty work."

"Out at the Center?"

"Nah. There aren't any human surgeons at the Center.

Just computers and robots. I work out of a couple of hospitals in the
Port Jeff area."

"You must have a top-of-the-line beeper to hear it over this racket."

"Lady, I'm off until tomorrow morning "Who's minding the store?"

"I'm in a coverage system with two other guys. Solo practiced be
impossible in my line of work."

Soon, he pulled up at the moorings and tied up the boat.

After Maks helped stow a few things below deck, they walked back to the
parking lot, slowing when they neared his car. She extended her hand.

"Thanks for finding out about Christine."

"No sweat. As soon as I get that hard copy, I'll send one off to you."
They lingered, holding the handshake, at a temporary loss for words.

"If you're off call," she suggested, "maybe I can repay the favor.

There's a little Mexican place near here that makes a mean Margarita. Or
does medicine have any of those airline rules about not drinking before
duty?" He laughed. "Nab." He checked his watch. "But it's almost five,
and my in-laws are coming over for supper pretty soon. Thanks anyway."
She turned beet red. In-laws? Somehow, she'd assumed that  ...  Her eyes
darted toward his ring finger: no band, no white circle of flesh
sheltered from the sun. Still, what an idiot she'd been! She momentarily
considered storming away, except she was flustered into near, paralysis.

He held up a conciliatory palm. "Before you jump to conclusions, you
ought to know that I've been pretty tight with my in-laws since my
divorce. I'm off again on Saturday. Is that place open weekends?" Maks
just smiled.

"This is great guacamole," he said, scooping some onto a tortilla chip.

"And here I always hated avocados. In surgery, anything that's green and
runny is bad news." She made a face. "I'm supposed to put up with this
for the rest of the meal?" I"Oops, there I go, talking shop."

"How was dinner with your in-laws?"

"Great. It's always great. Fantastic people. I mean, Sid practically
furnished my whole office for free. And Lorraine? A real straight
shooter. How many prospective mothers-in-law tell you you'd be an idiot
to marry their daughter?"

"But you did anyway." He sighed. "Admittedly, the handwriting was on the
wall."

"Which wall?"

"In Ann's case, the bathroom wall. It got to the point where I was
afraid to go into the men's room so I wouldn't find her name scribbled
inside some toilet stall."

"Get out."

"I kid you not. My wife was an anachronism, a freelove flower child of
the sixties who grew up in the nineties."

"How long were you married?"

"Not long. Eighteen months. I'll be divorced two years this January."

"Two years can be an eternity." His expression turned glum and distant.

"It sure can." Watching him toy with the silverware, Maks was nonplussed
by his sudden reticence. It didn't fit the wearer.

Here was a man who seemed supremely confident both at work and at
play-but pursuit of a harmless inquiry into the ruins of his romantic
past made him turn turtle, withdrawing into an emotional shell.

He reminded her of the outgoing little boy who becomes pouting and
uncommunicative when distressed, something she'd seen before in bright
schoolmates. There was something quintessentially nerdy about his
reaction, but it was an endearing nerditiess when packaged in sullen
silence.

"Was it a drug thing?" He shrugged. "I suppose you might say she was a
party girl. Whatever it was that Ann wanted, I just wasn't able to give
it to her." Maks felt a desperate need to comfort him. "I know what it's
like to be hurt. Not the same as you were, but I have scars too. There
are times it seems like such a struggle."

"I'll tell you something. In a weird way, the struggle is a gift. I'm a
different person because of it. Struggle can lead to change, and if
you're lucky, change can lead to growth. I'm able to handle things now
that I never could have before this happened."

"Very philosophical. Also very convenient. If you had it to do all over
again, would you go through all that hurt for the sake of some personal
growth?"

"That's a tough choice. All I know is, Ann never bothered being choosy.

Maybe she was just a free spirit, who knows'?" Maks tried a consoling
smile. "Does the word slut mean anything to you?" She had tried the
uncertain comfort of humor-but from his quickly averted eyes, his
intensely wounded took, she knew she'd said the wrong thing. Levity was
not her strong suit, and now she felt horrible. She placed her palm atop
his, a soft apology.

"I'm sorry. That was terrible of me. You really loved her, didn't you?"

" Yeah. Anyway, she didn't love me, which is more to the point."

"No loose ends, like kids?"

He took a sip of his Margarita. "No  ...  But enough about me. I realize
you're paying for drinks, but dinner's on me. If you can stand plain
American food." She had a deadpan expression. "I don't know. I'm
expecting my in-laws." Dunston laughed, and little crow's feet crinkled
the corners of his eyes. "Touchd. Tell you what. Let's blow this joint
and boldly go where no man has ever gone before: my place."

"Golly, Captain Kirk. Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I make the greatest spinach salad this side of Rome." He had
repositioned his hand atop hers, and he lightl pressed her wrist. She
liked the gentleness of his touch, but she wasn't quite ready for it.

"Well, I'd really like this to be my treat. It took me forever to get an
answer about Chrissie, and I owe you at least a meal. I've got a couple
of great steaks that are crying out for charbroiling and a quick
twenty on the table, took Chad's arm, and led the way out. They had come
in separate cars, and now, ten minutes later, Chad was following her
tail lights as they turned onto a long, gravel driveway. Stately ash
trees lined the path, forming a green canopy overhead. In the twilight,
between the tree trunks, Dunston could make out a vast expanse of
sprawling neighboring properties. Maks' property encompassed a long,
slender rectangle, flanked by baronial estates on either side.

The two-story frame house was set against the backdrop of Cold Spring
Harbor. Dunston pulled into a spot behind her at the end of a circular
turn-around, watching the distant play of moonbeam on water. He stepped
out of his car and glanced toward the properties to either side.

"This is quite the location How did you manage to find a house wedged
between playgrounds for the rich and famous?" She led him toward the
door. "It's a long story. The perty has been in my family for about a
hundred years.

Around the time of the First World War, a lot of this area was turned
into summer homes for the Gatsby crowd. But they couldn't get this
skinny little acre away from my great grandfather. Been handed down ever
since."

He followed her past the front door into a wide entryway.

Beyond it was a comfortable kitchen in French Provincial decor, with an
enormous central wooden chopping block and racks for overhead, pots and
pans. He was duly impressed.

"You could feed an army in here. Or even a shift of hungry nurses.

"My parents used to entertain a lot."

"What happened to them, anyway?"

"Plane crash, It was supposed to be a weekend trip-" She sighed.

"Christine wasn't even two." She opened the refrigerator. "Want another
drink?"

"If you're having." He shifted gears, sensing her discomfort with the
subject of her parents' death. He was also aware that he'd monopolized
the conversation until now, talking about what happened to Christine,
his work, and his past with Ann. He really knew very little about her,
other than that she had a gritty determination he very much admired.

As she spoke, every so often Maks would twirl a wayward strand of her
hair between thumb and forefinger before putting the ends to her lips,
as if she were moistening the tip of a watercolor brush. Dunston watched
in fascination as the interplay between tongue, hair, and fingers
threatened his concentration. "So. When you're not playing lady of the
house," he said, with a wave of his hand, "what do you do in real life?"

"I work for Kashiwahara Electronics." Yeah? What department?"

"I'm in sales. Optical computers."

"Fascinating stuff, cutting edge," he said, with an approving nod.

"Still in the research stage when I was in school." She went to the
liquor cabinet for the tequila. "Actually, they've been around since
1960. But the technology was too primitive, and it guzzled energy, about
half a megawatt for power and cooling."

"Enough to light five thousand hundred-watt bulbs."

"Just about."

"'They use lasers, don't they?"

"Right, instead of wires. The number-crunctling guys could never get the
chips tight enough. The closer they packed 'em, the more the
electromagnetic interference scrambled their data. That really
restricted their speed. But digital optical processors operate at more
than a billion cycles per second." Dunston did a mental calculation.

"That's a thousand times more powerful than a supercomputer."

"And able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. The guys at Cray
wanted to the when they found out."

"When did that happen?"

"They solved the energy problem about ten years ago with these
low-voltage units. Then, in the late eighties, they developed the
hardware-light lenses called Symmetric Self Electro-optic Effect
Devices."

"S-SEEDS." She gazed at him as she shook the Margarita. "This is old hat
to you." He shrugged. "Just what I've read. Isn't it like parallel
processing?"

"Same principle, different modality. Digital computers think in a serial
way, one piece of data at a time. But even with supercomputers, the
computations took too long. Optics lets you process a large amount of
information simultaneously. Endless possibilities.

"What do you sell for Kashiwahara?" I"Lenses, mostly. But they also let
me do some research, which is why I signed with them. Right now, it's
still exciting. Even the military's interested, but  ..." She clucked
her tongue, then smiled politely. "Sorry, can't talk about that."

"Sounds like a great job." He paused, not wanting to push her. He looked
around the room as she poured his drink. "It's very comfy here. Was it
just the two of you here, you and your sister?" Yes. Mom and Dad always
claimed they wanted only one child. I was flabbergasted when my mother
told me she was pregnant."

"How old was she?"

"Forty-five."

"Accident, huh?"

"No, I don't think so. More like she was hearing the finality of her
reproductive footsteps. She never said it in so many words. It was the
way she talked. I'd just finished college by- then and was out on my
own. Maybe she was lonely, empty-nest syndrome and all that. Here, how's
this?" He tasted the drink. "Hnu=, nice. Can I help with anything?" She
gestured toward a -cabinet. "There's a bag of charcoal briquets in
there. Maybe you can get them going while I trim the steaks." In the
center of the kitchen area was an ample brazier for indoor grilling,
with an overhead exhaust hood for venting fumes. As Dunston spread out
the coals, he noted that the grill had an ingenious built-in briquet
lighter. When he switched it on, an exhaust fan simultaneously began to
purr.

An hour later, they were seated at a small table outdoors.

Adjacent to the exterior kitchen wall was a compact veranda that
afforded a breathtaking view of the water. On the horizon, there was the
distant twinkling of running lights from boats that slipped silently
past. They ate by candlelight. The meal was simple yet sumptuous: hot,
crusty bread, peas with water chestnuts, a side of rewarmed fries, and '
the steaks, accompanied by a cabernet from a local Long Island vineyard.

Nearly finished, Dunston dabbed his lips with a napkin.

"Delicious. Now that we've established you're a gourmet cook, it's full
speed ahead and damn the calories. Dessert's on me."

She raised her eyebrows. "The doctor's also a cook?"

"No, just basic bachelor survival. Now, which way to the crepe pan?" For
Maks, dessert was a pleasing as the rest of the meal had been to
Dunston. While he cooked, she cleared the table and loaded the
dishwasher, allowing him free reign of the kitchen and pantry. He hummed
as he went along, something pleasant but unrecognizable. The painful
subject of his ex-wife didn't come up again. He followed no
instructions, seeming to rely on some recipe in his head.

Maks silently marveled at his apparently haphazard way of making do with
what was available. The result was anything but "thrown together." He
fashioned fresh peaches, cream, marmalade, and Grand Mamier into a
concoction that was nothing short of spectacular.

She made coffee, and they followed it up with Courvoisier, sipping the
brandy from delicate oversize snifters.

They retreated to the veranda and an old but sturdy porch swing. They
made small talk, discussing their lives and careers for what seemed like
hours, each obviously increasingly interested in discovering the other
person than in selfpromotion. Yet just as such interest was obvious, it
becoming less and less apparent, for they had nearly emptied the bottle
of brandy by midnight.

The porch faced west. Beyond it was a small but welltended backyard
which gradually slipped away into Cold Spring Harbor, which in turn
widened as it spilled into Oyster Bay. Maks leaned forward, intent,
staring out at the distant, watery panorama.

"What time is it9"

"Ten of twelve." Somewhat unsteadily, she put down her glass and got up.
Kicking off her shoes, she walked barefoot onto the grass-cool at that
hour, moist with dew. She wrapped her arms around herself and slowly
glided toward the horizon.

Although her gait meandered, her gaze was unwavering.

Dunston watched without comment. Her unexpected silence confused him. Up
to that point, they had been laughingly outspoken, even boisterous,
except for those moments he was distracted when she did her hair thing.

She was now clearly concentrating on something, obviously upset. lie
mulled over his words but couldn't think of what he might have said to
offend her. He got up.

I Imaks?"

She didn't answer. Dunston stood there, concerned, watching her glide
across the slick turf. He had a strange feeling of deja vu, of
helplessly watching Ann spin away like some ill-fated comet, while he
was powerless to do anything about it. But then he realized that Maks
bore no emotional resemblance to his unstable ex-wife. The doctor in him
took over. He slowly followed her footsteps.

She stopped as unexpectedly as she'd started. From behind, Dunston could
see that her chin had sunk to her chest, and her shoulders slumped
forward. Then those same shoulders began to slowly quake up and down. As
he drew closer, he could hear the softness of her crying.

"Maks, what's wrong?" Still she kept silent, absorbed in her anguish.

The physician in him said to remain impartial-detached, even; to draw
her out with deliberate, open-ended questions. But the man in him
couldn't tolerate her suffering. He drew even with her and grasped the
smooth, cool skin of her bare shoulders. Her body seemed to relax at his
touch, but her sobbing continued. As he held her, she slowly turned
toward him until her lowered forehead rested against his shoulder.

"It's so damn unfair," she finally managed "What is? "Life. Everything.

Tomorrow would've been Christine's birthday.

So that's it, he thought. He stroked her hair, pulling her closer,
soothing her as he might an injured child, letting his arms go around
her. "It's not your fault. Don't torture yourself." Leaning against him
for comfort, she felt her body unwind. "She was only a kid, a baby.

Life's never like the movies, is it?"

"No," he said. "It never is." While she clung to him, her tears slowly
ceased. Overhead, the stars glittered.'Maks felt safe and warm in his
arms, her face nestled in the crook of his neck. She felt wonderfully
content, absorbed in her thoughts. There seemed no need to talk. She
didn't dare hope that something more might develop between them. Yet as
she relaxed in his gentle embrace, it was plain from the gentleness of
their touch that something was happening to both of them, but Maks
couldn't get Christine out of her mind.

Chapter Eight.

"Dr. Dunston, I can give you gloves which actually
fit." The nurse widened the latex cuff, allowing him to thrust in his
fingers. He smiled at her. "Always such a crowd pleaser?" Before she
could reply, the emergency room physician called him. "I think you
better get in here before we lose this guy." Dunston turned toward the
patient, an unconscious man of about thirty whose life was seeping out
through three bullet wounds. One was in his right chest just above the
nipple; the second, just below his right rib cage, probably pulverizing
the liver; and the third, smack in the center of the umbilicus,
seemingly less serious than the other two, unless it nicked one of the
great vessels or transacted the spinal cord. The patient needed to have
his hemorrhaging stopped fast. And that meant trauma surgery.

Dunston checked the monitors. There was a good pulse, but the blood
pressure was dropping. The endotracheal tube was in place, but the
end-tidal CO, was pretty dreadful, and the pulse oximeter showed poor
oxygenation. While they were waiting for the operating room to get
ready, an arterial blood gas might help. He snugged on his gloves. There
were five people in the trauma room, all feverishly working on the
patient. Dunston spoke to no one in particular.

"This guy a regular?"

"Nah, no tracks. Cop that brought him in says he was dealing.

"Cops shot him?"

"No, it was a bad buy. Over in the mall."

"Can you turn his wrist up a little? Good. Spray it, okay?" One of the
nurses sprayed the exposed wrist with a brownish antiseptic. Dunston
removed disposable sterile towels from the radial artery catheterization
set and draped them to expose a triangular portal of skin.

"I'll tell ya," he said as he worked, "suburbia's going down the tubes.

May as well live in the South Bronx."

"Tell me about it." Dunston felt for the radial artery, found the
pulse, and eased the needle under the skin. The procedure was done by
touch. Sensing just the right resistance from the arterial wall, he
plunged the needle home. A pitifully watery stream of arterial blood
gushed back. He quickly hooked up an anticoagulated syringe, drew off
several cc's, and handed it to one of the techs.

"Here's the gas. Must be acidotic as hell. You have any ice for that
thing?"

"Just one of those cold packs." Dunston shrugged. "Port in a storm.

It'll do." As he began threading a narrow plastic catheter into the
artery, he glanced at the man's blood-streaked chest. "Aren't
bulletproof vests required attire for these characters?"

"Usually. But not at ten in the morning." Dunston shook his head. "So
much for business ethics.

Maybe they should unionize. Did you say no exit wounds?" "Yep."

"The weapon must have a real low muzzle velocity. I'm sure they used
hollowpoints-maximum expansion, minimum penetration. I hope it wasn't
Magsafes or Glasers.

Entry wounds look like nine mil, don't they?"

"That or thirty-eight. Too small for a forty-five."

"Must be that subsonic crap. They use a silencer?"

"Beats me. Ask the cop outside. If you ever get out of surgery "You got
that right." He finished hooking up the arterial pressure transducer and
taped everything in place. "How're we doing for an OR?"

"They just called. The room's ready."

"Okay, folks. Show time. Keep that IV open wide." Working as a team,
they unhooked the endotracheal tube from the respirator and steadied the
patient on the trauma stretcher. When all was ready, Dunston said, "Go."
Then the team wheeled the stretcher toward a waiting elevator.

At eleven in the morning, emergency rooms are generally quiet, having
attended to most of the non-emergencies that glutted the waiting room at
seven A.M., before the start of work. Maybe it was something in the
appearance of the two men, who suddenly positioned themselves in the
hall; or perhaps it was the subtle, knowing change in the police
officer's expression as the stretcher rolled past. In either case, the
hairs on Dunston's neck stood on end. As he turned in the cop's
direction, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

The officer seemed stuck in molasses-pathetically slow to clear his
holster of his duty-issue Glock-17. Simultaneously, both intruders drew
weapons. Dunston would later recall the vivid clarity with which his
eyes immediately fixed on their guns, no doubt the result of a morbid
fascination for implements of destruction he'd developed during his
training.

One man held a glitzy, chrome-plated CZ-75. From under a long jacket,
the other took out a Heckler & Koch MP5, an expensive, German-made
submachine gun which, in this case, sported a thirty-round magazine and
a long, screw-on silencer. Dunston saw terror in the officer's eyes as
the man with the CZ aimed at him. There were four thunderous explosions
as the stranger pulled the trigger rapid-fire. At a distance of five
feet, it was hard to miss.

The first shot struck the officer in the middle of the chest, propelling
him backward into a wall.

His partner, meanwhile, descended upon the stretcher.

Amidst the screams and shouts of sensible people madly scrambling for
cover, Dunston remained peculiarly motionless at the stretcher's side.

The second man swung the H-K toward him in a vicious arc. The heavy
silencer smashed into Dunston's cheek, making him see stars as he
staggered out of the way. The man then aimed at the stretcher and
fired..

Despite the silencer,. the submachine gun was hardly silent, though it
was muted to the loudness of a cap gun. The second intruder fired a
continuous, thirty-shot burst, emptying the magazine in less than three
seconds. As he raked the dying patient's torso, glittering shell casings
went flying. So, too, did bits of skin, muscle, and bone, splattering
the wall with a fine, grisly crimson spray.

Assuming the police officer was. down, the first man turned to watch the
second. What he did not know was that when the cop had fallen backward,
the CZ's other dime shots were wide of the mark. Nor had he known that,
unlike the patient, the officer was wearing a vest; and that although
stunned by the slug that crashed into his chest, the policeman was
hardly out of the fray. He righted himself and was just leveling his
Glock when the first man looked his way.

They both fired at the same time. The patrolman was hit again, this time
taking a hollowpoint outside of the vest's upper body strap, effectively
shattering his right shoulder and sending his pistol skittering across
the floor-but not before his Glock had spoken. The officer's single
returned shot entered the man's head at the bridge of his nose. The exit
wound at the back of the skull was enormous, and a particulate spray of
blood, brain and bone was showered twenty feet across the room.

The second man seemed coldly deliberate in what he did next. Seeing that
the officer was wounded and unarmed, and perhaps sensing that his
accomplice was dead, he reached into his pocket for a spare magazine.

Finding it, he ejected the empty clip from the H-K and let it fall to
the floor as he clicked its replacement into the magazine well.

The policeman, despite his pain, was aware of everything that was
happening and frantically began to scamper across the floor toward his
gun.

By now, Dunston's vision had cleared. Although those around him were
terrified, he felt the opposite. He was positively enraged by the
unprovoked assault against him. The killer's calculated, methodical
manner infuriated him even more. As he watched, the intruder chambered
the fresh magazine's first nine-millimeter round and grinned at the
officer. With a sadistic leer, he slowly, tauntingly, pointed the
still-smoking silencer in the officer's direction.

Dunston sprang. Lowering his shoulder like a linebacker, he hurtled
across the intervening space in two frenzied strides. His shoulder
struck the middle of the killer's spine with a jarring impact. Both the
man and the submachine gun went flying.

That was all the time the officer needed. He retrieved his Glock and
scrambled to one knee, steadying the gun in his uninjured left hand as
he aimed it squarely at the now sprawling killer. Seeing the fury in the
cop's eyes, the man froze into motionlessness. At that moment, a
hospital security guard arrived. Most of them were off-duty cops anyway.

Immediately assessing the situation, he pulled a Seecamp .32 auto from a
concealed holster with one hand and used the nearest ER phone to call
for back-up with the other. The remainder of the scattered medical team
regained its composure. They took a collective deep breath and turned to
evaluate the carnage.

There was nothing that could be done for the patient, whose perforated
head and torso were largely unrecognizable pulp. Once the security guard
took over for the downed policeman, the latter was helped into the first
treatment cubicle available, which happened to be a casting room. This
was fortuitous, both because of its abundance of gauze and dressings and
its proximity to x-ray. There the officer's bleeding was stanched, a
pressure dressing applied, and his shoulder x-rayed. The films showed
that the head of his humerus, where the upper arm met the shoulder, was
fragmented. But although his tennis serve was now history, neither major
vessels nor nerves were seriously impaired.

Once he'd had emergency reconstructive surgery-which would be within the
hour-his arm would remain functional. But the intruder with a bullet to
the brain was a different story entirely.

He wasn't dead. The cop's single shot had essentially liquefied all of
his cerebral cortex and cerebellum, but his brain stem and autonomic
nervous system remained intact, allowing his body's vital functions to
continue. Thus his heart still pumped, his lungs breathed, and his
kidneys still put out urine. Except for the fact that he was now a
vegetable, his remaining organs were quite normal. This was something of
an unexpected bonus. The medical team sensed what it had here and
directed all its efforts toward keeping him stable. His bogus New York
State driver's license had a remarkably authentic photo, and most
surprising of all was the checked-off box on the back of the license in
which he'd agreed to make an anatomical gift,

"to be effective upon my death, of any needed organ parts." Alas, a man
of integrity.

Half an hour later, he was in the Intensive Care Unit, hooked up to the
appropriate monitors, IVS, and other lifesupport gadgetry. Blood was
sent for screening, hepatitis antigen and HIV testing, and tissue typing
was begun. The national organ bank computer was notified. With any luck,
and with help from the courts, they would be able to harvest the man's
heart, lungs, pancreas, liver, and kidneys. In this instance, at least,
drug dealing became. society's blessing.

The frenzied activity made time pass quickly. Then began the inevitable
police questioning once the homicide unit arrived on the scene. It was
two P.m. by the time everything finally wound down, save for the
housekeeping department's locating a high enough extension ladder to
remove small remnants of grisly human debris from the ER ceiling.

Dunston's cheek had been x-rayed. There was no fracture. But despite
constantly applying an ice pack, a purplish bruise crept upward from his
eye, leading to a remarkable resemblance to a raccoon. He turned his
attention to his groin.

He'd felt a sort of pop when he knocked over the gunman. Years before,
in college, a team physician had diagnosed an "incipient hernia" and
admonished him to avoid undue stress to his inguinal region. More of a
bookworm than dedicated athlete, that wasn't terribly difficult for
Dunston to do. Yet over the years, more from dumb luck than conscious
avoidance of certain activities, nothing had occurred to aggravate his
latent problem. Until now. The increasing tenderness where his lower
abdomen met his hip would have made the diagnosis obvious to a
first-year med student.

Still, he was mindful of the dictum about doctors not treating
themselves, and he didn't want to jump to conclusions. Besides, he'd
arranged to meet Maks that night, and he was looking forward to it. He
grudgingly pulled aside a surgical colleague, went into an empty
examining room, and pulled down his pants. When his friend told Dunston
to turn his head and cough, a golf ball-size bulge appeared in his
groin.

"Yessiree," said his colleague, "that is truly lovely. Just
waiting all these years to show itself."

"Terrific."

"Since the OR's not tied up any more, we could probably get you prepped
for surgery now. Do the whole thing under local. Throw in a few sutures,
half hour, tops. Have you home in time for cocktails."

"Now that's a dynamite offer, but I have hours at four.

"Doctors and nurses," said his friend, shaking his head.

"World's worst patients. You wouldn't happen to have something in mind
for tonight that might make this thing worse?"

"Me?"

Maks heard about the day's events on her car radio while driving home
from work. Although the news report suggested Dunston wasn't seriously
injured, she worried nonetheless. No sooner had she returned home than
she called his office, only to find he'd just left. She spent most of
the next hour fretting instead of getting ready for his arrival.

After the tender concern he'd showed her on the eve of Christine's
birthday, Maks knew she had to see him again.

Her motives confused her. She didn't know if she was simply interested
in more information about her sister, companionship, or something that
might evolve into a relationship. Perhaps it was a little of everything.

Dunston seemed a compassionate and caring man; and after months of
self-neglect, Maks felt she'd earned the pleasure of a man's company.

When she'd invited him over, ostensibly to discuss Christine, he'd
readily agreed.

When he finally arrived, Maks was appalled by the condition of his eye
and its vivid purple color. She cautiously touched his cheek with her
fingertips the way one might hesitantly reach out to a frightened
animal. She mixed him a drink and tried to get him to talk about what
happened, but he was still too stressed out to discuss it. All he
mentioned was that it had probably earned him a hernia.

As a diversion, they took in an early movie. Afterward, he suggested a
bite to eat at a coffee house near the university. But when she saw how
noticeably he was limping, she insisted that he get some rest instead.

He'd be in no condition to take care of anyone, she said, if he didn't
first take care of himself Dunston wondered what he'd done to appeal to
her maternal instincts.

"What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?" she asked.

"Late. I don't have any cases. Nine, nine-thirty."

"I have an eight o'clock breakfast meeting not far from your condo."

"Yeah? With who?" She was flattered by his interest. "It's strictly
business.

Why don't I just drop you off tonight and bring your car back tomorrow,
before you leave?"

"Whatever you say, doctor." The rest proved helpful indeed. He'd been
unable to admit how emotionally draining the day had been. For the first
time in months, he had eight full hours of uninterrupted rest. The next
morning, while he was showering, he noticed that the swelling had gone
down considerably. It was 7:45, and he had just put on a bathrobe when
the doorbell rang.

It was Maks, arms laden with packages of croissants an cheese. He
thought she looked fantastic in her black leather mini-not too short,
but lots of leg, upscale without being trendy. She returned his car
keys.

"Didn't you have a breakfast meeting?" he asked.

"God, that eye looks gruesome. Does it hurt?"

"Only when I wink." He helped her with the packages.

"All this for me?"

"Depends how hungry you are. My meeting was cancelled. Message on my
machine-you know how those things go. I guess I figured that you could
use a few calories while convalescing. So, here you are. Sorry I'm so
early, but there was absolutely no traffic." She set everything on the
table and let her arms fall to her sides, suddenly at a loss for words,
staring at him. He had a fresh-scrubbed look, his hair still wet, and
she found him incredibly appealing as he moved about in his open chested
bathrobe. For the moment, she did nothing but stand there in artless
silence.

The strained hiatus was proving as awkward for Dunston as for Maks, and
he found himself slipping toward inarticulateness, on the verge of
saying something foolish. In her eyes, he saw an interest tempered by
uncertainty, a feeling that mirrored his own. He was relieved when she
finally began untying the string around the packages.

"No woman's made me breakfast since Ann left."

"Everyone should get pampered sometime. Especially if you're under the
weather."

"I suppose. And as much as I enjoy cooking, eating by myself is never
the same as eating with my family."

"Is that what it was like when you were growing up?"

"More or less. Meal time was family time. It's pretty much what I
expected when I got married."

"What stopped you?"

"Ann. She was hardly ever around. Even when we were together, she seemed
to be someplace else." Maks helped herself to coffee. "Hardly the stuff
the family unit's made of."

"No, it wasn't. I realize now that Ann was a very lonely person. And she
had this ability to make everyone around her feel lonely, too. In fact,
it was beyond loneliness."

"Loneliness in a crowd?" He shook his head. "More like the ultimate in
isolation, isolation cubed. It was uncanny how she could be there, and,
yet be absent, you know?"

"Maybe she was shy."

"Ann? Ann was about as shy as Madonna. She could get a ten for
exhibitionism." Sensing his uneasiness, Maks tried shifting the
conversation elsewhere. "You're still young, Chad. There's plenty of
time to make up for what you missed."

"I still want a family, if that's what you mean. Like Ozzie and Harriet.

But not where I'm Harriet." She was struck by how much his ex-wife was
still alive for him, playing with his mind, renting space in his head.

Maks knew it was still too early in their embryonic relationship for her
to become so absorbed in someone else's problems. Yet she did care,
perhaps too much, too soon, a deep concern that was the measure of her
own vulnerability.

She smiled reassuringly and held out a wedge of Jartsberg as if it were
a peace offering. He accepted with gracious nod, understanding the
healing that was her intention, willing to drop Ann from further
consideration, at least temporarily. The cheese was good. They both sat
down to eat and launched into a discussion of breakfast breads in
general, and focaccia in particular. When he got up to clear the table,
she noticed his lingering limp.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Hmmm?"

"The hernia."

"It's more annoying than anything else. Kind of like a dull toothache."

"What's it look like?"

"You really want to see it?" Maks reddened. She hadn't meant her
question to emerge as boldly provocative as it sounded. She'd intended a
generic inquiry, a fuel for conversation, along the lines of wondering
what makes the stars shine. Instead, it sounded as if she were
questioning the origin of the universe. Yet she didn't feel as if she
could diplomatically back out now.

She summoned up her courage.

"Only if you want to show me." The ball was now back in his court. He
hadn't expected that. He was grateful he'd put on Calvins under his
robe.

Without missing a beat, he swept the blue velour off his hip. He
wondered whether she'd want to touch it, as she'd touched his cheek the
night before. He pointed out the bulge.

"So that's a hernia?"

" Yep. I I

"Not very impressive."

"I be your pardon?" he deadpanned, closing his robe.

"I'm referring to the hernia."

"Oh. Well, it doesn't have to be gegunda to incarcerate."

"What's that?"

"In lay terms, they call it 'strangulated." It's when a loop of
intestine gets twisted in this bulge here, cuts off its own blood
supply, and bingo: off to the OR. And yes, we take Blue Shield."

"God. That could happen at a very awkward time."

"Yes, it could."

"So you really have to have -this done, huh?"

"I'm afraid so."

"It won't harm your-well, anything in that area?" He looked her way in
mock alarm. "Jesus, I hope not."

"You can still have that family with children?"

"Oodles."

"When are you going to have it done?"

"It's same-day surgery. Any time I pick."

"Who's your doctor?"

"More like what. I'm going to schedule myself at the Center."

"You're what?"

"Why so surprised?" She propped herself up on an elbow. "I  ...  I don't
know.

Somehow, I just figured that  ...  what am I trying to say?" He refilled
her coffee. "You're trying to say that something that happened at the
Center created a nightmare for you, so why would anyone in his right
mind admit himself to the place?"

"It's not that." He sat next to her. "Look, Maks. There's no denying
that what happened to Christine was a tragedy. I won't try to minimize
it or pretend it didn't happen. You're still living through the pain.

All I'm saying is, it wasn't because of the Center. There's no way it
could have been detected or predicted. It would have happened anywhere."
She had a chastened, glum expression. "If you say so."

"I say so." Still, something didn't sit right with her. "Are you sure?"

I" I'm positive," he nodded. "Look. This is a very personal, selfish
decision I'm making. And no doubt there are lots of very capable
surgeons out there, including friends of . mine, who consider this a
piece of cake and wouldn't mind getting an extra set of golf clubs from
me. But this body's got a few more years left in it," he said, tapping
his chest, "and I don't want anything-anything-to mess it up. That means
choosing the place with the lowest complication rate and the most
state-of-the-art techniques. As far as surgery goes, there's simply no
comparison. That place is the Center. It's the best the world has to
offer." She sighed, unconvinced. "I guess you're right. I just wish I
felt the same way you do."

"Trust me. The place is absolutely infallible. Everything'll work out
fine."

Chapter Nine.

THE TRANSITION FROM healer to patient is an experience most physicians
find immensely humbling. Gone is the capacity to issue orders in a
crisp, decisive way and with it, the not unpleasant feeling of power. As
a patient, one becomes controlled, rather than being a controller. It's
common for the physician-patient to develop a sudden insight into, and
empathy with, the mind-set of those about to go under the knife.

Beneficial though this newfound insight might be, it is not without its
down side. A mild depression might result, especially when the
doctor-patient had been imbued with the panache of a surgeon-that breed
of practitioner most smitten by boldness. Thus, on the morning of his
admission to the Center, Dr. Chad Dunston's ego was slowly whittled
away. After being poked and prodded and having his blood robotically
drawn, he felt like crap. This worsened when he had to undergo a
mandatory preop physical.

In the late 1960's, the Annie mannequin had been developed, a life-size
doll used to teach cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Now, more than three
decades later, the experimental prototype Annie IV turned the tables,
having gone from a literal dummy to something akin to a robotic house
physician. Although not even remotely human in appearance, the fact that
the robot had a female voice was making Dunston progressively more
uneasy.

"Please remain standing," said the pleasantly synthesized voice, "and
kindly remove your underwear."

"Come on, is this necessary?"

"I am not programmed to reply to that question. Please recall the
consent form on which you authorized the surgical physical examination.

Without it, your surgery will be cancelled.

"Hey, lighten up. Remember what happened to the Tin Man."

"Kindly remove your underwear."

"That was a joke. Little humor, y'know?"

"Kindly remove your underwear," came the monotonous reply.

"Jesus," he sighed, his smile now gone. "And I helped set up. this
place?" He paused, hands on hips, clad only in his shorts, glaring at
the machine in front of him. Then, shaking his head, he stepped out of
his underpants, gaining some small satisfaction from the fact that his
taste ran to plain Calvins rather than tiger-stripe bikinis.

"Thank you," said the robot. The machine was, in fact, nothing like the
public's conception of an android. Rather, it resembled a four-foot
rectangle on wheels. Its "eyes" were top-mounted optical lenses which
fed high-resolution color video cameras, and its "arms"-three in number
were mechanical manipulators that were refinements of the technology
developed to handle radioactive substances or manipulate cargo in the
space shuttle. The arms had tactile, thermal, and auditory sensors that
replaced the stethoscope, thermometer, and digital palpation. Still in
development was an olfactory sensor-which could detect odor changes.

Swallowing his pride, Dunston stood still in meek humility as the
machine inched closer. The optical sensors swiveled in the direction of
his hips, and he saw the lenses constrict as the cameras focused on his
groin. He prayed that, standing there cold and naked, he didn't have a
reflex erection.

And he didn't. But he'd forgotten about the bulbocavemosus reflex; and
when the tip of the manipulator arm ran up his inner thigh, he felt the
involuntary muscles of his scrotum constrict.

"Good Lord." If the machine heard him, it didn't respond. Instead,
guided by its optics, the three fingerlike tactile sensors rose to where
hip met groin. The spongy pads at the tip of each finger were actually
highly refined microprocessors that could detect subtle differences in
contour, firmness, and texture; and by comparing them to the "norms" in
its databank, could diagnose alterations in human anatomy. The pads
stopped precisely on the almost imperceptible bulge of his hernia.

There was a subtle shifting as the pads pressed and retracted. It was
without a doubt the most gentle exam he'd ever undergone. But rather
than being relieved, he felt annoyed. The process gave him the creepy
sensation of being touched by a tarantula.

"Please turn your head and cough," said the robot.

"Really, isn't it pretty obvious?"

"Kindly turn your head and cough." So he did, covering his mouth, out of
habit. With the cough, he felt the hernial bulge expand. There was the
slightest twinge of pain as the pads maintained their pressure. But just
as quickly the mechanical fingers withdrew, and the arms fell back to a
neutral position on the machine.

Dunston prayed it wasn't about to ask him to bend over for a rectal.

"Thank you," said the robot, rolling back on its wheels several feet.

"The examination is completed. Please put on your gown and lie on the
bed."

"What for?"

"You will be given further instructions. Your core temperature is 36.5
degrees centigrade. That is below normal.

If you are cold, you may cover yourself with the bed sheet.

Is there anything further you wish?"

"Yeah, a double Glenlivet. And I'd like to get this over with."

"Your ten A.M. procedure should begin on time. Have a nice day," said
the female voice. A wall panel slid open, and the machine motored off
into a service passage.

Dunston stood there for thirty seconds, trying to control his,
indignation. He found the experience dehumanizing.

Did everyone feel the same, or was it because he was a doctor? Kids were
probably terrified. And then he remembered that patients under sixteen
were routinely sedated immediately upon entering the Center, to minimize
the emotional trauma of being separated from their parents.

Also, if he remembered correctly, someone-was it Randy McKenna, in the
Interface Group?-had insisted on giving every patient a potent neurolept
sedative, one with amnesiac properties, to enhance the positive aspects
of their hospital stay while helping them forget things which were
upsetting. Certainly, he hadn't been given anything so far.

He made a mental note to talk with McKenna as soon as he got home.

Assuming he could remember anything.

He looked about the room. It was a compact twelve-foot square, painted
an aseptic white, as austere as it was sterile.

There was a nightstand beside the bed and a telephone.

Each room was private and had its own bathroom, which also served as a
specimen repository. There were no windows. The most prominent feature
was a forty-eight-inch video screen built flush with the wall, which
provided programmed entertainment as well as communication with
visitors.

Forgetting that a pre-admission form letter had instructed him to keep
all valuables at home, Dunston looked toward his wrist for his watch. He
guessed it was about 9:15. He sighed, letting his arms fall to his
sides. "Pretty smart, coming here. Pretty smart." With nothing to do but
wait, he lay on the bed and crossed his arms behind his head.

"Are you worried, I Dr. Dunston?" He bolted upright, startled, looking
around. No one was there. The voice seemed to come from everywhere, like
quadraphonic sound. It was a synthesized male voice: deep, resonant, and
authoritative, yet with an avuncular familiarity that was profoundly
soothing. His eyes darted from floor to ceiling. "Why should I be
worried?"

"You seemed ill at ease before."

"Says who?" He continued to scour the room for hidden speakers. "Whoever
you are, you weren't even there." The laugh which followed was
disarmingly gentle, reassuring. "But I was. You know me as Sygmund."

"Sigmund  ...  ? Oh, right. Sygmund," he slowly said, recalling the
acronym for Symptom Gathering Mechanized Universal Diagnostician. Syggy,
as the Interface Group referred to it, was the Center's resident
psychoanalyst, a refined interactive software program. But unlike other
types of computer-driven psychiatric tools, Sygmund combined information
from the entire nation's network of psychological databases into one
super analytic program, which had the unique advantage of also knowing
the patient's lab data, diagnosis, and physical exam. This not only
allowed it to rule out organic pathology, such as a brain tumor causing
psychological symptoms, but also made it virtually intuitive. Where
earlier software programs simply replied to key trigger words like "mad"
or "mother," Sygmund had a sophisticated capacity to reason.

"Why do you feel uncomfortable?"

"I don't recall saying I was."

"I suppose it's natural to feel that way in this setting." The damn
thing's trying to get me to open up, thought Dunston. "Look, Syggy. I
know we programmed you to explore a patient's psyche, but it's not
necessary in my case, get it?"

"Why are you angry, Dr. Dunston?"

"Dammit, I'm not  ...  I'm not angry in the least," he deflected. "I
feel Perfectly fine. I'm tickled looking forward to my operation. How
long until they come to get me, anyway?"

"About fifteen minutes. Why don't we discuss it while you wait?"

"Thanks all the same, but I think I'll grab a few winks.,,

"As you wish. But if themes anything you want to talk about, simply say
"Sygmund."

"You bet. Appreciate it." The thing was uncanny. It was certainly
Performing the way they'd planned, as an instrument Of verbalization and
catharsis for those in a hospital.

People in stress-filled situations needed to talk. His own reluctance
stemmed from  ...  well, he wasn't sure. Perhaps because, having had a
hand in its creation, it was a bit like speaking with one's child. And
then, as he'd once remarked to Wei 'men, it was almost too perfect.

Bordering on human.

And that, he knew, was absurd.

For the next quarter hour, he lay there in silence. He thought mainly Of
Maks-her long blond hair, her generosity, her vulnerability. She'd
wanted to drive him to the hospital, but he refused out of what he
thought was independence, but what in reality was a Perverse chauvin
san.

He wished she were there right now. He couldn't wait to see her again he
was having delightfully lewd fantasies about her. He wondered if One of
the reasons he'd chosen the Center was because its surgical wizardry
would speed his convalescence without unduly limiting his libido.

The sliding doors hissed open to admit a gurney. Most Of the updated
gurneys were no longer simply flat, padded stretchers, but ones that
were mobile, contoured tables. The devices would not only transport
patient Operating nts to the Operating room, but once there, lock
themselves into place without needing to move the patient again. They
had built-i conduits for such n on and irrigation and tubing for Oxygen
and nitrous oxide. But in Dunston's case, the old style was used.

"Good morning, Doctor," said a voice only slightly less mellifluous than
Sygmund. "It's time to go to the OR."

"I couldn't just walk?" It ignored the question. "Please lie still." As
he lay there, a periscope-like pole arose from a corner of the gurney.

Reaching a prescribed height, it clicked into place.

From a hole in its top, three tungsten-carbide arms projected downward
and outward to the corners of the bed, attaching to fasteners on the bed
sheet. The sheet, he knew, was made of a disposable polymer which would
be discarded once the operation was over. The purpose of the system was
to move the patient, especially the patient in pain, more comfortably.

Instead of having to turn or roll the patient, the apparatus transformed
the sheet into a textured cradle that lifted the patient in speed and
comfort.

He felt a tug, and the sheet rose into the air. It swung effortlessly
toward the stretcher, a magic carpet ride that ended when the sheet
mated with the corners of the gurney.

Without hesitation, they were off. The stretcher had a faint motorized
hum and moved at five miles per hour. Unlike the examination robot, it
had no optics, being directed by a laser guidance system whose master
computer, several floors away, knew the precise location of every object
in the hospital, and thus could control their speed and direction to
avoid collision He heard a muffled pffft," accompanied by pressure on
his right buttock. He knew what it was but asked anyway.

"Your preop medication, Doctor."

"And what breakfast cocktail am I getting today?"

"I wouldn't know, sir. Pharmacy section selects all medications.

Probably atropine and a tranquilizer, he thought, likely one with
amnesiac effects. Or would that be given separately? He couldn't
remember. But the virtually painless intradermal injection was certainly
preferable to the traditional needle. Moments later, they arrived.

The operating room was actually twelve separate opera tories, served by
two wide corridors that branched off the main transport hall. The ORS
were in three rows of four, standing side by side. They were large by
contemporary standards, thirty feet square, each abutting a hundred and
fifty-foot corridor on. one or two sides. Unlike traditional hospitals,
which had separate rooms for separate procedures, each loom was
multipurpose, with capabilities that ranged from heart transplantation
to trimming bunions.

Another departure was that there was no recovery room, 8 such. Patients
recovered in the room in which they were operated upon, then were
transported back to their hospital bed. The upshot was that
overcrowding, logjams, and scheduling backups were unknown. Each room
averaged slightly under four procedures a day, though on any given day,
one room might do a single very lengthy case or seven shorter ones. The
only major concession to the Center's human designers was that no cases
were scheduled on Sunday.

With no need to screen prying eyes, the main entrance to the operating
suites were wide, doorless portals. Lying on his back, Dunston felt the
gurney turn and maneuver down the corridor. The ceiling was a white sea
of fireresistant acoustical tile. There was another turn fifty feet
further on, and he was wheeled into the OR proper. -Dunston had toured
the nearly completed OR area two weeks before the Center opened. He'd
been impressed then. Now he was speechless.

The interior was immaculate, pristine, a marriage of white ceramic and
stainless steel. It was intensely bright.

In place of the traditional mirrorlike overhead spotlight, illumination
came from a myriad of recessed high hats, with dazzling argon or xenon
light sources. Dunston's lids narrowed, squinting. Once the surgery
started, many of the instruments had supplemental fiberoptic lighting.

As the gurney motored to room center, the operating. table which,
between cases, lowered below floor level for cleaning-rose into
receiving position. When they were side b side, Dunston was silently
transferred from stretcher to of operating table. The gurney wheeled
noiselessly away.

Dunston lay on his back and tried to relax. Whatever had been given was
starting to take effect. He felt a soothing mellowness. The very heart
of the OR was located where the spotlight once was: a spherical
multi-lensed optical sensor, which guided all aspects of the procedure
Dunston stared at it, fascinated. To the best of his diminished
recollection, all of the OR spotlights had been placed by the sensors
three months before. in his slight altered state, it looked like a cross
between a greatly Magnified fly's eye and a rotating disco mirror. Built
into the ceiling on either side of it, and, in some cases, extending
upward from the floor, were the neoprene housings of ii instrument
wells. Tubing, instruments, and other devices descended through rubber
conduits toward the patient.

"Relax, Dr. Dunston," came a synthesized voice. "We' be starting the
procedure soon." He knew the words by heart. "Please place your arm on
the arm board to your right." He did.

Most hospitals used two arm boards, which imparted crucified look. The
Center needed only one. But it w; unusual: thicker than most, containing
the vital signs monitoring equipment. As Dunston somewhat dully stared
his extended arm, one of the arm board's panels open and a blood
pressure cuff appeared. It extended on mall able support wiring that
allowed it to move in any direction much like a cherry-picker. Guided by
the overhead optic the cuff wrapped itself around Dunston's biceps. He
felt inflate and tighten.

From another compartment, a pulse oximeter arose and attached itself to
his index finger. The device, which reset bled a plastic clothespin,
measured his blood's oxygen saturation. Simultaneously, a video monitor
lit up on the adjacent wall. The monitor was largely superfluous in Loom
without humans. In had been installed with an eye toward split-screen
video taping for subsequent review or teaching purposes.

The digital lettering was white on a blue background. Dunston looked at
it through progressively foggier vision.

First his name appeared, followed by his ID number and the date. Next
followed his vital signs: blood pressure 132 over 76; pulse 84;
temperature (where, he wondered, was the temperature sensor?) 37 degrees
centigrade; oxygen saturation, 98%. Beneath it was a line of video blips
reflecting his EKG, a normal configuration in regular sinus rhythm. ston
wore a silly grin. All right, he thought. Never have to kick-start this
ticker.

His diminished concentration was interrupted by a barely perceptible
whir from the ceiling. A robotic arm lowered, containing an intravenous
infusion catheter attached to transparent, fluid-filled tubing. At the
same time, the blood Pressure cuff reinflated, acting as a tourniquet,
making the veins in his forearm distend. He watched in fascination as
the mechanical arm neared him. It hovered for a moment, then stopped
over a prominent vein which crossed his radius, the uppermost of his
forearm bones. There was a hiss, and a brief spray of pink antiseptic
moistened the area. The arm lowered until nearly touching his skin,
There was a final adjustment of the IV needle's inclination, following
which it plunged home. As a back flow of blood appeared in the tubing,
the cuff's pressure dissipated. Then the blood returned to his vein when
the solution began a steady drip.

And away we go, he thought.

Velcro restraining straps wrapped snakelike around his left arm and both
thighs, virtually pinning him in place. it was a formality that he, as a
surgeon, was familiar with, for patients undergoing anesthesia often
involuntarily thrashed about. In his case, they were unnecessary, for
all he was scheduled to get was a local. But what the heck: routine was
routine. No need to upset the apple cart.

There came another whir, and the surgical manipulator arm descended. He
smiled, for he'd played a large part in its creation. To the
unknowledgeable, it might appear grotesque. But to Dunston, it was a
thing of beauty. Made of black anodized aluminum, it was four inches
wide and entirely flexible, containing numerous hinges, levers, and
joints, able to maneuver and operate from any angle, changing positions
countless times during a procedure.

Technically, it was known as the Telesurgeon. The most remarkable
feature of the Telesurgeon was its rotating optical head, the size of a
softball, located at the robotic arm's tip. Within its hollow core was a
vast array of miniaturized instruments adaptable to almost any surgical
procedure: scalpel blades, refractors, and dissectors, guided by a
pincerlike grasper; an assortment of lasers, for bloodless incising and
photocoagulation; high resolution optics, for microsurgery;
spaghetti-thin tubing, for suction and irrigation; and countless spools
of fine suture material. It also contained ultra-thin needles for
injecting local anesthetics. In complex procedures, like cardiothoracic
or brain surgery, two or more telesurgeons might operate in tandem.

For a simple hernia repair, only one was necessary.

Dunston watched in fascination, feeling more and more lighthearted. He
smiled in what he knew was an inebriate's uncontrollable grin. The
Telesurgeon's head lowered into position, stopping just above his
scrotum. Dunston felt his pulse quicken.

"Whoa, fella," he slurred. "Back up a bit. Too close to the family
jewels." He heard a click, and a small surgical blade snapped into
lace|W he thought. His type of hernia incision was supposed to commence
with a thin red laser beam. He blinked his eyes.

As he looked closer, the smile disappeared from his face.

What's going on here? And where the hell was the needle that was
supposed to inject the local?

His heart was now pounding. He lifted his head, intent, for it was
getting harder and harder to focus. More lettering appeared on the
monitor and attracted his Attention. He squinted at it, feeling beads of
sweat break out on his forehead as he forced himself to concentrate.

Anesthesia, it read: GENERAL INHALATION.

"Hold it!" Dunston screamed at. the top of his lungs unaware that his
voice had raised an octave. "I'm having a local, not general!" There was
no response. All of his attention was now directed toward the monitor,
where more lettering appeared in a digital glow.

Procedure: 1. TESTICULAR BIOPSY 2. CARDIOVERSION.

His eyes opened in stark, abject terror. A biopsy, of the testicles? His
testicles?

"Wait, dammit!" he shrieked. He tried lifting himself up, but the Velcro
restrainers held tight. "There's been a mistake! Stay away from my
crotch, for God's sake! All I've got's a hernia! For the love of Christ,
stop!

He struggled uselessly against the restraints. Oh my God,. my God  ...
There came a gurgling from overhead, from the IV tubing. A whitish
solution began to slowly flow into the tubing, an emulsion which he
knew, with nightmarish clarity, was the intravenous anesthetic propofal.

His jaw began to quiver, and he watched in complete, utter horror as the
liquid slowly inched toward his vein.

chapter Ten.

COMPARED TO MAKS, Cheryl had a no-nonsense disposition, avoiding
superfluous etiquette and the stumbling blocks of tact or discretion by
coming right to the point.

"So are you two getting it on, or what?" Maks speared an asparagus tip,
largely ignoring both the question and the remainder of her lunch. She
looked at her watch. "I'm supposed to pick him up from the hospital at
three.

You are, then."

"I am what?"

"And you probably pick up his shirts from the laundry too. Nobody would
act that domesticated unless she was actually doing it."

"Cheryl, this is the nineties. First, it's none of your business.

Second, what difference does it make if I am or not?

And finally, I have a feeling he'd pick up my dry cleaning if I asked
him." Boy, what a prince we have here. An unmarried doctor-"

"Divorced."

"Same difference. He's eligible, right? Probably got a nice credit
rating from TRW. A new boat. Making great money, too. This guy's not
exactly roadkill. What more could a girl ask for?"

"I don't need his -money."

Which was true. Cheryl was aware that although Maks' parents hadn't left
much of an inheritance, Maks was earning a comfortable salary. Ever
since they'd been sorority sisters eight years before, Maks had
impressed Cheryl as being today's woman: independent, carefree, with a
mind of her own, and determined to make a mark in what they both
perceived to be still a man's world.

Yet for Cheryl, what remained the greater mystery was why Maks had taken
the largely unknown Kashiwaharajob rather than one with greater name
recognition. AT&T and General Motors were both known to have been
actively recruiting her in college' Ultimately, Cheryl accepted Maks'
explanation about needing job freedom as her motivation for joining the
Japanese firm.

"You got a picture of him?,

"Cher, you didn't ask me to lunch to discuss my love life.

"Well  ...  true." She toyed with a burrito, ate some of the meat and
cheese filling, and pushed the rest aside.

"Okay, enough. So long as you promise to introduce me sometime. Next
item. What are they up to at Kashiwahara these days?"

"Same as before. Mainly HDTV," she said, referring to high-definition
television, on which the Japanese had cornered the market.

"That's all?"

"Why so interested?"

"I'll level with you. They make lenses, right?"

"Some. But that's only a fraction of their inventory."

"Anything experimental? Ultra-high resolution stu I'm talking way beyond
the electron microscope here." I"No, just for TV screens." She knew
Cheryl saw through the lie. Maks' interest in research pertaining to
optical computers was common knowledge. Yet in her code of ethics there
were some things warranting integrity which made any discussion of them
taboo. Cheryl's question confused her. Maks knew full well Cheryl's
position in the DOE, but that didn't explain her inquiry. "What are you
getting at?" Never one to beat around the bush, Cheryl's question became
more pointed. "I told you about the Human Genome Project, right?"

"Up to here," Maks said, making a gesture with her hand. "How's that
going, anyway?"

"Good. Well, slow. But we expected it to go slow. It'll take years. The
thing is, someone's messing with our computer files." Maks' surprise was
genuine. "And they suspect Kashi. wahara?"

"Honey, we're talking the U.S. government. They suspect everybody.

There's a conspiracy behind every door y'know? The thing is, most of the
files dealt with expert. mental microscopy. Ever hear of the scanning
tunneling microscope?" Maks reflected. "No." Cheryl accepted Maks'
subterfuge. "If you insist. Now listen up. There are two prototypes in
this country. One I'll at MIT, and other at Lawrence Livermore.

Hush-hush, still being refined.'."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"This STM, as they call it, is one hunk of machinery. I can magnify an
image up to a million times, maybe more You remember when I explained
our work on base paid sequencing in DNA?"

"Vaguely "Lawrence Livermore-or maybe MIT, I'm not sure is adapting
their STM for satellite surveillance. You know, spot fly droppings from
a hundred miles up and all that." Maks knew full well the essentials
Cheryl was referring to. To map the human genome, scientists had to
somehow make sense of the vast amount of genetic information encoded in
the three billion DNA base pairs that make up the genome. The process
was called sequencing. To sequence a chromosome, biologists first had to
make a genetic map that contained known biochemical sequences, or
markers.

When the map had enough of these markers, it would then be possible to
sequence the DNA segments between them to locate each segment on the
overall map.

Although some of the technology was similar, Maks job had nothing to do
with genetics. In her still-classified research at Kashiwahara, Maks was
instrumental in evaluating computers that performed complex pattern
recognition tasks. The optics of such computers could, for example, help
a missile identify a target, visually correct itself, and then home in
on the target. Despite her knowledge of the essentials Cheryl was
referring to, Maks remained silent.

She knew nothing of STM particulars, and so she let her friend do the
talking.

"Anyway," Cheryl continued, "in genome research, it's got a different
use. The STM, if they ever get it to work right, can give a direct image
of a strand of DNA. If it can be refined and sharpened, hell, we could
literally see base pairs, and then read them like a road map. the old
methods of sequencing would be out the window. You could crack the
genetic code inside of a year, instead of ten. Get the point? We're
talking megabucks for whoever irons out the kinks."

"Kashiwahara doesn't build microscopes. Not even in their R and D."

"So far as you know." Maks stared back, holding her ground. "Right' "The
point is, we're still years ahead of the Japanese in STM development. We
think. But we could be wrong.

Those guys all work together."

"Maybe, collectively, their scientists have come up with a breakthrough.
If they have, we're up the creek."

"Let me get this straight. You suspect some Japanese firm of tampering
with computer files? And of using that data to build their own STM9"

"All I'm saying is, you work with these people. Do me a favor, and I'll
owe you one. I'm not asking for company secrets. If you overhear any STM
chitchat, just remember your old friend Cheryl, okay?"

"Sure. Nothing there, if you ask me. But I'll keep you posted."

"Great. Now, about your doctor friend-Chuck?"

"Chad."

"Chad, Angelo, whatever. He have any single friends?" The man hunched
over the office desk, studying the computer console. His carefully
manicured hands were poised over the keyboard like some bird of prey. He
didn't know what to make of the blackout during the alpha intercept, but
he'd become obsessed with finding out what happened during the period of
unconsciousness. Thus far, despite several weeks of hard work, he'd
garnered surprisingly little. At least, about the Intercept. But other,
seemingly unrelated facts that surfaced were astonishing. He'd
circumvented outside and largely useless computer networks like
HEALTHNET b going to the source, CHP itself Under the guise of updating
certain Interface errors, he'd gained access to the private room off the
main Lobby. After he logged in and accessed the mainframe, the computer
turned uncooperative. It should have been a simple enough process: query
the database and receive the answers. Yet no matter how he reworded his
inquiry about the Intercept, the computer kept replying with "inaccurate
entry" or "invalid format." It was clearly a stall, and one that had him
perplexed. An inanimate piece of digital hardware was giving him the
runaround. What the hell was going on?

Not one to give up lightly, he persisted, the fingers be neath his
white-coated sleeves typing in questions about CHP policies and
procedures. He already knew the answers, and for the most part, the
replies were prompt and straightforward. Yet here and there, bits of
unsolicited information appeared, like unexpected meteors in a familiar
starscape.

There were references to "File C.L.4-1," the repetitive command
"locate," and, most surprisingly of all, a name: Christine Lassiter.

He'd brought along a portable laptop computer. After plugging it into a
jack, he had the mainframe regurgitate the seemingly illogical data onto
a floppy diskette. This he labeled C. LASSYMR. When he had time, he'd
review it further.

Chapter Eleven.

CHAD KNEW HE was almost out of time. In the average person, a drug
injected intravenously crosses the blood brain barrier in twenty
seconds, and its effects on cerebral receptors begin ten seconds after
that. Yet Dunston had no intention of getting any more mellow than he
already was.

His mind screamed for a response from his sluggish muscles. He grimaced,
struggling to pull himself upright, but he managed to rise to no more
than a thirty-degree angle.

The tendons of his forearms stuck out like bloodless wires that
threatened to erupt from his skin. Think, dammit!

He glanced frantically at the IV tubing. The propofal displaced the last
of the clear fluid preceding it and flowed into his vein unchecked.

Twenty-five seconds--damn! He tried buckling his knees chestward in a
sort of massive stomach crunch, but the strap pinioned his thighs. In
his receding consciousness, it dimly occurred to him that someone might
be playing a monstrous joke on him. Concentrate!

Through the mere blur of his vision, he looked at his left arm. It was
still firmly bound at his side. Fifteen seconds!

In his heart-pounding agitation, he was now sweating profusely. Without
actually thinking it, it somehow registered that the sweat might act as
a lubricant. So instead of straining against the wrist strap, he began
to frantically move his forearm back and forth in seesaw fashion, trying
to wriggle it free. What the hell was holding it down? Your fist,
stupid.

Relax your freaking fist!

He did. With a chaffing swipe, he yanked his sweatdrenched left arm out
of the wrist strap. Ten seconds. His vision was going fast. Individual
objects were no longer discernible, consumed in a fuzzy, white haze. He
craned his body forward, lurching with his freed arm toward the knee
strap. He pawed at it, fumbling with numb fingers until he found the
fastener's seam. With his little remaining strength, he tore at it
savagely, until rewarded with the sound of ripping Velcro.

His legs now free, he struggled to a semi-sitting position.

His limbs flopped off the operating table, and everything began to
darken. Five seconds. In his last vestige of consciousness, he knew he
had to get out of there. Yet his right arm, IV attached and running, was
still secured to the arm board.

Yaaah!

The primordial shriek erupted from his throat as he gripped at the blood
pressure cuff with all he had left. It was too -little, but not too
late. His fingers snared the cuff's inflation tubing with just enough
force to dislodge it. There was a loud hissing noise, and the tubing
writhed wildly through the air until it fell to the floor like an empty
balloon. The blood pressure cuff instantly deflated, unwrapping itself
from his right arm. The restraints were now gone.

There was a sudden taste in his mouth, a taste peculiar to propofal.

That's it, he thought. Show's over. As blackness descended, some
primitive instinct told him to try to stand, to escape. But his legs
were useless jelly. Instead he wound up falling forward, and gravity did
the rest.

The IV catheter was torn from his vein. His arms flailed, and a stream
of venous blood spewed through the air as if shot from a water gun.
Dunston's torso arched downward in a half roll.

His right shoulder and cheek simultaneously struck the floor.

He didn't feel the impact at all. In fact, his body was filled with a
warm sensation that was not at all unpleasant. It was a little like  ...
dying. That one last, terrifying thought, as he flickered on the verge
of unconsciousness, galvanized him into a final movement, borne from
desperation. With a spasmodic lunge, his gown-clad body uncurled itself
from fetal position, rolling ever so slightly under the operating table.

But it was enough. He fell off the edge of the floor into the peculiar
well which had been built for cleaning the OR table between cases. His
now-unconscious form toppled toward the sub-floor four feet below,
striking it with a dull and lifeless thud.

The room fell silent. The EKG's audible beat was gone.

The life support systems, now detached, revealed straight lines where
there should have been visible readings. It remained that way for
several seconds, like a moonscape bathed in an artificial glow. Then,
overhead, soft whirring began. The spherical multi-tensed optical sensor
started to rotate. It began its search, stopping, turning, scanning the
room's nooks and corners for the patient who had disappeared. As a
machine, it drew no conclusions, merely conveying its data to the
computer center.

Inside, the supercomputers came alive with activity. The room brightened
with a dazzling display of flashing lights as the computers sifted
through the confusion of incoming signals. Something didn't compute. The
entire process--that began months ago was now in jeopardy. Analysis of
all the data-the thermal sensors, sonography, the infrared
detectors-clearly indicated the patient hadn't left the room. And with
the overhead optics showing nothing, that suggested only one
possibility: the patient must have relocated in the recess under the
operating table. In the case of Chad Dunston, MD, CHP #9649037, the
gamut of possibilities quickly led to only one conclusion-that his
usefulness to the project was now over. His continued existence was, in
fact, a liability.

The instructions from the computer center were explicit.

In operating room four, all monitors went blank, and the overhead lights
dimmed. The OR table, still warm from Dunston's body, retracted into
it's cleaning well, rose again, and then repeated the process, slowly,
at first, and then with trip-hammer speed, slamming up and down to
ensure that whatever lay beneath it was totally, methodically crushed.

Chapter Twelve.

MAKS SHIFTED HER legs uncomfortably on a bland and tasteless couch as
she waited for Dunston in the Center's reception area. It was 3:32 P.m.

She'd been sitting there for an hour, intentionally showing up early to
make sure she didn't miss him. After lunching with Cheryl, she'd
returned to her office, hoping to get some work done before the time
came to pick up Chad. But she couldn't concentrate. After an hour of
halfheartedly reading interoffice memos, during which she kept
constantly looking at her watch, she admitted defeat and gave up. She
strolled swiftly from the office, mumbling something incomprehensible to
her puzzled secretary.

The weather had gone from sunny to overcast, making it all the more
suitable, she thought, for convalescence. She understood why she offered
to pick him up. To be sure, she was beholden to him for all the free
help he was providing. But her motives went beyond indebtedness. This
was something Maks was doing for herself. Chad's vulnerability while
recuperating evoked something in her, something she hadn't felt since
Christine's death. She needed to be needed.

Enroute to the hospital, she'd shaken her head with a little sniff of
amusement. Waiting on someone hand and foot would be nothing if not
unusual. Yet she planned nothing more than to totally dote on him.

Although such shepherding was foreign to her, she didn't think it'd be
difficult.

How much training did one need to fix a stiff drink or two, to turn down
the bed and fluff the pillows, to prepare something light to eat-in
short, to become someone's modest slave? How ironic that here she was, a
successful female executive, playing the contrarian. Yet not once did
Maks feel she was forsaking her ideals.

During her hour-long wait, she'd observed the discharge of at least two
dozen other patients. The routine varied little. First the patient's
bill was paid by whoever had been delegated, everything being transacted
electronically at the cashier monitor. After a short wait, the patient
himself arrived on a motorized wheelchair, brought through one-way doors
that read NO ENTRY. Upon reaching the lobby, and without regard to hugs
or kisses, the wheelchair spit out a printout of instructions, proffered
vials from the pharmacy for those requiring medication, and, on two
occasions, assisted patients with leg casts onto crutches. The patient
and his entourage were then prompted toward the exit, beside which was a
wide, interactive monitor whose prompt read ANY FINAL QUESTIONS? The
process went very smoothly.

Its aspects reminded Maks of combining the illuminated maps in the Paris
metro with taking a ride through a Disney theme park.

But where in God's name was Chad?

By four o'clock, she was decidedly worried. After what happened to
Christine, it had been hard enough to come here, but she suppressed
those memories with grit and determination and a liberal dollop of
Dunston's carefree reassurance. Now those fears were resurfacing with an
increasingly dry-mouthed anxiety. She got up and walked to the monitor
marked PATIENT information.

At the top of the screen, a single illuminated instruction read PLEASE
TYPE IN NAME OF PATIENT, SURNAME FIRST.

She immediately went to work on the console keyboard.

After a short but increasingly apprehensive pause, the message lit up in
digital lettering.

DUNSTON, CHAD, it began, followed by the date. CHP 9649037. UNDERWENT
SUCCESSFUL SURGERY AT 1022 HOURS. OPERATIVE TIME: 17 MINUTES.

POSTOPERATIVE CONDITION: STABLE. COMPLICATIONS: NONE.

"So?" Maks asked. "Where the hell is he?" She clucked her tongue, then
remembered she had to keep typing. WHERE IS PATIENT NOW?

Another brief pause, followed by DISCHARGED FROM CENTER AT 1417 HOURS.

Two-seventeen? she thought. Oh Christ, just before I got here! "Swell,"
she said with intended sarcasm, although she felt infinitely relieved.

"Sitting on my duff for nearly two hours, while you're probably nursing
a drink and catching up on the soaps." She turned, started walking
toward the exit, and then stopped. Patients weren't supposed to drive
themselves home, and she'd definitely seen his parked Mustang in the
garage. On a whim, she turned back to the keyboard and typed in
DISCHARGED TO WHERE?

HOME, it replied.

Maks frowned. She supposed he might have taken a cab but she was certain
he knew she was coming to pick him up. Wouldn't he have called?

She looked across the lobby, spotted the bank of pay phones and hurried
toward them. She was of many minds: partly annoyed, partly relieved,
mainly concerned. She picked up the receiver, inserted her charge card,
and dialed his number. She drummed her fingertips while waiting for the
click over. Then came the ring. Soon three rings, then four. When it
reached seven, she hung up and dialed again, taking care not to press
the wrong buttons. After ten unanswered rings, she replaced the receiver
in its cradle, looking thoroughly desperate. Was he all right?

She ran out of the hospital. Getting into her car, she gunned the engine
and screeched out of the parking lot, heading for Chad's place.

The operating room was silent. The OR table returned to the upright
position and locked itself in place. The transport gurney motored in,
taking up its position beside the OR table. Its arms extended, swung
out, and effortlessly transferred the OR mattress onto its frame. It was
a perfectly synchronized routine it had performed thousands of times
before, except that now, the stretcher was empty. It left the room in
the same eerie silence with which it entered. The overhead lights
dimmed, and the OR fell into darkness.

Half an hour passed. It began as a buzzing, a faint and high-pitched
tone, like ringing in his ears. Dunston groaned.

He struggled to open his eyes, but his lids were impossibly, heavy. He
lay there in the blackness as his consciousness slowly returned. Bit by
bit, minute by minute, he became aware of sensations. His mouth was dry,
and his head throbbed. Most of all, his right shoulder had an
intolerable ache. More than anything, it was that pain which helped
counteract the effects of his still-drugged mind.

He wasn't aware that the aching shoulder had also saved his life. The
retractable OR table was supported by a pole much like a hydraulic lift
in a service station, one which had a sub-floor four feet below the car
carrier. But the subfloor, rather than being solid, was a rectangular
frame merely eighteen inches wide. When he'd fallen into the recessed
cleaning well, he landed at an oblique angle, taking the full impact on
his shoulder. The foot-and-a-half metal frame was far too narrow to
support his torso. The torque of his fall carried him off its edge, his
unconscious body tumbling another five feet onto one of the many
numerous, permanent concrete slabs that separated the building's
stories.

Propofal is rapidly metabolized. A fast-acting nonbarbiturate, its
hypnotic effects wear off in less than fifteen minutes. But propofal,
rarely administered alone, is usually given in conjunction with other
sedatives. It took another fifteen minutes for their diminishing effects
to combine with Dunston's increasing pain to jolt him into
consciousness.

He awakened in total disorientation. He could see nothing-well,
virtually nothing. Gravity told him that he was lying on his back. He
stared upward toward a faint but perceptible lightness whose origin was
the corridor beyond the OR above him. He saw what little he ' did
through a haze. He rapidly blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of
double vision. But the filmy sensation remained.

He tried to sit up but groaned and fell back heavily. For several more
minutes he lay there without moving, still not fully conscious. His
memory was blank. He knew who he was, but where, and for what reason,
eluded him. He massaged his right shoulder with his left hand. His
shoulder was badly bruised, but he was able to move his arm. And from
his ingrained medical training, he realized, albeit subliminally, that
nothing was broken. He felt his chest and took in the texture of a
patient's gown. What  ...  ? He touched the length of his left arm with
his right hand, found nothing amiss, and repeated the process in
reverse. Something clotted and sticky covered his hand and forearm. He
concentrated, growing more and more thoughtful. Blood?

Yes, blood. His blood. And then, with sickening clarity, reality
returned.

He gasped as his heart began to beat wildly. His eyes, now wide and
staring, flickered in all directions, searching for an unseen enemy. But
he found nothing, save the distant, indistinct illumination from above.

It took all of his willpower to impose a degree of self-control. He
concentrated, using biofeedback to slow his respiration with deep,
cleansing breaths, which in turn helped reduce the nearly uncontrollable
pounding in his chest. He counted out each inhalation and exhaled twice
as slowly. Within minutes his terror had diminished to the point where
he could link mental fragments into something resembling hazy thought.

It was all coming back now. The restraints, the monitors, the propofal
what in God's name had gone wrong? He struggled with that for a moment
but found the mental process too taxing, for there were no obvious
answers, and his brain was still too cloudy. Instead, he tried to figure
out where he was.

He rolled onto his left side and winced. Scraped and bruised from the
fall, he took a moment to flex his legs, bend his arms, and clench his
fists: no serious damage. He discovered an almond-sized lump on his
forehead, but it wasn't bleeding. He felt a little nauseated and
wondered if he had a concussion. Then again, it could be the drugs.

Those goddamn drugs.

Dunston sat up cautiously, inch by inch. He had no recollection of
falling and was perplexed by the overhead light, feeling drawn to it.

Once he was sitting, he tried to stand. But no sooner did he arise than
he was overcome by a wave of vertigo. He reached out to steady himself
but found nothing to cling to. With a dizzying spin, he collapsed back
onto the floor.

He felt exhausted, in pain, and confused. Once more, his breathing came
in spurts. This time he didn't fight it. He let his pulse and
respiration wind down slowly, naturally.

The near darkness compounded his lack of equilibrium, and his
disjointed, fragmentary thoughts were disturbing.

If I just lie here, he told himself, I'll be all right.

Yet in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. He couldn't just lie there
forever. Something terribly, sickeningly wrong had occurred, and his
only hope lay in figuring out what it was.

I've got to concentrate, he decided. All right. I'm here, somewhere. And
I'm alive. Good. First things first. My name is Chad Dunston. I'm a
surgeon. A real surgeon, not one of those-right, I'm in the Center. I'm
a patient, I was Steady, old son. Hang on. Okay, there was a screw up. A
royal, colossal, mind-boggling screw up. They didn't touch my testicles,
right? And  ... yep, there it is. They didn't do the hernia either.
Okay, now we know where we stand. Or lie. Mistakes happen. Well, almost.
Soon as my head clears, once I can see straight, I'm gonna get the hell
outta Dodge, right?

Wrong.

To the best of his memory, which was admittedly rather poor at the
moment, nothing even remotely resembling a procedural error of this
magnitude had ever occurred in the Center. Oh, there had been the
occasional instrument failure. Like any machine, instruments had a
measurable life span. And there had been the isolated case delay. But
never, ever, had there been an anesthetic error once the agent of choice
had been preselected. And although he was aware of surgical foul-ups in
other hospitals-such as amputating the wrong foot-there had never been
such an egregious blunder at the Center. If he really let his
imagination wander, he supposed he might be able to contemplate a
worstcase scenario in which, say, the computer programmed a hernia
repair for the wrong side, right? Nah! Well, maybe.

But an entirely wrong organ system? An appendectomy instead of a
hysterectomy? A testicular biopsy instead of a hernia repair? Not a
chance in hell!

No, there was something more than simple error here.

This was no minor gaffe or silly technical problem. The system had
built-in checks and balances, self-tests, and redundant backups, all
designed to prevent catastrophe. He and the Center's other designers had
challenged the system a million times and never found it wanting. It was
simply impossible for a system so well conceived and tested to go
berserk. So, for a mistake of this magnitude to occur, that meant one
thing, and one thing, only: that it wasn't a mistake. C, going to have
surgery. Did  ...  Dunston felt himself grow cold.

If it wasn't a mistake, he concluded, it had to have been planned.

Planned, obviously, by someone. Some sick bastard must have tampered
with the system. Someone wanted his testicles biopsied. Not someone
else's testicles, but his.

But who, for God's sake? And why?

Even worse, he thought with a sickening chill, was the entire message on
the computer monitor. The mistaken indication of general anesthesia was
bad enough. That was then compounded by an improper, surgical procedure.

But there was something else, he suddenly recalled, the final, frightful
word on the screen. Cardioversion. Dunston thought about it, and he
paled.

In its strictest sense, cardioversion was a medical term for restoring
an abnormal heart rhythm to normal by electric shock. It implied an
abnormal cardiac rhythm to begin with. But what if the heart's rhythm
was already normal, Dunston thought, as mine was? To the linguist,
cardioversion might also mean conversion of a normal rhythm to something
abnormal, such as tachycardia, fibrillation, or even asystole, when the
heart stopped beating entirely.

And heart stoppage meant death.

He shuddered, unwilling and unable to mentally pursue it. One thing,
though, was frighteningly certain. If the system had been tampered with
to that extent, he couldn't naively presume that he could simply walk
out of there.

Wherever "there" happened to be.

Come on, he thought. That's paranoid.

But almost immediately, he knew it wasn't. Exhibit A, your honor: I saw
the propofal flow down the tubing. I saw the words on the monitor. I saw
the manipulator arm position itself. I am not dreaming. I'm a trained
observer. I know these to be facts. I know what I saw.

He was thinking more clearly now. Deductive reasoning . replaced fear
and intuition. But what he concluded was terrifying. And it made no
sense. He shook his head in confusion, like a fighter trying to clear
cobwebs. One thing was certain. If he had any hope of figuring out what
happened, he had to get out of there.

This time, he was more careful when he tried to stand.

He was still dizzy, and focusing wasn't much easier. He proceeded in
increments. From a sitting position, he went to kneeling. Then he went
onto hands and knees, inching slowly forward. The light from above
didn't reach the floor, and he carefully pawed the area before him like
a blind man, searching for something with which to orient himself.

He had gone perhaps two feet when his fingers found a pole.

It was thick, about a foot in diameter. His hands went around its
circumference, touching, probing. It was metal, cool and slick, with a
greased or lubricated coating. It felt vaguely familiar, yet he couldn't
place it. But it was a starting place.

He leaned forward and hugged it. Even that slight exertion was tiring,
and he clung tight, until his breath slowed.

When his strength returned, he got into a squatting position and
carefully stood up. His cheek was resting against the pole, and its
strange, unctuous grease was like oil against his face. Finally, he was
standing. Catching his breath, he looked upward. He was peering through
a rectangular hole in the floor of the room above. The room itself was
dark, and the dim light came from somewhere beyond. Directly overhead,
though, was another flat black rectangle that matched the shape of the
hole in the floor. The pole he was holding extended up into it, holding
it about three feet above floor level. It all looked so damn familiar
His gaze strayed to what he thought was one of the room's walls.

Dunston squinted. By concentrating hard, he could finally discern a
faint latticework of grout that outlined the room I s ceramic tiles. And
then it struck him.

Jesus, I'm looking right into the same OR!

He recoiled, nearly losing his balance when he reached the slippery
pole. But in stepping backward, his head thudded into something hard and
metallic. He winced, more from fright than pain. He slowly turned,
reaching up to see what he'd struck. His fingers came to rest on a
smooth, cold edge.

Though his nose was virtually touching it, he could scarcely see it. He
ran his. hands across its surface. From below the floor level, it
appeared to be some sort of rectangle. He didn't recognize it as the
sub-floor in the cleaning well, for he'd never paid much attention to
the physical aspects of the Center's construction. He held his fingers
to his nose and sniffed. The metal was slightly damp and smelled of
disinfectant. He turned to peer up again into the darkened OR. The room
was obviously powered down, and had been cleaned after his His what? His
case? Surely the computers knew that his case hadn't been completed. Or
did they? If they did, what had they done then? Clearly, he wasn't where
the computers thought he was. Or was he? Christ, did they know he was
here? He quickly ducked down onto his haunches, feeling the fear and
desperation return.

He crouched there until his nerves steadied. He certainly couldn't go
out the way he came in. Powered-up or not, the OR was alive with
sensors. Even if he managed to slither up the pole, which, in his
still-weakened state, was very doubtful, there was no way he could get
out of the OR undetected.

Suddenly the OR lights clicked on, full intensity. Dunston's eyes had
grown accustomed to the darkness, and even below floor level, the
brilliance of the lights was dazzling. He scuttled backward, out of the
glare. He had no idea if he'd been spotted, or even if he could be seen
down there. His back hit something solid, and he braced himself It was a
poured concrete slab wall. Staying as low as possible, he looked
around.

The precast walls had the rough, unfinished look of a parking garage.

There were no visible doors or exits. The floor was wet. Everything
seemed to have been just cleaned. That, along with the re-lighting of
the OR suggested that another surgical case was being prepared, which
meant that all sensors and monitors would be fully operative. He
absolutely had to get out of there. But how, damnit?

He looked at the damp floor. There were nozzles mounted low on the wall,
apparently for spraying some sort of disinfectant solution, another
advantage the Center had over manual mopping. He couldn't see any
drainage pipe, but the water had to go somewhere. He momentarily studied
the shape of the room, the lay of the floor. And then he spotted it.

The floor had a -slight tilt. It was the barest inclination, perhaps
only four or five degrees, but it was enough for drainage. The concrete
sloped toward a corner of the room ten feet away from him. Keeping to a
crouch, back pressed against the wall, he sidestepped crablike toward
the corner.

He expected it to be covered with some sort of grating, or strainer.

Instead, there was just a hole, a two-foot square with beveled sides
that made it- a sloping trough. About a foot into it began what seemed
like the concave piping of a sluice.

Dunston wondered where it led. No doubt all the ORS had a common
drainage system which ultimately connected with the main sewage pipe.

The pipe, in turn, fed an enormous septic tank buried well beyond the
building's perimeter. But between here and there, he thought, there had
to be some sort of exit. At the very least, the vapors and methane had
to be vented, but probably not through a conduit wide enough for him to
escape. Still, a system so vast had to have alternative entry points to
let plumbers enter for repairs.

He was counting on it. Without another thought, he crawled headfirst
into the drainage portal and the sluice pipe beyond it, slowly wriggling
forward. After a slight bend, the pipe leveled off. It was just wide
enough for his shoulders.

As he proceeded, he was again plunged into darkness.

The pipe was cold and wet against his nearly naked body, which was
covered in places by the flimsy, tattered gown.

He was venturing into the unknown, motivated by fear. He stretched out
flat, arms extended straight in front of him like an underwater swimmer
kicking off the side of a pool. it was no place for the claustrophobic.
The going was difficult. Dunston inched along on knees and elbows,
crawling on his belly, an army recruit shimmying under barbed wire. The
air grew fetid. He inched forward, shoulders and hips in almost constant
contact with the pipe walls.

He had only the slightest idea of what he was looking for-some sort of
kept feeling the top of the pipe for latches and handles. But the
conduit was smooth and seamless, the going slow and arduous. Every few
feet he had to pause to catch his breath, for his muscles kept cramping.

He tried to ignore the darkness that enveloped him, for this was no time
to panic. He simply had to keep going.

He saw light up ahead, a faint dimmer ten or fifteen feet t, away. He
slowly, painfully crawled toward it, hoping that by some miracle it
might be a way out. Yet when he finally reached it, he discovered that
it was nothing more than the square drainage hole for another OR.

Disappointed, he lowered his head and moved on.

He felt a tremor in the pipe, a vibration that rapidly increased to a
rumble. From above and behind him, there came the whooshing noise of
water under pressure. It was thunderous, like a volley of fire hoses.

Amplified by the hollow, cramped pipe, it quickly became a deafening,
liquid roar. Dunston closed his eyes and winced, knowing that at any
second the water would come gushing through the pipe.

The suddenly advancing front struck him like a tidal wave. It surged
over his ankles and knees, rushing forward, filling the pipe. In
an-ficrosecond, Dunston was under water. He held his breath, having the
sense not to fight it, letting himself be swept along, instinctively
knowing that whether he lived or died was completely up to fate. Like a
cork in a torrent, he was briskly hurled through the tube.

The deluge of fresh water lasted a mere ten seconds, although it seemed
to take an eternity. Yet it carried him a hundred feet before receding.

His body slowed and then stopped as the water drained away. Finally,
when he could no longer hold his breath, he exhaled in a wheezing gasp.

He lay on his stomach, breathing in fiery spasms.

The dank air smelled putrid. His whole body was wet and sticky and
seemed to be covered with slime. He lay there without moving, feeling as
if he were going to vomit.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found it was still dark.

Soon the nausea passed. His lashes felt coated, waxed with something
pasty. He wiped away the muck. He was clearly in jeopardy of being
embalmed in human waste.

Yet as disgusted as he was, Dunston remained determined. Summoning up
his grit, he resumed slithering through the rank slime, desperate to
avoid another near asphyxiation. Here I am, he thought, like toothpaste
waiting for the next big squeeze.

Muscles trembling, he continued his crawl. He estimated that, propelled
by the wave and his own efforts, he'd gone about a hundred and fifty
feet. That should put him well beyond the edge of the entire suite of
ORS. But try though he did, he couldn't remember what lay beyond the
operating theaters. He didn't even know what floor he was on any more.

Probably, he was at least one full stair level below where he'd
begun-but given the pipe's tilt, he might be two or even three floors
lower. His best guess was that he was somewhere in the vicinity of the
lab. But that was only a guess, and he couldn't hold out much longer.

If the floodgates opened again, he had no doubt he'd wind up submerged
in some toxic vat.

His knees were chafed, his elbows bleeding. The pipe's angle steepened,
and he began slipping downhill. It was a gentle, headfirst slide, not
more than an inch a second. But with nothing to check his fall, he
rapidly gained speed, sliding headlong into God knew what. And then,
once more from behind him, came the terrifying tidal roar.

He didn't know what frightened him more, the idea of being drowned in a
wave of assorted human excretions, or being submerged into a
decomposition vat. Or more likely, both. In desperation he began to
reflexively flail about with his outstretched hands as he plunged
downward, searching for anything to arrest his accelerating descent. And
then, miraculously, he found it.

It was a hand rung-a simple metal outcropping like those on a
smokestack's exterior. Why it was on the inside of a pipe never crossed
his mind, for in the few precious seconds remaining he concentrated on
grasping it in both hands, clinging to it like life itself. This time
the wall of water and debris smashed into him with even more ferocity
than before. The torrent wrenched at his muck-strickened wrists, bending
them nearly backward as the surge swept over him. In an instant he was
completely submerged in swirling liquid filth that filled his ears and
nostrils. By sheer imposition of will he stifled repeated impulses to
gag, knowing that doing so would kill him. He tried desperately to hold
on.

Somehow, he did. The full brunt of the noxious tide lasted only seconds,
though in his weakened state, it seemed to take forever. He coughed and
spluttered as the water ebbed away, not wanting to think about what sort
of particles he was spitting from his lips. What in God's name had
compelled him to climb into this lethal culvert in the first place? But
he knew the answer. Escape. Escape from certain death.

The rungs had to lead somewhere. Since they were on the top half of the
pipe, he hadn't felt them when he first began his crawl. After catching
his breath, he explored the metal hand pieces. They were about a foot
apart and seemed to lead upward and backward from his downhill
direction.

They reminded him of the kind of rungs a chimney sweep might hold onto
when cleaning a chimney's interior. On second thought, the drainage pipe
might just be surplus conduit some contractor had on hand when
submitting the lowest bid. Still  ... He slid backward, pulling hand
over hand. Like a human snake slithering in reverse, he worked fiercely
back the way he came. Soon he was sweating profusely. Already lubricated
by debris, each handhold became increasingly difficult to maintain. For
every two inches he wriggled backward, he fell forward one. There was no
way he could keep this up forever. Every so often he would paw between
the rungs, along the top of the slackened pipe, searching, seeking. He
had no idea if he would find anything, for all he really understood was
that going in any direction other than out would doom him. He doubted he
could withstand another deluge.

While holding on tight with his left hand, the fingers of his right
unexpectedly swiped across a large spinner nut.

Its three triangular surfaces, some six inches across, reminded him of
the custom spinners that sometimes replaced lug nuts on sports car
wheels. Without wasting another second he tried to unscrew it, as if
opening a submarine's hatch. But it held fast. Christ, he thought, is
this thing welded? Yet it had to be securing something in place-a door,
a panel-and that "something" was his road to freedom.

And then he heard the roar again.

Panicked, he pried at the spinner with both hands, fighting exhaustion
and frustration and the certainty of doom.

The spinner wouldn't budge. Every fraction of a second was a nightmarish
eternity, for the water surged on relentlessly. Its sheer force and
velocity made the entire pipe vibrate. As his body was rattled about,
one of his hands lost its grip. The wave was now only seconds away. He
reached back in desperation. There, in the very center of the nut, he
found what he was looking for.

It was a cotter pin-stout, of heavy gauge steel- but a cotter pin
nonetheless. And it was the pin, not welding or rust, that secured the
spinner and prevented it from working loose. Dunston grabbed the ring on
its round end and pulled with every ounce of strength he had left. It
gave, slowly, at first, but then more steadily. And yet the roaring
water was headed his way even faster.

"Damn you, bastard!" With one last, furious pull he yanked the pin from
its retaining hole. He quickly dropped it and resumed work on the
spinner with both hands. This time it rotated easily, turning
counter-clockwise. He slapped at the flanges, swatting them repeatedly
until they spun like a top. The wave was nearly on him, and he could
smell the foul air preceding it. At last, the heavy spinner flipped off
its bolt and cartwheeled down the sluice. The section of pipe above him
came free.

He knew what he had to do. With a final, frantic effort Dunston thrust
his palms straight upward, knocking the molded pipe section aside. Above
him the air was fresh, though he couldn't see a thing. He lunged into
the dark opening. Its metal edges were dry and firm, and his fingers bit
in firmly. He succeeded in pulling his body halfway through the newly
created . hole when the wall of water struck him.

He was like a gymnast, supporting his upper body with elbows locked
while the surging tide sucked at his legs.

But it was nothing compared with the strength of the previous wave. He
patiently waited while the onrushing current swirled about his thighs.

The water slowly ebbed away toward its unseen destination at the end of
the pipe. Dunston painstakingly lifted one leg, then the other, into the
opening. Soon he was squatting on the pipe's outer surface. He carefully
maintained balance. For all he knew, there might be nothing on either
side of him. He cautiously looked about. Only yards away was a perfectly
straight line, pencil-thin. Peering closer, he recognized it as a red
laser guidance beam.

These, he knew, were only at floor level, which meant that there had to
be a floor somewhere nearby. Maintaining his posture, he reached out
with his right hand.

Indeed, there it was: a flat concrete slab that felt cool to the touch.

He swept his fingers over its surface. Judging from-the angle of the
concrete to that of the pipe, it looked like the sewage conduit was
transacting the slab in a downward direction. He carefully stepped off
the drainage pipe onto the welcome footing of the precast flooring. He
straightened up, dripping and filthy, taking a moment to savor his
victory.

Where the hell was he? Well past the ORS, to be sure, but the laser beam
provided insufficient light for vision.

After what he'd just been through, he had no desire to go pawing about
in the darkness. Yet he had little choice.

Holding his hands in front of him, he walked forward with ghostlike
caution. He tested his other senses. Despite the filth in his nose, he
thought he detected the faint aroma of food. And as he slowly moved
ahead, he began to perceive a gi i miner of light. Food  ...  that meant
the hospital kitchen.

If he remembered correctly, the kitchen was on the same level as the
lab. That probably meant the light was coming from the automated
analyzers in the labs. And beyond the lab, he knew, was nothing but the
vast, open expanse of the Center's campus.

Okay, I'm in some sort of passage. He sniffed again and smelled dust,
suggesting that the passage was little used, perhaps never used. If he
weren't so eager to flee, he could probably stay there indefinitely. But
he was anxious, and so he nervously continued ahead. The light was
brighter now, the images more distinct. He thought he could detect
gurgling from within the lab, which indicated that he hadn't been
completely deafened by the water which had roared over him. At least his
hearing still worked.

Perhaps it worked too well. From just above him, he heard a whir. As he
looked up, he saw the faint but recognizable outline of a video
surveillance camera, which had just rotated in his direction.

He quickly ran back to his starting place and retrieved the section of
pipe he'd kicked free. It was useless as a shield; it had now become a
weapon. He picked it up in both hands and charged the video camera.

Wielding it like an axe, he smashed the monitor repeatedly before it was
finally knocked off its hinges and fell to his feet, shattered.

Exhausted, he let the piece of metal clatter to the floor.

He felt thoroughly drained, and his breath came in gasps.

He didn't know how much stemmed from his ordeal, and how much was a
residual effect of the medications he'd received. More important, had he
been spotted? The answer came depressingly soon.

There came another whir, louder this time, from inconspicuous sliding
glass doors, remarkably well disguised as part of the lab's rear wall.

As the doors parted, the interior of the lab became more visible from a
perspective previously unknown to Dunston. He knew his priority was to
get out of there, but what he saw left him mesmerized. The routine
noises of the lab died as all the autoanalyzers shut down in synchrony,
following an unheard command. Dunston stood there transfixed, silently
gazing through a vapor as eerie as moonlit fog.

He couldn't see clearly, for the room seemed filled with mist. But
there, no more than ten yards away, were row upon row of what appeared
to be glass receptacles. The mist was fragrant, and the air had a robust
vitality. He felt drawn ahead. Against his better judgment he stepped
forward, waving his hand to disperse the steam.

He caught a glimpse of sudden movement, off to the left and just his
side of the doors. Whatever it was scampered quickly out of sight. But
before it disappeared into the darkness, Dunston was left with the
distinct notion that it was alive. He wondered if it was some sort of
lab animal. Yet it struck him as far too large to be a rat or guinea
pig, and Dunston had the faint but unsettling impression that it moved
on two legs rather than four. He strained to see better, wanting to
reach out to it, to say something.

Without warning an autobot plowed through the fog, coming directly at
him. Guided by the floor-mounted lasers, the mechanized robot rolled to
a stop and peered at him through its artificial optics. Clearly it
wasn't there to do a history and physical. But Dunston wasn't certain
what other functions had been programmed in. It was blocking his way,
but he thought he could easily get around it. Did it also have some
security function? He didn't notice any weapons-at least, not in the
traditional sense: no obvious firearms, stun guns, flechettes, or
Tasers. As he took his first step around it, wondering what to do next,
a little portal opened on the autobot's front panel. The opening was
small, about the size of a camera shutter, but big enough for its
intended purpose. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

He heard a muted pop, like the sound of an air rifle, immediately
followed by a stinging in his abdomen. He looked down and saw a BB-size
hole in his tattered gown.

It was virtually bloodless, though it left a red mark on his skin.

Within seconds, he felt himself growing woozy.

He'd been shot.

Not in the traditional sense, he knew, but with something he'd only read
about. He thought that the pneumatic chemical gun, or PCG, was still in
the experimental stage, and even then, intended strictly for the
military. Yet like many other things in the Center, there were
prototypes galore, adapted for medical use.

A refinement of the needletest intradermal syringe that administered his
medication, the PCG,. used air molecules to "fire" drugs at 4,000 feet
per second. Applying a breakthrough in biochemistry, it had the ability
to combine ambient air, made up of oxygen and nitrogen, with a variety
of chemicals. Its development followed close on the heels of a silicon
chip-size gas chromatograph, which separated the oxygen and nitrogen
molecules. It then chemically bound the drug or chemical to the oxygen
component alone, for the nitrogen was biologically inert.

Using particle beam technology, the PCG literally shot a dose of the
oxygen-drug compound through the air, overcoming atmospheric resistance
by streamlining flow. Although the compound's microscopic size precluded
creation of a deep wound, the rapid velocity was ample to penetrate
cloth or skin to a depth of five millimeters. In a human, that was
sufficient to place it in the proximity of the bloodstream. The beauty
of the PCG lay in the known affinity of oxygen for hemoglobin. Via a
physiologic process known as diffusion, the oxygen component rapidly
crossed the capillary membrane. There, it was quickly absorbed by red
corpuscles and transported throughout the body.

Dunston prayed the compound wasn't some sort of poison or nerve gas.

With each passing second he grew somewhat relieved, for if it were, he'd
be dead by now. But at the same time, his giddy lightheartedness
worsened. It was apparent that someone, or something, wanted him
unconscious again. But for what? The answer which suddenly sprang to
mind was frightening: to get at his testicles again.

With a drunken vengeance, he tore at the remains of his soiled gown. The
autobot simply watched him, awaiting his fall. No doubt the master
computers would summon a gurney once he collapsed. But he sure as hell
wasn't giving up without a fight. Balling up the gown like wet laundry,
he flung it at the laser beam on the floor. His aim was perfect. The
cloth fell with a heavy plop, interrupting the thin stream of red light.

The autobot immediately reacted. It began swiveling in place, first this
way then that, like a windup Christmas toy whose controls had gone
haywire. Dunston had no idea what other tricks it had up its sleeve, but
with his vision again starting to blur, he had precious little time to
waste.

He staggered toward the autobot just as it turned his way.

He ran his hand across his chest like a scoop, gathering some of the
fecal slime which covered him. Reaching the robot, he smeared the filth
onto its top-mounted optical sensors, coating the lenses.

Dunston drunkenly ambled past, heading for the lab. The autobot's
disrupted gears made low and rumbling noises, which had an unpleasant
resemblance to a growl. He reached the sliding glass doors just as the
mainframe calculated his direction. The computers sent a signal to block
him with the doors, but too late. He breached the barrier an instant
before the doors slammed shut behind him. ' He stopped and looked about,
gasping again, totally confused. Not only was his vision going fast, but
the mist filling the strange chamber was thick and heavy. He found
himself surrounded by the receptacles. The containers had an eeriness,
an otherworldliness that spoke of forbidden new horizons. He reached out
to touch one, as much to steady himself as to feel it. It was smooth as
glass. Perhaps it was glass, but he couldn't be certain. It was also
surprisingly warm, nearly body temperature, and covered with dewlike
condensation.

He started to wobble, head spinning. Curious though he was, he couldn't
see a damn thing any more. He felt strangely detached, like a man for
the first time asking to walk a tightrope, knowing that the next minute
could prove fatal, yet wondering what the sensation was like. And
Jesus-what was that thing he thought he'd seen on the other side of the
doors? A sudden wave of nausea jolted him back to reality. He had to
move fast.

He looked around, straining to see. But by now, he could only make out
light and darkness. Yet as the darkness was his enemy, so was the light
his only hope for survival.

Subconscious instinct took over, and a voice in his inner soul told him
to go for it. He plowed straight ahead, no longer caring what was in his
way. Like a sailor topside on storm tossed seas, he lurched fight and
left.

He knocked something over and heard a crash of glass as it shattered on
the floor. Screw it. Let someone else worry about damage control; his
life was on the line. Reach for the brass ring, man. You live or die by
that light!

He was audibly wheezing, on the very edge of consciousness, a boxer on
the ropes. One more punch would put him down for good, and there was no
ref to stop the contest.

He knew it had to come from within.

And it did, for Chad Dunston wanted very much to live.

Bent over, racked by pain and exhaustion, he staggered forward,
desperate to be surrounded by brightness. With one final lunge he leaped
ahead, arms and legs churning.

He struck something again, something hard, and dimly heard an explosive
shattering. He had the strangest sensation of failing, of heading ever
downward. So this is what it's like to die, he thought. An instant later
consciousness left him, and he was overcome by darkness.

Chapter Thirteen.

IT WAS ALREADY an hour after shift change, late in the afternoon. Thus
far the day had been far too bizarre, and Officer Crowley was anxious to
leave. Yet here he was, stuck at the captain's desk, going over his
report like a schoolboy.

"What the be-jesus you want me to do with this?" asked the captain,
tossing the handwritten report onto the desk.

"I don't know, sir."

"I got files for DWI, I got files on perverts and bail bondsmen." He
scowled. "You takin' some sort of short story course?"

"No, sir."

""Cause if you are, I got no file called creative writing.

You follow what I'm saying?"

"I'm just tellin' it like it was." Perplexed, the captain stepped back,
arms folded across his chest. Crowley was a good kid. He couldn't think
of a single reason why the young cop might lie. "Okay. Let's go over it
from the top.

"Sir, I already-"

"Not with me you haven't. This guy," he said, glancing at the top page
of the report, pausing for effect, giving the impression that he didn't
already know the perp. In fact, he'd met the doctor on several
occasions. "Dunston. Doctor Dunston.

Y'know, Crowley, doctors give me the creeps.

Haven't been to one in years. Doctors got clout. Guys with clout could
make my life miserable. Whadya suppose'd happen if this Dunston makes
waves or the commissioner gets holda this report?"

"I'd change it if I could, Captain. But suppose Dunston and the
commissioner already know each other?" Good point. "All right, all
right. Just run it through for me." Crowley shrugged. "It's like I
wrote, sir. It was about a quarter of twelve. I was doing the day shift
drive around the back of the Center, like we're supposed. Standard
patrol, no reports."

"How fast were you going?"

"Real slow, maybe five miles per. And  ...  well, that's when it
happened."

"You're sayin' he landed right on the hood of your patrol car?" Crowley
shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, sir."

"How'd he hit?" I"Sir?"

"How'd he land on your hood?"

"Damned if I know."

"Crowley, what I'm asking is, which part of his body struck first?"

"Oh. He was stretched out, flat on his back."

"Lucky." He picked up the report. ""Subject male cauc, unconscious.

Appears thirty-five to forty. Impacted patrol car without warning. No
ID. Subject naked. No smell of alcohol. Covered with BM." BM, Officer?"

"Swear to God, sir. I never saw anything like it."

The captain put down the papers and shook his head.

"Okay. What'd you do next?"

"Well, I got out of the car. When he hit, I braked hard, and he sorta
rolled off the hood onto the ground. So I checked that he was breathing
and had a pulse."

"You use those latex gloves?"

"You better believe it. How was I supposed to know he was a doctor?

Smelled like he crawled out of a sewer."

"Then what?"

"I radioed in, and they called the paramedics."

"You didn't move him at all?"

"Christ, I didn't want to go near him. I thought he must have been some
psycho."

"How long before the ambulance got there?"

"Ten minutes, tops."

"And they took him to Brookhaven?"

"Yes, sir. The Center doesn't have an ER."

"You didn't actually see him fall, then?"

"No, not really."

"So how' do you figure it?"

"I don't know, sir. I honestly don't know."

"But he did fall out, is that what you're sayin'?"

"Well, I can't swear to that. I suppose he could've been skydiving
without a parachute. But there were fragments all over the hood, and a
helluva hole in one of the Center's glass windows."

"What floor?"

"Second."

"How far was that to your hood?"

"Ten, twelve feet."

" This window. Did it look like something someone might accidentally
fall through?"

"No, sir. It was like a picture window, but those fragments were pretty
thick. If he went through, it must have been under a full head of steam.

That's why I thought he was a nut case."

"Anyone get a look at what's inside that window yet?"

"We're still workin' on that. Kind of hard to get information outta that
place. But it ain't the psych ward, like I first thought."

"How do you know - that?"

"The paramedics told me the place doesn't have one."

"He still unconscious when they took him away?"

"Out cold. They said it didn't look like anything was broken." He held
up a page. "This is a fax of his ER exam. Just so you know, the
paramedics were right. No serious injuries, but he'll probably be sore
as hell tomorrow. Assuming he wakes up."

"When did they ID him?"

"As soon as he got admitted. They know him over there.

It's one of the places he works."

"What was he doin' at the Center, Captain?"

"I'd like to know that myself, Crowley." He walked to the door and
opened it. "Okay, take off. A cop's supposed to see everything sooner or
later. But this is sure a new one on me.

The officer left without further prompting. The captain closed the door
and paced slowly around his desk. Now that he'd spoken with Crowley,
he'd have to return the DA's call. He hoped the feds didn't get
involved, although, strictly speaking, the incident did occur on federal
property.

He shook his head as he reached for the phone. It just didn't compute.

Even if the guy had totally freaked and tried to commit suicide, that
didn't explain why he was smeared with what the captain now knew was a
trace of disinfectant, bile, blood, saliva, and every other type of
human secretion. How could something like that happen?

He remembered when, as an intelligence spook in Vietnam, one of his many
jobs had been to debrief POWS who'd escaped NVA camps. They'd come
through the jungle, on the run for days or weeks. They were covered with
all sorts of filth. Of course, when you're trying to escape certain
death, there's not much of d chance to shower and shave. Escape  ...
What were Crowley's words? "Under a full head of steam"? Was it even
remotely possible that  ...  no way, he figured.

Dumb idea.

And it was scaring the hell out of him.

His eyes opened with infinite slowness, like a spasm ending. He saw
bright lights overhead, and an IV dripping into his arm. Most of all, he
felt the restraints that bound his wrists. And the singular thought
which came to Chad Dunston's mind was that they had somehow gotten him
back into the OR. In white-faced panic, he struggled to sit up, letting
out a shriek.

I"No!" I Heart pounding, nostrils flaring, he stared wide-eyed at his
surroundings. Someone was rushing toward him-a nurse? She looked
familiar, was familiar. Didn't she work at Brookhaven?

"It's all fight, Dr. Dunston." Holding him gently by the shoulders, she
eased him back onto his pillow. "How're you feeling?" His throat was
dry, his voice raspy. "Julie?"

"Well, at least your memory's not gone."

"What are you doing here?"

"This is where I earn my paycheck. Don't tell me you've forgotten all
the hours we spent working here together." Here? His heart slowed, and
he took a moment to check out his surroundings. To his left was some old
gomer on a respirator, and on his fight, an unconscious teenager,
likewise intubated, head swathed in bandages. He was in an I.C.U, not an
OR. And although many ICUS had a cookie cutter similarity, this one was
distinctly Brookhaven's.

"What am I doing here?" She checked his pulse, examining her stopwatch
as she spoke. "This is where they brought you."

"From where?"

"You came in on days, so I didn't get the whole story.

But on report, they said the EMTS brought you in from the Center around
lunchtime. Well, from the grounds of the Center, anyway.

And that," she said, finishing with his pulse, "is all I'm allowed to
say."

"According to who?"

"Dr. Stingley." Chad frowned. "Not that jerk."

"I'm afraid so. I'm supposed to notify him the instant you come to."

"What time is it?"

"A quarter of six."

"Jesus," he said softly.

"And I'm afraid he usually sticks around until seven.

Don't make such a yucky face. Sorry, but I've got to call him." She
turned to go, hesitated, and turned back toward the raised siderails.

"Chad, they told me to keep my trap shut, but I figure I'm entitled. I
mean, we've known each other long enough." He smiled weakly. "Through
thick and thin."

"You don't seem like the type. Then again, who is?" She paused, looking
him straight in the eye. "What I'm saying is, are you on something?" He
vaguely remembered the PCG injection, and his eyes narrowed. "Good
question."

"They did a toxicology screen."

"I bet. But I have a hunch that if anything shows up, it won't be your
typical stuff."

"What, then?" Again, a wan smile. "Look, Julie. I don't remember much of
the past eight hours, but I swear on a stack of Bibles that I'm not on
drugs. At least not the selfadministered kind."

"Okay, I had to ask, you know?"

"Sure."

"Right. Now I'll phone the schmuck."

"Julie-"

"I can't, Chad. Not until he's spoken with you." She turned and headed
toward the phones at the central nursing station.

Walter Stingley, MD, the hospital's head of psychiatry, was a relatively
recent colleague of Dunston's. A peripheral member of the Interface
Group, Stingley combined his knowledge of the psyche with an aptitude
for computers that led to development of the software program Sygmund.

After Sygmund was installed, however, Stingley became an infrequently
needed consultant. He had little to do with the more active Group
members.

To Dunston, it was just as well. Stingley was one of Dunston's least
favorite people They'd had numerous run-ins in the past, mainly over the
management of trauma victims strung out on drugs. Archly conservative,
Stingley had little concern for the psychological welfare or rehab of
those drug users who survived surgery. Psychiatry, to him, should be
reserved for outpatient neurotics or inpatient psychotics. Dunston, on
the other hand, felt drug abusers had problems enough without further
making them pariahs or merely paying them psychological lip service
before they once more hit the streets.

Stingiey approached the bedside rather stiffly, wearing a dated
double-breasted striped suit. "Returned from the dead, have we?"

Damn close to it."

"Whatever happened to you, Dunston? Here you are, a well respected
surgeon. By some, at least. From what I understand, you went to the
Center for a simple hernia repair, and left it by trying to commit
suicide." Dunston looked at him incredulously, then sighed. "You say
potato, I say polenta. You say suicide, I say step aside."

"Surely you can do better than attempted levity."

"You really think I tried to kill myself?"

"What would any reasonable person think? If truth be told, I expected
something like this long ago. You've been under a great deal of stress
since your wife left. Everyone knew it, but you wouldn't accept any
help. So there you were, a patient in a hospital, no longer in control.
And you snapped. It's not often one exits a hospital through a plate
glass window. Unless he's trying to exit life itself." So he had made it
to the window-to the light! He looked at one of this arms and saw only a
smattering of fine cuts. Ignoring Stingley, he pulled over the bedside
tray table and pushed down a place in its top to swivel up a vanity
mirror. He inspected his face closely and found a handful of nicks and
abrasions, nothing requiring suturing.

He'd been damn lucky. "Thank God for safety glass."

Stingley turned patronizing. "Care to tell me about it?"

"That'd be just ducky, except I don't remember a

11 Oh come on, Doctor. We're here to help you. You mow my feelings about
drug use. But if you have a problem, arrangements can be made. You'll
get the help you need. In confidence, of course."

"How uncharacteristically generous."

"Charity begins at home, Doctor. For better or worse, you're a member of
our medical family. So: where would you like to start?" Losing his
patience, Dunston's lids narrowed. "How's your hearing, Stingley?"

"Pardon?"

"I'm gonna say this just once. First, I didn't try to kill myself.

Second, the only thing I remember is going to the Center's OR, and
getting something through an IV. Next, I woke up here. That's it. End of
story. I have plenty of questions myself, but I doubt you're in a
position to answer them." Stingley glowered. "You're making this hard on
yourself." Is that so? The way I see it, I'm the one in the hospital
bed." '"Very well," he said, lacing his manicured fingers together as if
wiping his hands of the matter. "But I suggest you think about it
tonight. You're admitted for observation, you know. Suicide precautions
and all that. I'll be back tomorrow morning. If you persist in this
fantasy of amnesia, you'll probably be suspended from the hospital
staff. And if you are, we're under an obligation to report it to the
State's Office of Professional Medical Conduct."

"I'll make it easy for you. Tell you what. Go on and report me, tonight
if you want. I'm outta here. Just have one of the nurses bring me a
consent form, because I'm signing out against medical advice." Stingley
seemed to gloat. "AMA? Your decision.

Frankly, I didn't think you were man enough." Smiling, he headed for the
nurses' station.

Dunston lay there, furfiing. I saw it coming, he thought, but I let that
idiot get to me. Smart, real smart. Nothing more inspirational than a
cool, levelheaded surgeon. He looked toward the nursing station. After
Stingley sauntered out of the unit, Julie headed toward the bedside.

"Chad, you can't just sign out! If you do, it's like admitting they're
right. That jerk could make your life a shambles."

"That guy should be canned. The way I see it, Julie, considering
everything that's happened, 'a shambles' sounds pretty good to me." He
shifted in bed. "What I want to know is, is there anything physically
wrong with me? If there were, I'd consider staying. I feel like I got
hit by a truck, but you know what I'm getting at. Any fractures, blood
loss?"

"No, your films are negative. Vitals are normal, 'crit's stable, labs
are all okay. Of course you haven't had your EE or CAT scan yet." He
grinned slyly and pointed a finger at her. "Thanks for the offer. Gonna
take you up on that one of these days.

Now, take off these damn restraints, take out the IV, and bring me an
AMA consent, okay?"

"Chad-"

"Mind's made up, Julie. I'll owe you one, promise." She sighed. "I'll
have to report this to my supervisor."

"Report away. I understand."

"And you're gonna owe me one helluva lot." He smiled. "With pleasure."

"All right, I'll get the ball rolling. Oh, there are a couple of people
here to see you. You up for visitors if they keep it short?"

"Do I have to?".

"No, but one's a cop."

"Then I guess I have to." Moments later, after Julie had removed the
restraints, he was approached by a burly six-footer with receding
reddish hair. Dunston knew and respected cops; he often worked with
them. Tom Donohue was a captain at what they called "the county", the
Yaphank Precinct. Dunston hadn't seen him in over a year, and he knew
that Donohue rarely did his own field work unless it was urgent.

"How's it going', Doc?" Dunston sat up, still a little woozy, but
sufficiently clearheaded. "Off critical, thank you. And about to make
tracks to my hacienda."

"They told me you'd be staying for a while."

"They told you wrong."

"I got here just in time, then."

"Looks that way." He hated playing cutesy. He knew and liked Donohue and
didn't want to give him a hard time.

But Dunston had his own agenda, for the day's events had been more
frightening than any in his life. "In time for what?"

"Come on, Doc. Level with me. I got things to do, you got things to do.

I don't wanna waste your time. So how about it? You wanna tell me what
happened at the Center?"

It was too horrifying to think about, much less discuss.

Anyway, he'd already committed himself when he'd spoken to Stingley. "I
would if I could. But the facts are short and sweet, because I don't
remember squat. Not after they Put me to sleep. And then bingo, I wake
up here and don't even know what the hell I'm doing in this place."

"Okay. What were you doing in the Center? Everyone knows there're no
people there. Except patients. Place is run by robots."

"First of all, it's not run by robots. It's run by a system of very
sophisticated computers. Well," he conceded, 11 maybe some of the
machines act like what you'd call robots. And second, it just so happens
I was a patient there."

"Yeah?"

"That's right. A simple little hernia, a med student could do it. I went
to get it repaired."

"If it's so simple, why'd you go there?" Dunston took in Donohue's
patient expression. The guy was no dummy; he cut right to the chase.

"It's like this," he explained, struggling around the cold edges of a
nightmarish flashback. "Believe it or not, I helped design the place.

For my money, it's the safest hospital there is. And contrary to popular
opinion, it's not just for open hearts or brain surgery. You got a
hangnail, they can remove it at the Center."

"If it's that safe, what happened to you?" Dunston looked away. "I wish
to hell I knew." Donohue pulled over a chair and sat on it backward,
Western style. "Doc, I've got two problems. First, you might not know
this, but the Department's got a contract with the government. We send a
patrol car around the Center a couple of times a day, and the U.S.
Treasury sends us a shitload of taxpayer money in return. Ever since the
place opened, we never had a serious problem. Until now."

"Nobody's told me anything yet."

"Crowley swears some psycho-read that as you comes smashing through one
of the place's few plate glass windows, just as Crowley was drivin' by.

Lands flat on his back on the patrol car's hood. We're talkin' inches
here, folks. You land a little in front of him, and his tires turn you
into dog food. Do a little more dive and roll, you hit your head first,
your neck snaps, and you're a paraplegic."

"Quadriplegic."

"Whatever. Either way, I know you ain't one of the Flying Wallendas, and
since all you got are a few cuts and scrapes, I'd say you're pretty damn
lucky."

"I can't disagree with that."

"And you remember none of this?"

"Not a blessed thing."

The captain searched for more of a response but found none. "You like
paperwork, Doc?"

Do you?"

"Hate it. Half a cop's job is paperwork. And the craziest part of
Crowley's paperwork, the report he filed on you, was that you were, to
use his words, 'covered with BM." Shit and turds. What his report
doesn't say, but what I happen to know from talkin' with the ER folks
who cleaned you up, was that you were also covered with every other kind
of snot and crap that can come outa the human body.

Like you were batter dipped, but not by Colonel Sanders.

Now, I ask myself. Just how is this possible? A guy comes crashin'
through a hospital window onto a police car, unconscious, slimed worse
than in Ghostbusters. What I'm sayin' is, can you help me with any of
this, Doc? "Cause if you can't, I'm just jerkin' myself off."

Dunston smiled. "Don't cops do that all the time?"

"I'm being serious."

"So am I, Captain. I really can't help you. This whole thing's as much a
mystery to me as it is to you. I have no rational explanation for
anything after I went into that OR." The policeman gave him a long, hard
stare. Then he got up and turned the chair around. "I honestly don't
know who's jerkin' who off, Doc. But if you remember anything else,
you'll give me a call?"

"You bet."

"Okay. Lady wants to see you. If the nurse gives thumbs up, I'll send
her in." As the captain walked away, Dunston closed his eyes and -sighed
a long, slow exhalation, as if surfacing after holding his breath on a
long, underwater journey. He began to shiver all over. He pulled up the
covers, eager for the warmth and comfort of his own bed, when he felt
the tender softness of lips brushing his cheek.

Maks took his hand. Her chin quivered as she fought back tears of joy
and anguish. "How're you feeling, Ciiad?" He opened his eyes and simply
looked at her standing there, her blond hair and blue eyes the most
tantalizing vision anyone in his condition could hope for. He gazed at
the luxurious silkiness of her hair.

Backlighted by the overheads, each strand seemed to live in harmony with
the light, dancing in its shadows. He wondered what lay behind her kiss.

He squeezed her hand in relief. She was such a welcome sight. When
trapped in the bowels of the Center, he wondered if he'd ever see her
again. Now, he longed for her.

Maks waited, staring at him with concern, wanting him to speak. But he
seemed reticent. She touched his forehead with cool fingers.

"They have funny rules here," she finally continued.

"No more than two visitors per shift, and then only fifteen minutes
each."

"How long've you been waiting?"

"Not long."

He held her fingers tight. "I'm glad you came."

She suppressed a tear and summoned the courage to ask.

"What happened, Chad? Did the surgery go all right? I came to the Center
an hour early to pick you up, but the computer in the lobby said you'd
already been discharged home.

He was stunned. "Home?"

"That's what the monitor said. I just don't understand.

I figured you'd have at least called. Then I called you. I got no
answer, and your car was still parked in the lot." She sounded frantic.

"I thought maybe you took a taxi, or Chad, talk to me!" He looked away,
still clutching her hand. Grateful to be alive, he felt his own tears
well up, knowing that she cared.

He forgot that she'd planned to pick him up. But he just regained
consciousness, and undoubtedly there were lots of other things he
couldn't remember.

What in God's name could he say? That a place he had a hand in
designing, a hospital he publicly touted as the world's best, had simply
screwed up? No, not screwed up; what had happened was intentional, by
design. She believed in him. How could he possibly convey to her what
went wrong when he didn't know himself His evasive words were muted.

"How'd you find me?"

"I went to your apartment looking for you. I was desperate. The police
were already there. I mean, they'd just gotten there. They said you'd
been brought here. I told them I was supposed to pick you up and  ...
Chad, what happened?" Impossible, he thought. There was just no way he
could explain it. The images were too fresh, the nightmare too real: the
wrong operation listed on the monitor; the propofal instead of I the
local; his frantic attempt to escape. The memory of his crawling,
willy-nilly, through a pipe of God knew what, and his final,
one-in-a-million lunge through the lab window  ...  Was it the lab? And
what in the world had he seen there? Bizarre receptacles and the drugged
vision of something on two feet scurrying away? In time, maybe. But
right now, how could he explain even a fraction of that?

"Let's get out of here."

"They told me you were admitted." She lowered her gaze. "Attempted
suicide."

"Maks, you know me better than that." He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"I'm going to un-admit myself. Find Julie at the nursing station and ask
her to come over here, okay?" Moments later, Julie returned with Maks in
tow. Dunston detected a certain friction between them, and for some
reason he was secretly pleased. Julie carried alcohol swabs and a
clipboard.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"Paint me gone." She pressed a moistened swab over his IV site, removed
the thin plastic catheter, and put adhesive tape over the swab. "There.
Now I'm supposed to read you the consent form."

"Trust me, Jules. I know it by heart."

"Your funeral," she said, handing him the clipboarded piece of paper. He
saw an unnecessary X indicating the line on which he had to sign. He
signed and dated it and printed his name underneath, wondering if he was
putting an irrevocable end to his professional career. Then he handed it
back to her to co-sign as witness.

That done, she looked up at him. "There's only one hitch."

"I can handle Stingley."

"I'm referring to something more mundane. Like clothes. Unless Miss.
Lassiter brought some. This hospital frowns on patients leaving
bareass." Maks shook her head apologetically.

"All right," Julie said. "I'll check with the ER. They usually have
hand-me-downs. Might not fit, but fashion night's next week. You don't
mind a few bullet holes in your jeans, do you?" She winked at him and
departed to make her calls. Dunston somehow doubted that the clothing
he'd worn that, morning was still in his hospital room at the Center. He
contemplated trying out a reasonable story on Maks, but he didn't want
it to be an outright lie. Still, he owed her some sort of explanation.
He needed time, and lots of it, both for himself, to try to sort things
out, and for those like Maks, who were counting on him.

"I don't know where to start. You're not going to believe what I have to
tell you."

"I will if you say so." He hesitated. "I didn't have the operation."

"Why not?" He ran fingers through his uncombed hair. "I wish to Christ I
knew. Something  ...  happened."

"What?" He shrugged. "Nothing. Everything." He frowned.

"This is really difficult. It's so damn complicated. It's like there's
something very peculiar going on at the Center' I don't know what it is
yet, but it has a lot to do with me." Julie interrupted, and it was just
as well, for his explanation already had him confused. She was carrying
a large shopping bag containing rumpled brown trousers, a Yale Bulldogs
sweatshirt, and an old pair of thongs. She dumped the contents onto his
mattress. "Sorry, they're out of designer stuff. There was some
underwear, but I don't think you'd like what was crawling in it."

"Appreciate it, Jules."

"Need a hand?"

"I think I can manage, thanks."

"Okay." She motioned for Maks to wait outside and pulled the U-shaped
privacy curtain closed.

Dunston stripped his hospital gown off, feeling stiff and achy. He got
out of bed somewhat shakily, wondering if he'd been too cavalier in
dismissing Julie's assistance. He steadied himself against the side
rails and slowly put on the clothing. When he was finished, he pulled
open the curtain and painfully made his way to the nursing station.

"How do I look?" he asked Julie.

"Thoroughly scruffy. Vagabond look. Maybe it's in this week. Give me a
call tomorrow, okay? Let me know how you're doin'?"

"Will do. And thanks. Where's-"

"Outside, in't I he waiting room." Looking like an undercover narc in a
B movie, Dunston slowly ambled through the I.C.U. toward the swinging
door exit. Pushing it open, he found Maks standing right there, waiting.

She suppressed a smile when she saw him, quickly taking his hand. She
reached into her purse and gave him a pair of sunglasses.

"Maybe you should put these on."

"Afraid to be seen with me?"

"Stick around here, and you'll start getting handouts."

"Right. You lead. I'll follow. I promise not to mug you.

Hand in hand, they headed quietly down the corridor.

She broke the silence a few moments later.

"I talked with Captain Donohue."

"A good man. What'd he have to say?"

"He didd't volunteer Much. Did you really far through a plate glass
window?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose so. At least, I remember heading in that
direction."

"Can you remember why?" He seemed amused. "Funny. That's more than I've
told anyone up to now." But his smile quickly faded, replaced by an
expression of anguish and fear as the memories resurfaced. He gripped
her hand tighter. "I think it might've been trying to kill me."

"What?"

"I hope you're ready for this, because this is where the incredible
stuff starts. you sure you want to hear this drivel?" She did. As they
slowly left the hospital and headed for her car, Dunston began to
recount what he thought happened. It was a painstaking, arduous
recollection, for there were many things he didn't know, and he had to
guess to fill in the gaps. He would stop and start again, going over
little details as he suddenly remembered something, dragging his
thoughts through a drug-induced haze. He felt as if he were wading
through the Byzantine hedgework of a Victorian garden, always having to
mentally retrace his steps.

Maks kept silent on the way home, not wanting to interrupt,
understanding his need for catharsis. She drove with one hand and held
onto him with the other, every so often glancing his way. He spoke with
eyes closed, leaning back against the headrest. She could see an
expression of real torment lining his face, mixed with generous measures
of uncertainty and ongoing fear. He was just finishing his recitation
when she turned the car into her driveway. He finally opened his eyes.

"Your place?"

"Yes. My tub's bigger than yours." He sniffed an armpit. "It's that bad,
huh?"

"Worse." He tugged at the sweatshirt. "I have no sentimental attachment
to these rags."

"Then dump 'em. I still have a lot of my father's old stuff.

Something'll fit you." She parked the car, got out, and walked around to
help him out. He made a little groan when he stepped onto the driveway,
hunching forward against the increasing stiffness of his muscles. She
took his elbow and steered him toward the house.

"How come you haven't said anything?" he asked.

"What's there to say?" He stopped, a wounded look on his face. "Don't be
so patronizing. I didn't make this up, Maks. Do you believe anything
I've said?" She wrinkled her nose. "I certainly believe you were in a
sewer.

"No, the other stuff. The parts I said would sound in credible."

It was her turn to be serious. "You're forgetting I had horrible
experience at that place last spring. You gave m( very logical
explanations about what happened to Christine You told me the place was
infallible. I trusted your sincerity, but I still wasn't sure, And after
what you've just told me, I'm less sure than ever. Believe you? Jesus,
Chad, believe every word you said."

"Does it make any sense to you?" She slowly shook her head. "Not at all.

Yet neither- did Christine's death. But enough for now. Let's get you
properly cleaned up. God, those clothes. Don't move." He remained in the
foyer while she headed inside, walking through the kitchen. She returned
moments later with a large plastic garbage bag. "Okay, drop 'em."

"Right here?"

"If those lovely garments go one more inch into the house, the building
inspector'll have it condemned. I'll sec if I can find you a robe."
After she left, the thongs went first. He wriggled out of the sweatshirt
with some difficulty, and he had to hold onto a chair for balance when
he stepped out of the trousers, Then he put everything into the garbage
bag and doubly knotted it, not quite prepared when Maks waltzed back
into the room and found him naked.

His hands went to cover his groin as Maks averted his eyes, handing him
a thin robe. She hadn't meant to walk in on him like that. She'd been so
intent on assisting him that she'd forgotten he wasn't wearing anything.

But in that brief moment before she looked away, her eyes took in his
lean, sinewy body. And she liked what she saw.

"I feel naked."

"Cute," she said. "How's that robe?"

"It'll do." She took him by the hand again and led him through the house
to a staircase that led upstairs. Holdin- the bannister with one hand
and Maks' hand with the other, Dunston carefully navigated the carpeted
steps, reaching the second floor only slightly winded. He paused for air
and looked around self-consciously.

"Which way to the stables?" he asked.

"Follow me, sire." Halfway down the hall, she pushed open a door that
led to a well-appointed bathroom. He could tell that it had been
tastefully remodeled, with recessed high-hats, which gleamed off a
floor-to-ceiling mirror. The room's centerpiece was an enormous,
circular, sunken tub, already filling with water. He nodded approvingly
whole Maks turned on one of the showers.

"My parents had this redone about ten years ago. My mother was into long
baths."

"I'll say," Dunston agreed, gazing at the tub. "About ten feet long.

Must have some outrageous parties in here." She tested the shower water.

"That should be about right. After you've rinsed off, relax in the tub.

You've earned it. Call me when you're done. I'll be right outside."

"Maks," he ventured, "you've really been helpful, and I don't mean to
push things. But at the risk of being way out of line, would you mind
staying here? I ache all over, and I might need some help. And I need
you to do my back.

She shrugged. "Okay by me. I used to bathe my cousins all the time. Why
don't you go into the shower and wash all that junk off." He sidled into
the brisk spray and let the warm stream course through his hair. He
turned his face up into the water and let the fine needles rinse out his
nose and ears, then opened his mouth and cargled thoroughly. After
several minutes he turned off the spigot, feeling he'd done his best.

Opening the shower door, Maks held out a bath towel for him. He noticed
that she, too, was now wearing a robe.

"Quick change artist?" he asked.

"No sense both of us getting soaked."

"Amen to that. Lead on."

She did. After what he'd recently survived, Dunston didn't mind a little
out-of-character docility. The huge tub, which looked like it had a
sixteen-inch depth, was half filled with water that gushed from brass
fixtures. There were two entry steps, the lower already submerged.

Knowing they might prove slippery, Maks let Dunston exchange his towel
for a firm grip on her forearm. He held onto her and stepped carefully,
watching the water swirl around his shins. Then he slowly squatted until
the water lapped at his haunches.

"How is it?" she asked.

"Divine. Like holy water. My tush is in your debt.

Ahhh," he sighed, sitting and straightening out his legs, then pushing
back until his spine touched ubside. He closed his eyes. "God, this is
relaxing. I might fall asleep in here."

"Don't you dare. My CPR's a little rusty. Lean your head back."

On his scalp" he felt the cool flow of liquid shampoo, which had a
fragrant almond scent. Her fingers went to work, rubbing up a lather,
kneading his skin, massaging in the suds, working out the knots of
tension in the muscles of his neck and temples. She rinsed his hair with
a spray attachment, and the shampoo drained away into a recessed scupper
that rimmed the tub's top. Then he felt more shampoo, and her fingers
again. After several minutes of her delightful ministrations, he
concluded that he'd died and gone to-heaven. Another rinse-then, a
slight breeze in the air, and a pleasant sensation upon his chest.

Curious, he opened his eyes.

Bending over the edge of the tub, Maks was lathering his chest with two
ingenious mittens.

"It's true," he rasped. "An angel."

"Feel good?"

"Indescribable. What are those wonderful paws?"

"Luffa sponges."

"of course, silly me. What's a luffa sponge?"

"Oh be quiet." He let his lids close again. My own personal geisha, he
thought. Where'd she learn this stuff? Oh, right. She works for that
Japanese place.

He heard the flick of a switch, a rush of water, the pleasant liquid
jets from the Jacuzzi. She was doing his feet now, fastidiously, one toe
at a time. Then she was doing his soles, his ankles, scrubbing,
kneading. She slowly worked her way up his calves to his knees. Dunston
felt himself growing increasingly languid.

As she bathed him, Maks could not help looking at his body. His skin was
a dappled quilt of scrapes and abrasions.

She admired his compact musculature. She stole a glance at the tightness
of his abdomen and at the way his manhood floated beneath the soapy
bubbles. Maks felt herself grow aroused. She knew she was risking the
illicit, and she loved it. But she knew that if she continued bathing
him-much longer, her increasing boldness would lead to places she wasn't
yet prepared for. She rinsed him off.

'"Up and at 'em, Doctor. I think we should get you to bed."

"Yeah." She got up first, then helped him out of the tub. He began to
shiver all over. She gave him a dry towel and retrieved the robe for
him. After he put it on, she used the towel on his wet hair. When it was
dry, she led him out of the bathroom and toward a bedroom nearby.
Dunston looked inside.

"You sleep in here?"

"No, it was my parents'. I haven't slept in their bed since well, a long
time." Bad memories?" She followed him in. "No, just too much hassle."
She pulled back a large quilted bedspread. "They liked a big bed, too
big for my taste. A sort of super-king. I still like a bed where I can
tuck my toes in the corners." He lifted a sheet and climbed in. The
bedding was smooth and cool. Under the heavy covers, he slowly stopped
shivering. Growing warmer, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath,
thoroughly relaxed. He was asleep within thirty seconds.

He woke up twice that night, the second time screaming, in the throes of
a nightmare, the likes of which he hadn't had since he was a child. He
found himself sitting up, shivering again, wide-eyed, chilled by fear.

Within seconds Maks was in the room, sitting on the bed beside him,
soothing him, canning him, speaking in hushed, reassuring tones.

It seemed completely natural when she pulled back the covers and crawled
in beside him. He moved close to her, snuggling up for warmth.

The next time he awakened, it was morning. The first beams of dawn
filtered past thick, hanging drapes. The memory of the previous day was
still vivid in his mind. He slowly sat up and pulled off the covers
without waking her.

He could not shake the lingering terror he felt from being trapped in
the sewage pipe. He suddenly felt filthy again.

Walking quietly across the carpet, he returned to the bathroom. He
turned on the shower, got in, and scrubbed himself compulsively all
over.

He knew that in truth, although he could wash his body quickly and
often, it would take days, even weeks, to even begin to cleanse the
horror from his mind.

Chapter Fourteen.

CHERYL McKitrick ADJUSTED her sweater as Jim walked into her office. She
straightened up smartly. He wasn't exactly her idea of every woman's
fantasy, but he was the correct gender.

"There it is," he said.

"There what is?"

"Operation Wiretap. The computer program I was supposed to work out?"
She perked up. "The one that can help us find out who's accessing our
data?"

"The same." She reached for the printouts. "You already found out!

"Sheer stroke of luck," he nodded. "Here I was, all geared up for fancy
footwork to tiptoe through networks nationwide. It turns out it was
fight under our noses."

"Here in Upton?"

"More like here on campus. You ready for this? All the files were being
pulled by the computers at CHP."

"The Center?" She looked away, astonished. So that accounted for the
speed of Jim's discovery. All the buildings in the Brookhaven site were
on a vast acreage of federally owned property, be they the Upton center,
the hospital, or the National Lab itself Even though they might be
several miles apart, they were all linked by the same in-house computer
network. But why in the world would the Center be interested in the
Human Genome Project, and more specifically, the experimental microscopy
related to it? Nobody even worked there. The place was fully automated,
run by computers.

The thought was chilling. Computers accessed other computers all the
time to exchange information, or to reference databases. But always
under human control. The notion that the Center's supercomputers might
be doing it autonomously, listening to no internal dialogue but their
own, hinted at 'a kind of interrogation-or, more frighteningly,
artificial intelligence.

Any idea why?" she asked.

"No, but I can tell you this. It started almost immediately after their
computers went on line. And it's not just limited to STM data. They want
every shred of info we have on genome research."

"I don't believe this."

"What makes it even spookier is that although we now know what they've
been given, we don't know what they've concluded. I mean, their
computers are a generation ahead of anyone else's. We could be talking
about machines that actually think." No way," she scoffed.

"Think about it. Their computers use parallel processing,
superconductivity, and advanced neural networks, modeled after how the
brain's supposed to function. What does that suggest?"

"It suggests," said Cheryl, feeling increasingly mortified, "that we'd
better kick this upstairs to Victor right away." Jesus. Wasn't Maks'
doctor friend a patient at the Center?

"Already done. He's expecting us in fifteen minutes."

It was morning when Dunston woke again. He rolled over and saw that Maks
was gone. He slowly sat up and gazed about, taking stock of the
tastefully appointed room.

The door creaked. It was Maks, entering from the hallway, pushing the
door open with her hip, carrying one of those breakfast-in-bed platters
that you could order from Hammacher-Schlemmer.

He noted that she was already dressed, wearing black cable leggings
beneath an unusual neo-sweater he couldn't quite figure out. God, she
had great legs. He truly adored the way she looked. In fact, he was
coming to adore everything about her. She placed the tray in front of
him.

"How long have you been up?"

"About an hour. How're you feeling?" He hunched his shoulders and made a
face. "Stiff as an ingot."

"I'm not surprised. Maybe breakfast will help." She uncovered a silver
serving dish, beside which were juice, coffee, and a brioche. "Voili."
He stared at the yolks. "Eggs Benedict?"

"I hope so. At least, that's what the recipe said."

"Looks great. How's it taste?"

"I don't know. I never made it before." He smiled. "I'm honored.

Where're you headed?"

"Work. I thought about babysitting, but I think you can manage without
me. Oh, the police brought back your car.

I left the keys in the kitchen. Not that I expect you to go anywhere.

Just take it easy, okay? Read the Times, play Nintendo, take a walk. Up
to you." She blew. him a kiss and was gone.

After a leisurely breakfast, he had to use the bathroom.

Dunston threw back the covers and winced as he got out of bed, feeling
as if he'd been run over by a garbage truck.

He wondered if Maks kept aspirin in the bathroom. Gettin . g to his
feet, hunched over, he hobbled, rather than walked, across the deep pile
carpet. Passing a full-length mirror, he eyed his reflection. His naked
body was covered with bruises and scrapes, purplish welts, and
occasional sutures where small lacerations had been repaired. He cocked
his head, more curious than surprised by his appearance. He felt damn
lucky to be alive. Christ, did he have to take a piss.

When he was done, he absentmindedly opened the medicine chest. There
wasn't much inside: an outdated bottle of Tylenol, in actual capsules; a
fifteen-ounce jar of Vaseline; an antique straight razor with an ivory
handle; and two amber medicine vials.

He opened one and found a handful of Motrin 800.

Just the ticket, he thought. He looked at the date on the label. The
prescription was two years old. He couldn't recall Motrin's shelf life.

On the off chance it had lost some potency, he took two, rinsing them
down with a healthy swig of tap water. He replaced the vial and idly
picked up the other.

He twisted off the cap and found it empty. The label was made out to
Christine Lassiter, dated the last week in March. He remembered that
must have been just before she entered the hospital. The vial had
contained fifty milligram Serophene capsules, and the instructions read,
TAKE THREE DAILY FOR FTVE DAYS.

Dunston slowly put back the container, frowning. Serophene, Serophene He
vaguely recognized the name as some sort of specialty medication, but he
couldn't remember for what. He was certain it wasn't an antibiotic; an
antihistamine? Something puzzled him, like a memory resurfacing. He
closed the cabinet and hobbled out of the bathroom.

The lush carpet felt delightfully soft underfoot. He returned to the
closets, searching for something to wear. He entered a large walk-in. It
contained a man's wardrobe, no doubt Mr. Lassiter's. There were several
hanging suits, stacked shirts, and a rack of shoes. There should be
something a little less formal in here, he thought. In weather like
this, he wouldn't be needing socks or underwear.

He leafed through the clothing until he found a pair of gray sweatpants.

Putting them on, he found them loose but acceptable. Then he picked out
a woolen buffalo plaid shirt which came from L, L. Bean. Slipping it on,
he buttoned it and judged the fit satisfactory. That left only the
shoes. He instantly spotted what he wanted, a pair of fleece-lined
slippers. Clothes made the man, he thought.

He returned to the bedroom, retrieved the serving tray, and carried it
downstairs to the kitchen. Through the kitchen window, he looked out
across the back porch. He recognized the setting at once. In the
distance was the watery horizon of Oyster Bay, and before him, the
well-tended expanse of grassy yard where Maks revealed herself to him.

Dunston casually strolled outside.

The weather was delightful, with low humidity, blue sky, and not a cloud
overhead. He felt his tension diminish. A morning couldn't be more
idyllic. It was so pleasant, in fact, that his mind completely relaxed,
exposing a defenseless subconscious. There occurred a sudden and jarring
juxtaposition of thoughts, in which the preceding day's events
resurfaced. His hands began to shake.

It wasn't a mistake, he thought.

He clasped his hands to stop their trembling. The nightmarish
significance of what happened was inescapable. He was too familiar with
the workings of the Center to reach any other conclusion. The place
simply functioned too damn well. Not only was it no mistake, he
realized, but the whole thing had to have been planned, with him in
mind, as  ...  what? Victim? Donor?

When had it all begun? he wondered. Could it possibly have been
conceived after his admission for the surgery?

That was doubtful, for there was nothing spur-of-the moment about what
transpired. It had to have been planned long before he'd been admitted,
and probably not later than when his case was booked into the OR
schedule. Perhaps everything had been planned even earlier, and with him
specifically in mind. And then when he'd somehow thwarted them and the
godawful plan had fallen apart, they had unquestionably tried to destroy
him.

But why, why?

He sat there wringing his hands, feeling chilled to the bone. Instead of
answers, all he resurrected were horrible memories, little flashes of
terror, mini-nightmares of partial remembrance: the drugs, his
one-in-a-million escape, the filthy, tepid water. Something, or
someone-an animal?- or what he thought was a lab; scurrying; the bizarre
lab, the autobot tracking him, coming at him relentlessly, firing at him
...  his dash, his wild, final lunge  ... The morning was no longer
bright, for it was clouded over by his memories. He may have beaten the
odds once, but what did the future hold in store? Somewhere, there were
answers. There were answers to everything.

And if he intended to survive, he damn well better find them." Dunston
impulsively dashed back into the house, his mind awhirl.

Two hours after he met with Cheryl and Jim, Victor Sawyer's mood was
foul. Although the administrative aspects of being project director had
been largely thrust upon him, until now everything had gone reasonably
well, at its own pace. But he was a geneticist, accustomed to logical,
scientific answers, not a detective. What they'd dropped in his lap was
an unfathomable bombshell. It made no sense whatsoever.

Why would the world's most advanced hospital be interested in anything
to do with the Human Genome Project?

Was it even remotely possible that it was conducting its own research?

If so, it was completely unauthorized. The monthly liaison reports
listed everything in the field being conducted anywhere in the country,
and activity at CHP showed up Dowhere. But there was no denying that an
enormous quantity of genome data had been siphoned off, and appeared to
have been done so for a long while.

At least they'd been able to determine a time sequence for the data
loss. Initially, most of the preliminary "borrowed" files pertained to
STM design and construction. But more recently, especially in the past
nine months, the data transmitted dealt with what were generally
considered more far-out, peripheral aspects of the project-things such
as clonin-, and memory transfer.

C,

"We've got to presume that the Center has its own little STM," said
James.

"That's presuming too much," said Sawyer.

"is it? It's sure got the technology to build one. Its automation
techniques are light-years ahead of what we usually work with, and
automation's nine-tenths of the game in using an STM for gene
sequencing."

"But it doesn't have the parts."

"You're right," said Cheryl. "It didn't have those parts on its original
manifest. But guess what, coach?," She was staring at a computer
console. For the better part of the past hour, while they brainstormed,
she'd been working at Sawyer's desktop unit, accessing networks and
calling up databases. Most of what had gone into the Center's
construction was confidential, but Cheryl was a pro. The directors at
Langley would be mortified to know that "She could even rattle off the
names of case officers who ran Central American agents, if she wanted
to. Her current interest, however, was in sifting through the Center's
various requisitions after its initial budgetary allowance.

She tapped the monitor with a fingernail. "High resolution
micro-rniffors, six of 'em. Ordered seventeen months ago." She looked up
at her boss. "As far as I know, they've only got one use."

"Maybe there's some new medical application," said Jim, none too
optimistically.

"Not according to the most recent catalogs," said Cheryl. "No, it's an
STM, all right. But pointed inward, not at outer space. We're talking
the cutting edge of nanotechnology here, folks. We've been snookered and
one upped at the same time."

"All right," a testy Sawyer conceded, "you've made your point. Let's say
the Center does have an STM. How do we know what they're doing with it?"

"That's just it, we don't. It's next to impossible to get into their
system to find out. But I think we can make certain assumptions."

"Like what?" Well, like Jim said. If we had an STM for genome research,
we'd use it on sequencing. Now we know that in sequencing, the limiting
factor's automation, which is spelled S-P-E-E-D. Don't you see? The
Center's done it backwards. First they solved the automation business,
which controls just about everything they do over there.

And then they built an STM." Sawyer had a worried look. "You're not
implying  ..." She gave a defeatist shrug. "It's a distinct
possibility."

"That they've actually unraveled the human genome?" he said
incredulously. "What we figured would take us fifteen years?"

"I don't know, Victor," she said, exasperated. "But it sure as hell
could be." Sawyer gave a little grunt, and a no-nonsense expression
replaced his "Okay, worst-case scenario," he said, propping his elbows
onto the desk, all business now.

"Let's get back to presuming. Not admitting, mind you, just presuming.

Presuming that the Center's computers have mapped the genome. Obviously,
we can't get them to talk to us, and their computer center's playing it
very close to the vest. If you were in their shoes, what would you do
with that information?" It was Jim's turn. "Possibilities? Unlimited.

Especially in light of their inquiries about cloning, and all that.

Making spare body parts. Cryobiology-bringing the dead back to life.

Creating a master race. And on, and on."

"But what in the world for? What good would it do them? We're not
dealing with people here. We're dealing with machines."

"Not entirely," said Cheryl. "There are people who interact with the
Center fairly often. Call them advisors," she said, remembering what
Maks had told her about Dunston. She still hadn't met the man, and this
was as good an excuse as any. Her tone turned deferential.

"With your influence, maybe you could suggest a meeting with one of
them?" While Sawyer paused to consider it, she sat back smartly.

She chanced a look at Jim. Her lips curled into a smile when she saw him
finally staring at her breasts.

"I think I know the people you mean," said Sawyer.

"I met one of them at a conference a little while back.

Arthur something-or-other. It's certainly worth a call. But first I have
to report this to the brass. No choice in the matter. It's part of our
agreement. Of course, the Secretary's numero uno. My guess is he'll
inform the NIH, who'll probably pass it on to Congress, maybe even the
Pentagon. Christ, I hope they don't screw up what we unearthed." Dunston
found his keys in the kitchen. He ignored his I sundry aches as he left
the house and got into his Mustang.

He quickly headed for Jericho Turnpike. His dashboard clock read 8:45.

Traffic was heavy but beginning to lighten.

With any luck, he'd reach Weiman's St. James home before the internist
left to make rounds.

He knew Arthur was a night owl. It wasn't unusual to find him prowling
the hospital corridors at two A.M., which made Dunston doubt the man
awakened before eight. After what seemed an interminable drive, he
finally pulled into Weiman's driveway at 9:25. He looked around and
groaned when he didn't see his friend's car. Disheartened, he got out of
his seat, walked to the house's front door, and ran the bell.

Weiman's wife Angela responded to the singsong chime almost instantly,
briskly opening the door. She seemed to be expecting someone. She looked
distracted, upset. But her expression turned to astonishment when she
noticed Dunston's injuries.

"Hello, Ange."

"My God, Chad, what happened to you?"

"It's a long story. I'm all right. Is Arthur already gone?"

"Yes, but I don't know where he is. Do you have an idea where he might
be?"

"Should I?"

"I guess not. I don't know what to do. We were supposed to leave for the
airport this morning. Aruba." She looked terribly worried, running a
hand distractedly through her hair. "Arthur went to the office last
night, nine-ish. You know how he is. He said he had a few last-minute
things to do, and then he wanted to check on his patients before signing
out to whoever's covering him. I thought he'd be home by twelve." Tears
welled up in her already bloodshot eyes. "Only he never came back."

"A

"Did you try the hospital? The on-call rooms?"

"Yes, they've looked everywhere. He isn't there."

"What about the office?" She looked exasperated. "Each time I call, I
get his office. The idiots insist he's already on vacation. I know his
office girls aren't coming in. He gave them the week off. I'm a wreck,
Chad. I haven't slept all night, and I'm at my wits end. Am I
overreacting? Or should I call the police?" Dunston gave it a moment's
thought. "It might be a little early for them to start a missing persons
thing. Look. Arthur and I have offices in the same building. I'll head
over there now. If his office door's locked, I'll get the super to let
me in. Nose around a while, see what's what.

Then I'll give you a call, okay? Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing.

He's probably still with a sick patient somewhere."

There wasn't more anyone could ask. She forced a smile in a face still
dulled by anxiety. "All right. But you'll call?"

" Whether I find anything or not." He clasped her hands in his and gave
her a reassuring hug. Then he slipped away and returned to his car.

His office building was twenty minutes away, and Dunston arrived at ten
A.M. sharp. He didn't bother going to his own office, because he'd
cancelled hours for the week, expecting to need some sort of post-op
recuperation. Instead he took the elevator directly to Weiman's third
floor suite. He tried the door and found it locked. He rapped firmly on
the wood paneling, waited twenty seconds, then. knocked even harder. No
answer.

"Son of a bitch."

He backtracked down the hall, saw by the elevator's indicator light that
it was two floors below, and decided to take the stairs. He pushed open
the adjacent fireproof metal door that marked the stairwell. He skipped
down the steps in Lassiter's slippers, taking them two at a time, until
he reached the basement level. In truth, there were quite a few things
he had to discuss with Weiman. First and foremost was what he'd been
avoiding for weeks, what he'd pushed into the back of his mind and tried
to forget, or suppress, what he had assumed was a simple blackout after
he'd donned the helmet for the alpha intercept.

Although he promised himself to speak to Arthur about it, he'd done
nothing but procrastinate, out of what he presumed was simple
embarrassment. He knew he was also plagued by shame. But now, more than
ever, in view of what happened to him the day before, he needed answers.

Had the Intercept gone smoothly? Had anything like his blackout occurred
to Arthur?

And most important, the question he was loathe to ask: was his blackout
somehow related to his near death in the Center?

The basement corridor was bare-bones, simple concrete walls without
decoration. The supers office was at the end of the hall. Dunston heard
the dull roar of the hot water boiler as he passed the utilities room.

Seconds later, he approached the supers abode. The door was open.

Dunston paused in the doorway and rapped on the lintel.

Elmer Creighton was sitting at his desk. A gaunt man in his late
fifties, he had the still emaciated look of a recently recovered
alcoholic.

"That you, Doc? Startled me." He studied Dunston's face, "Jeez, who'd
you tangle with?"

"I fell out of a window." Elmer grinned slyly. "Yeah, fight. While her
husband was comin' through the bedroom door."

"Seen Dr. Weiman today?"

"Nope." Elmer looked at his wall clock. "But it might be a tad early for
him."

"He was supposed to go to Aruba today."

"Then for sure he ain't been here."

"Only, his wife says he never came home last night." Elmer frowned but
said nothing.

"What time do you stop working?"

"I usually knock off about six."

"His wife said he had a little extra work to do in his office last
night. Around nine, say. Then he was going to drop by the hospital
before heading home. Except he never made it."

"You check with Sally?" Creighton asked, referring to Weiman's office
manager.

"His whole staff's off this week. Anyway, I was just up there. Door's
locked. How 'bout letting me in to took around?"

"Sure." Creighton stood up and took a large key ring off a screw-in hook
on a wall board. After closing the door, he led the way toward the
elevator and pushed the up button. "I suppose you tried the hospital?"

"Right. He never showed.,,

The elevator doors opened and they got in. Creighton pressed the button
for the third floor. "Dr. Weiman's not sick or nothin', is he?"

"Not as far as I know." He looked at the thin old man with newfound
respect. "You mean, maybe he had a heart attack and went to another
hospital?"

"Along those lines."

"I hadn't thought of that. But unless he was mugged, he'd still have his
wallet and ID. The cops or hospital would have notified his wife by
now."

"Here we go." Creighton finished sifting through the keys, finding both
Weiman's door key and a round key for the interior alarm. The elevator
doors opened, and they stepped off at the third floor. Dunston, who felt
peculiarly apprehensive, now led the way and traversed the length of the
hall in a few quick strides. Reaching Weiman's office, he tapped his
fingers impatiently on the door until Creighton caught up.

Creighton unlocked the door, and they both stepped inside. The super
found the light switch and flipped it on.

Below it was a rectangular stainless alarm panel, on which a red light
glowed. Creighton inserted a round , key, twisted it, and the red light
turned to green.

"Old system, but I like it. Some of the other office alarms work on
keypads. I can never remember the damn numbers." Dunston wasn't
listening. As soon as the fluorescent lights flickered on, he was
walking through the waiting room. There was no indication of vandalism.

The office was spotless, with furniture carefully arranged and all the
magazines back in their racks. Beyond the waiting room was the
receptionist's work area. Again, nothing. He passed down a hall of
examining rooms, a lab, and lavatories, poking his head in each, all of
which were empty. The only room which remained was Weiman's consulting
room. It bore a black plastic nameplate whose white lettering read,
ARTHUR WEIMAN, MD, FACP. Although the door was closed ' Dunston could
see light coming through the floor-level crack between door and rug. He
knocked.

"Arthur?" He didn't hesitate when there was no reply. He turned the
doorknob, praying that it wasn't locked. It wasn't. He slowly pushed the
door open, listening to the faint creak of its hinges.

Inside, behind a wide walnut desk, his friend was sitting upright in a
chair. His eyes were closed, and his head was tilted back against a
headrest. His usually full lips were stretched thin into a tight, wide
rictus. Most disturbing was Weiman's color-a waxy, gray pallor which
Dunston had long since come to associate with death. He let out a low
and lugubrious moan.

"Oh no."

"He okay, Doc?" Dunston glided ghostlike across the carpet. From force
of habit, he concentrated on his friend's chest and saw the absence of
respiratory movements. There would be no need to check for a pulse. His
practiced eyes noted that Weiman's knotted tie was perfectly in place.

It wasn't loosened, nor was his shirt collar opened, as often happened
to those short of breath or experiencing chest pain. Then why the
grimace on Arthur's face, as if he were in agony?

He slowly walked to the rear of the chair, eyes darting furtively about
for clues. Weiman had been working at his computer. His right hand was
still resting on the keyboard, while his left arm was at his side,
probably having fallen there.

"Doc?" the Super asked nervously.

"He's dead, Elmer. Call the police."

Creighton quickly scurried away.

The computer, Dunston noted, was still on. Though the video terminal was
blank, its cursor slowly blinked on and off, awaiting further
instructions. Likewise, the modem, located next to the hard disk,
adjacent the phone, had glowing red lights, indicating that it was
operational.

So, old friend, you'd been networking. Talking with some other computer
when you died. I wonder who, and where? What were you working on when
this happened?

Suddenly, Dunston was filled with remorse. Here, one of his closest
associates lay dead in front of him, and he'd been thinking shop.

He looked at the back of Weiman's collar and shook his head. "How am I
going to tell Angela?" Yet his professionalism remained alive, refusing
to succumb to sorrow. First his eyes scoured Weiman's hardwood desk
adjacent the workstation. There was little on its surface except
notepads. Opening the three drawers, he found only stationery, pens, and
pencils-until, in the back of the lowermost drawer, he found a single
floppy diskette. He picked it up, reading the handwritten label: C.
LASSITER.

Christine? What in the world did Arthur know about Maks' sister? And
damn it all, now he was dead! He put the floppy into one of his pockets,
turning his attention to the hardware.

Dunston was intrigued by the computer layout. He hadn't been in Weiman's
office in six months, so it had to have been installed not long ago.

Arthur used old hardware. It bore the Apple logo and appeared to be a
midrange MacIntosh offering, but a lot older than Dunston's IBM. On a
whim, he reached over and pressed the space bar, trying to call up
whatever had been on the screen. A searing jolt raced up his arm.

"Jesus!" He leaped back, staring at his electroshocked hand as if it
were about to start smoldering. That was no mere house current, he
thought. It had to be at least 220 volts. Godalmighty, he realized,
looking from his hand to that of Weiman, which still lay atop the
keyboard.

Arthur had been electrocuted.

Until the power was off, he didn't dare touch a thing.

Not Weiman, not the keyboard, not the workstation. And then he saw the
screen.

At his touch, it had reilluminated. He stared at it in fascination.

HOST NODE, it read. B.N.L. DESTINATION: CENTER FOR HUMAN POTENTIAL.

AUTOMATIC LOG-ON, 21:15:05,26 october. USER ID: 511432, WEIMAN, ARTHUR,
MD. The space for the password was blank-obviously typed in by'weiman,
but not visible on the monitor, as was customary.

LAST LOC,-ON' 14:02:02,24 OCTOBER.

Saturday? Dunston thought. What in the name of God was Arthur working
on? Could it possibly involve Christine? He read on. 1. ENTER FILE NAME.
2. PATIENT NAME. 3. MAIN MENU.

4. HELP.

Weiman had selected number two. When Dunston saw what was written
beneath it, his whole body stiffened, cold as frost. To his
astonishment, Arthur had typed in CHRISTINE LASSITE. Only the final R
was missing. He glanced back at Weiman's unmoving hand and saw that its
index finger was poised atop the R key.

Dunston shook his head in disbelief. What the devil happened here?

Arthur had gotten only that far into his inquiry when he'd been
electrocuted. A short? Or  ...  He suppressed a shiver. Galvanized into
action, he dashed from the death scene, looking for something
rubberized, wishing he'd worn sneakers. He heard the high pitched tones
of Elmer Creighton at the end of the hall, speaking into the phone.

Passing the examining rooms, Dunston pulled open a lavatory door. He
flipped on a light switch, cursing under his breath as he looked
furtively around the cramped area with mouselike glances. Then he
spotted a plunger behind the commode. He grabbed it and ran back to the
nearest examining room.

A knife, Arthur. A scalpel blade. A scissors, something sharp. I know
you were an internist, but you must have owned something that cuts. He
pulled open the storage shelves one by one, rummaging through them,
slamming them shut when he didn't find what he wanted. Growing
increasingly frantic and annoyed, he tried to calm himself with logic
that eluded him. Finally, on the bottom shelf, there it was: a heavy
curved Mayo scissors, old enough to bear r-just stains.

In one hand, he held the plunger, rubber end up, while whittling away
with scissors in the other. Within seconds he'd cut out a quarter-size
wedge from the rubber rim.

Dropping everything but that, he hurried back to the consultation room.

Hovering over Weiman's waxen shoulder, he cautiously held the chunk of
rubber between thumb and forefinger.

He lowered the piece of rubber until it touched Weiman's flesh, making
the lifeless finger depress the R key. The digitalized R briefly
appeared on screen, completing the name LASSITER. And then the video
monitor literally exploded.

A blizzard of wire, insulation, and Plexiglas shards flew through the
air, The disk drive spluttered and died, sending fumes and sparks upward
in ozone-scented waves. The lights momentarily flickered, then went out.

The room was cast into an ominous, oppressive darkness.

Chapter Fifteen.

THE MEETING WAS turning into something of a nightmare for Victor Sawyer.

No sooner had he clued his superiors into what was going on than he
learned of the tragic death of Dr. Weiman, his only contact at the CHP.

Before he had a chance to locate anyone else who liaised there, an
emergency conference had been called for all agencies involved in the
Genome Project.

Corning out of an ordinarily slow-moving governmental bureaucracy, the
meeting had been arranged with astonishing speed. Within forty-eight
hours, Sawyer found himself on the New York to Washington shuttle. He
landed shortly after nine A.M. for a ten O'clock meeting at the
Department of Energy. From the airport, Sawyer took a cab through
unusually heavy midmorning traffic. Once he reached his destination, he
barely had time to wind his way through the labyrinthine building when
the meeting began.

It was held in a conference room outside the office of the Secretary of
the Department of Energy. Sawyer had hoped for something of a private,
in-house briefing. But in addition to himself, the Secretary, and two
other Energy officials, there seemed to be a cast of thousands. There
were representatives from the NIH, the Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency, the National Library of Medicine, the Congressional
Office of Technology Assessment, Bethesda Naval Hospital, a
Pentagon-based Undersecretary of the Army responsible for defense
procurement, and the National Security Council, all with their aides.
Sawyer took one look at the people assembled and felt his heart sink, a
feeling accompanied by visions of his pet projects flying out the
window.

"Good morning, Dr. Sawyer," said the Secretary. "Help yourself to a
seat," he said, nodding toward a vacant chair nearby. "Coffee?" ' I've
already had some, thanks."

"We were waiting for you to arrive before we began."

"Sorry to hold things up."

" You didn't. We just got here ourselves. And we're insiders," he said,
referring to the Washington scene, "so we have an advantage. Still, I'm
amazed that everyone showed on time. That probably speaks to the
importance of your report. Everyone has a copy, so we may as well get to
it." From around the room, there was the sound of papers being shuffled.

"As host, I'm giving myself the dubious distinction of beginning.

Dubious, I suppose, because what you've implied here is unbelievable."
Sir, I-"

"Hold on, I'm not accusing you of anything. No one questions your
integrity."

"No?" interrupted the official from NIH. "Our people have gone over this
pretty closely, and we think your conclusions are a little iffy. Maybe
even self-serving."

"Don't be presumptuous," countered the Secretary.

"Dr. Sawyer has no personal stake in this."

"That remains to be seen."

"I resent that," shot Sawyer. "The report's no fabrication. You've got
the data. Why don't you run a computer analysis before you go shooting
your mouth off?"

"Calm down, Victor," said the Secretary. "This isn't a grudge match. If
you're interested in a free-for-all," he said, eyeing the man from NIH,
"I'll cancel the meeting right now."

"You used the word unbelievable, not me."

"True. What about that, Victor? I know the data's accurate, but even
some of our people think your conclusion seems, well, farfetched."
Sawyer composed himself, pausing to think before replying. "It depends
what you mean by farfetched. I guarantee you it's not 'iffy." The data's
solid, and it holds up under analysis. As for the conclusion, if you
mean it sounds forced, I can't agree with that. But if you mean
improbable, I couldn't agree more. If you predicted a year ago that the
genetic code would be cracked within twelve months, I'd have thought you
were crazy."

"That's irrelevant," said the Army Undersecretary.

"Beg your pardon?"

"It's one thing to talk about siphoning off data, building an STM, or
unraveling the genome. But, Doctor, when you imply that the Center's
involved in cloning and memory transfer, that's flying with one wing
low."

"You didn't even read the damn report, did you?" The Pentagon man fumed.

"Look, you sonofabitch," he said, his upper lip twitching like a conga
line, "if you think you're-"

"Enough!" snapped the Secretary. "What about it, Victor?"

Sawyer knew precisely what was bothering the Pentagon.

For years, the military had fantasized about creating the perfect
soldier. It was the stuff of their wildest dreams: a controlled android
that could fight like a man, be totally dispensable, and save the lives
of the boys back home. Not that they'd ever put their money where their
mouth was; it seemed as if they were always waiting for someone else to
do the basic research. To Sawyer's knowledge, the closest they'd come
were the Army's HMMWV, the high-mobility multipurpose wheeled vehicle
that replaced the jeep, and the Airborne Remotely Operating Device, or
AROD, a mobile, teleoperated reconnaissance platform. But if they got
wind that the Center or Energy had secretly developed more far-reaching.
technology, they'd scream bloody murder. No wonder there were so many
defense people here. Sawyer chose his words carefully.

"The report I sent the Secretary is preliminary, but it makes only two
conclusions. One, the Center has constructed its own STM. Second, that
using the STM, the Center has cracked the genetic code. Period. There
are no other suggestions in there. However, the final two pages, which
are titled Theoretical Implications," are purely speculative. They make
no claims whatsoever. They simply restate possible uses or future
scenarios that might stem from cracking the code. I emphasize the word
might.

Look, all this is old hat. When we first started the Human Genome
Project, we discussed these same things what understanding the code
might mean, the various ways that information might be used fifteen or
twenty years down the pike."

"So all that talk about cloning is nothing but day dreams?"

"No, it's logical speculation. Look at it this way. The reason the
Genome Project was funded in the first place was because everyone
understood the significance of cracking the code. We realized its
primary importance was in medicine. Let me give you an example. In 1990,
for instance, we had to wait for someone to get sick before we could
give him drugs or chemotherapy. We figured that once we did unravel the
code, say around 2005, you could make a possible genetic profile of an
individual's predisposition to disease. Medicine would finally become
predictive, truly preventative, and drugs and surgery would become
obsolete. Maybe even doctors too. 11 Press a button on your personal
computer, get a readout of your own genome, and interpret your own
genetic strengths and weaknesses. At the very least that would enable
someone to adopt the prope@ lifestyle or choose the best diet or
environment to minimize his chances of getting sick.

"That's all?" Where'd they dig up these cretins? thought Sawyer.

Can't they read plain English? He kept his cadence slow, his tone
simple. "No, there's also gene therapy. It's already being performed in
both plants and animals, to a limited extent. Basically, it involves
inserting good genes into a patient's cells to replace genes causing
disease."

"How would that be done?"

"With viruses, usually retroviruses. They're bio-engineered to carry
correctly functioning versions of a faulty gene right into the cell.

Further down the road, you could theoretically bypass the virus with
what you might call genetic microsurgery, where you mechanically insert
genes directly into the cell nucleus."

"With the STM?"

"It'd help."

"So what's this got to do with memory transfer?" Patience, thought
Sawyer. He took a calming breath. "it doesn't. That's speculation."

"So, speculate."

"It's all in the report."

"Please, Victor," urged the Secretary.

"Okay," he shrugged. "It's like this. Once you're involved in
microsurgery on the cellular level, that raises the subject of
cloning-you know, Adam fathering himself You simply enucleate a human
egg, fertilize it with Adam's diploid sperm, and let it grow and divide
until presto, another Adam." The simplistic explanation was too much for
the man from the Pentagon, who squinted in silent confusion. Then an NIH
staffer spoke up. "We all understand cloning. But memory transfer?"

" Again, speculation, but not total fantasy," Sawyer explained. "Right
now, no one's certain how human memory works. The best guess is that the
brain stores memory in some physiochemical way, a way we'll eventually
discover.

On the other hand, we already know how a computer stores its memory.

Eventually, we might reach a point where we can read the brain's
information, then use a program to write it into a computer. They you
take a cloned brain and enable it to grow with the information in the
computer." He paused. "That, gentlemen, is memory transfer." For several
seconds, the room was silent.

"Heavy," someone finally whispered.

"Science fiction," said another.

"Speculation," said Sawyer.

"All fight, everyone," said the Secretary. "Let's leave speculation for
the moment. The point is, does anyone propose doing something about the
Center's unraveling the genome?'."

"Who runs the place, anyway?"

"Technically," said Sawyer, "it falls under Health and Human Services.

Yet on paper, it gets funding from everywhere. In reality, nobody runs
it. That's the problem. It runs itself."

"So you have no idea what it's doing with all these discoveries you
claim it's made?"

"Not the slightest. But I'd love to find out. Isn't that why we're
here?" The Army Undersecretary's jowls bulged. "I say shut the bastards
down."

"You mean, nuke 'em back into the Stone Age?" The Secretary spoke to the
military man. "How do you suggest shutting down a medical center?"

"Well, it's nothing but machines, right? Shut off their electricity.

Turn off their water. Whatever it takes."

"Do that, General, and you jeopardize the lives of hundreds of patients.

You can't simply pull their plug by turning off the utilities. No one
wants a siege. I suppose we could 'shut it down," to paraphrase you, in
about a month, just by no longer admitting patients. But that begs the
question. The point is, what's it doing over there? I suggest we find
that out first before we talk about decommissioning the place. Victor?"

"I agree, Mr. Secretary. Something of profound, fundamental importance
is happening at the Center. We know what they've done, but not what
they're up to. Finding that out is essential. The problem is, we don't
know how."

"Perhaps not through your computers," said the congressional delegate.

"But can't you just go in and find out?"

The general's eyes gleamed. "A predawn vertical insertion."

"A what?"

"Helicopter assault. The Delta Force." Sawyer nearly broke out laughing
but managed to stifle his smile. "This is suburban Long Island, General,
not Kuwait. I'm sure you could send the SEALS in loaded for bear, but
they wouldn't have the faintest idea what to look for.

I doubt they'd know it if they saw it. And they'd be endangering
patients in the process."

"You got a better idea?"

"I think so", Sawyer replied evenly. "There are only a handful of people
who really come close to understanding how the Center runs. People
involved in its design and construction, people who've worked with its
computers. I had someone in mind, but he died rather suddenly." The
general looked skeptical. "You're talking about a one-man operation?"

"Essentially, yes," Sawyer nodded. "But nothing clandestine. Instead,
someone who knows the Center, who ostensibly goes in on routine
business. Once he's in, he could discreetly nose around."

"Who have you got in mind?"

"I don't know," Sawyer conceded. "My office is conducting a search right
now. But that's what we need, gentlemen: the right man." It was raining
the day Weiman was buried. It was an undignified rain, hard and dirty,
without the elegant accompaniment of lightning or thunder. Dunston and
Maks were among the mourners surrounding the grave.

They held hands under an umbrella as Arthur's casket was lowered into
the moist earth. In the background was the rabbi's subdued recitation of
El Moleh Rachamim.

Despite his Burberry, Dunston was shivering, more from what he'd learned
than from the breeze-blown droplets that dotted his face like
condensation. Absorbed in his thoughts, he was barely aware of the
sobbing around him. Maks silently glanced at his furrowed brow with a
look of concern.

Try though he might, he couldn't dispel the horrifying thoughts that
began after the police removed Arthur's body.

He'd stayed in the office while the forensic team checked the circuitry
in both the computer and the building. To his absolute dismay, they
found no evidence of a short circuit.

True, a circuit breaker had tripped after he'd pressed Arthur's finger,
casting the room into darkness. The technicians postulated that its
tripping caused a bizarre power surge, which subsequently made the
computer explode.

Arthur's body had taken the brunt of the blast. Shielded by his friend,
Dunston suffered only a small cheek laceration, which merely embellished
his heating cuts and scratches. But the electricians had no rational
explanation for what caused Weiman's electrocution-no loose wire, no
faulty insulation. In short, no smoking gun. One technician, after
inspecting some melted wiring, half jestingly remarked that it was as if
a bolt of lightning had flowed in reverse, up through the keyboard.

Dunston kept silent, harboring a horrifying suspicion that the
observation was deadly accurate.

And that knowledge left him trembling.

At her suggestion, Dunston spent the evenings with Maks. She went home
at bedtime. Ever since Weiman's death, Dunston had been
uncharacteristically reticent, almost mute. When the memorial service
was over, they drove to his place in virtual silence, listening to the
rhythmic thunk and swish of the wipers. Maks was worried. The zest and
sparkle were fading from the man she was growing to love. She hadn't
wanted to press him after his release from the hospital, assuming that
his lighthearted ebullience, his assertive character, would quickly
resurface. But in the three days since his discharge, and two days after
the Weiman tragedy, he showed no sign of returning to his former self.

Interestingly, she didn't think his depression, if that's what it was,
was solely related to his friend's death. Although she couldn't put her
finger on it, she had the impression his mind was on something
profoundly more disturbing, something he didn't want to talk about.

Caring for him as she did, she refused to let him remain like this any
longer. It was time to take the bull by the horns.

She reached across the front seat and stroked his shoulder. Both her
tone and her touch were gentle. "You can't keep this bottled up
forever."

No answer.

"And I know it's not just Arthur's death.

"He was a damn good friend." He took a deep breath, as if to say
something, but simply sighed, a long, oppressive exhalation. He'd hidden
the floppy shortly after Weiman's death, having neither the strength or
mental energy to pursue it. Or was it fear? Maks grew exasperated.

"Chad, please! If you won't talk to me, talk to someone."

He shot her a cynical glance, eyebrows raised. "Professional help?"

"Try all the sarcasm you want," she said evenly. "But dammit, I care for
you! The other night, when I brought you home, I thought you were on the
verge of opening up.

You started to, but then you clammed up."

"I fell asleep, remember?"

"Before that. In the car." She moved closer. "Look, I know it's
complicated. And I know it scares you. Well, it scares me too. But I
want to know, don't you see? I need to know!"

"Why?" She wouldn't let him goad her. "For you. For Christine.

For me. Most of all, for us. I care for you far too much to let you
wallow in self-pity."

"I'm not the wallowing type."

"No, you're stubborn as a mule, and when you decide to sulk, you go
first class. You work it. You bronze it. You hang i't from the rear-view
mirror like an ornament. There's no holding you back. God, it's
frustrating. What's wrong, you don't know where to start? Okay, I'll
help. Remember that little bombshell about the Center trying to kill
you?

That was right on target, Doctor, except you wouldn't let it explode."
She paused, staring at him. "You want to wait? Fine. I'll wait as long
as it takes." She was right, and he knew it. It was a worm in his gut,
eating him up inside, destroying him. He'd lied to Stingley and Donohue.

No, not lied; he just hadn't told the whole truth. But after what
happened to Arthur, he'd become a basket case if he didn't tell someone.

He wanted to omit the part about Christine, because he had no idea what
it meant. Until he did, telling could only hurt Maks.

Outside, the rain became a downpour. He slowed, looking straight ahead,
concentrating on his driving. All right.

If that's the way she wanted it. He suddenly felt more relaxed, even
relieved, knowing he'd passed the point of no return.

"How much do you know about the Center?" he said.

"More than what's in the papers, but that's not saying much.,,

"And teleoperators?"

"What in the world are they?"

"This may take a while." I've got all day.,,

"Okay. We'll start with the teleoperators, since that technology was the
building block for VIEWS and the Interface."

He glanced at her utterly blank expression.

"Sorry. I'll backtrack. I know you're aware of virtual reality. The
movies eat it up, and you'll find it in a dozen different video games at
your local mall. But even before that, did you ever see those artificial
claws used to handle radioactive substances?"

"Just pictures."

"That's your basic teleoperator, built in the forties. It's a machine
that operates at a distance and can perform tasks in remote
environments."

"Like with uranium?"

"Or plutonium, whatever. Over the decades the technology was refined,
and the operating distance became greater.

Underwater salvage, for example. The operator puts on all these gizmos,
like helmet-mounted TV screens and gloved tactile sensors, in order to
Control a deep-sea manipulator.

Fiberoptics made it all work. You got the job done without endangering
the man.

"That was the start. About ten years ago, I got involved with the
development of telesurgery. At first we used it for teaching med
students. Let's say I was taking out an appendix. I'd put on a
telehelmet for a phone or satellite linkup while a student in, say,
Champaign-Urbana, put one on too. He'd see exactly what I was seeing.

With me so far?"

"Yep."

"The real breakthrough came with the gloves. Some wiz and developed
these flexible tactile fibers, small enough to be built into surgeon's
gloves. The students would wear similar gloves. So now they could not
only see what I was doing, but feel exactly the same things I did. It
was as if they were operating themselves. Same picture, same sensations,
but without having to practice on a live patient. It was the ideal
environment, the perfect teaching tool. The name VIEWS is an acronym for
virtual environments. All the advantages without the drawbacks. Still,
most of us were a little skeptical about the starry-eyed who-predicted
the coming of the Messiah: fully autonomous, computer controlled robots.

"What changed your mind?"

"As in  ...  ?"

"Artificial intelligence."

"Gotcha. Is there really such a thing?"

"Well, for decades, there were basically two schools of thought. One
believed that by designing the right programs, you could literally
create minds, computers that could think.

The other school said hogwash. Computers might be able to manipulate
symbols, they said, but true Al implied attaching meaning to those
symbols, and only the brain could do that."

"I suppose the Center proved the second school right."

"In a way. For all we don't understand about it, the brain is a kind of
computer. What the computer jocks did was to turn that concept around,
and make the computer into a kind of brain. Not in the classical sense,
like having conscious thoughts, but instead by mimicking how we think
the brain functions. I guess you could say that it all came together in
the early nineties. Parallel processing-"

"Parallel what?"

"That's where lots of smaller computers simultaneously work on the
different aspects of a complex problem. Sort of like neurons in the
brain. Massive parallelism provides a dramatic speed advantage, It can
access and distribute information in a millisecond. When you take
hundreds of computers linked in a parallel vector and hook 'em up to the
Center's superconducting supercomputers, wow. Now we're talking a true
neural network."

"So the Center's computer system does think?" He hedged. "Yes and no.

The Center has an intelligence, if You will, patterned after how we
think the brain works, where Computer chips stand for neurons and
synapses.

We're still not sure how it attaches meaninct to what it Z, computes,
how it interprets sensory signals, whether it's capable of learning and
emotion."

"Hmmm. Where did you fit in?"

"My big-est role was when we hooked up VIEWS to the computer. At first
we just wanted to see what'd happen, whether we could train the computer
like we trained students." He laughed. "Man, training's not the word. It
sucked our brains dry, wanted to know everything we knew. We couldn't
keep up with it. But those of us who were most interested, like me and
Arthur, formed the Interface Group. There were also a few peripheral
characters like Stingley. Every few weeks we'd meet at the Center, put
on the VIEWS helmet, and teach the computer a few new tricks." He
paused. "Or so we thought."

"WHAT does that look mean?"

"Up until last week, I'd have sworn we were in control.

Now, I don't know." His expression turned downcast. "it tried to kill
me, Maks. I don't know why, but I'm sure of it. And for all of my
once-cocksure certainty about Christine, I now have my doubts. And
Arthur's the clincher." She was dumbfounded. "What?"

"He was On line with the Center's computer when he was electrocuted.

Don't ask me how or why. But it's much more than a hunch."

"You mean-"

"His death was no accident." The rain grew harder, a gray and leaden
torrent that matched his somber mood. It cascaded down the windshield in
thick, viscous sheets that made the driving impossible.

Dunston slowed, then stopped the car entirely. For a long and silent
moment, they both stared straight ahead. Although their eyesight was
perfect, they could see nothing but their own anger, and revenge.

When the rain slowed, he resumed driving home. Maks was tormented by too
many questions to remain silent for long.

"Intelligent or not, why would the Center's computers be doing all this?

Killing Arthur and trying to kill you?

What's their motive?"

"I don't know. I've thought about that, but nothing comes to mind. The
idea that the place is out of control scares the hell out of me. It just
doesn't make any sense."

"Could there be someone behind it?"

"A person?"

"Yes, a human being with a flesh-and-blood motive."

"That's reaching, Maks. Stretching things a bit."

"Really? You think that's more farfetched than a thinking computer
committing murder?"

"it is to me. What would anyone have to gain? The place is a hospital.

You think someone's after a big managed care contract, or Medicare
reimbursements? That's a piss-poor reason to knock somebody off."

"Well, you're raising a financial motive. Why does anyone do something
rotten? Everything comes down to money or power. Maybe it's something as
simple as that."

"Let me see if I've got this straight. You're suggesting there's a bad
guy out there who manipulated the Center into committing murder in order
to become rich or control things? Is that what you're saying?"

"What are you getting so annoyed about? I'm not suggesting anything. I'm
just lookin, for reasons, Chad. I want explanations, just like you."

She was right. More than that, she deserved explanations.

It was selfish of him to withhold anything from her. The time had come
to be forthright with her, to share everything he knew.

He told her about the diskette he found in Weiman's office.

Maks was dumbstruck. This was simply too much. ' Staggered beyond
comprehension, she stared blankly ahead, fighting her indignation. She
was upset with Chad for trying to keep things from her. Yet, as she
gazed through the windshield in stony silence, she realized that he was
trying, 0 to protect her, to shield her from further turmoil. He wasn't
to blame, she thought.

Yet something, or someone, was.

"What's on the diskette?"

"I honestly don't know," he admitted. "I've been too shellshocked to
check it out."

"Did Arthur make it?"

"I think so, but I'm not sure."

"We should take a look at it, Chad. Soorl There's no telling what's on
it. It could be something important."

"I know, I know." Where's the diskette now?"

"Rigilt here." He retrieved it from his jacket pocket and handed it to
her.

"Three-M, IBM-formatted." She frowned. "Didn't you say Weiman had a
MacIntosh?"

"That's right. An old one."

"This is formatted for IBM. It won't run on those old MacS."

"You don't think Arthur made it?"

"Not on the relic you described."

"So what was it doing in his desk drawer?"

"That's what I'd like to know. What else was in the desk?"

"Not much. A few papers."

"I realize this isn't the best time, but could I take a look at them?"
The drive to the office building took half an hour. Chad immediately led
her up to Weiman's office, which was locked. It was also cordoned off by
yellow police tape identifying it as a crime scene. Dunston had Maks
wait while he went to the supers office. After a few persuasive words
with Elmer Creighton, he returned with the key ring. Moments later, they
were inside.

Somehow, he'd expected the office to be tidied up, cleansed of the
reminders of Arthur's death. But it was untouched. Other than for the
absence of the body, the chaos of destruction remained, with bits of
wire and plastic throughout. Tight-lipped, Dunston indicated the drawer
with his finger. Maks opened it and removed several envelopes.

"Bills. Mastercard, AT&T. And a Merrill Lynch statement." She studied
it. "How old was he?"

"Early fifties."

"Not a very good investor. He had less than twenty thousand dollars in
his retirement account." She folded the statement and bent over, peering
closely into the drawer.

"Chad, write this down, will you?"

"What?"

"Numbers, written in the wood. Forty-eight, 9,23, and

17. Okay?"

"Got it. You know, this looks like a combination to a lock."

"Or a safe. Does he have one?"

"Not in here. We may as well check out the other, rooms." They found it
in a closet behind the reception area. It was little more than a foot
square and weighed perhaps thirty pounds. After two unsuccessful
attempts, Maks opened it on the third try. There was hardly anything
inside: a gold plated stethoscope; several commemorative U.S. coins; and
a three-by-five index card. Maks read its single, handwritten entry.

"9649262. Does that ring a bell?"

"Let me see that." He studied the digits. "This could be from the
Center, a patient admission number. They're numbered chronologically, in
the order of admission. I think this is the number of a patient who came
in a little after me."

"Any idea who?"

"No. We'd have to look it up. Take the card and let's get out of here."
Soon, they returned to her house. Distracted, Dunston took a seat on the
porch and gazed out across the bay, deep in contemplation.

Understandably, Maks went right to work on the diskette. Within several
minutes, however, she too was dejected. There was hardly anything on the
diskette.

Other than for a cryptic reference to File C.L.4- 1, there was little
she didn't already know.

Maks was increasingly coming to believe that much as she wanted to rely
on Chad, if she wanted more information about Christine, she was going
to have to go it alone. At least temporarily. Dunston was still too
caught up in -the funk of post-traumatic stress to be of much use to
anyone, including himself. Much as she wanted answers, she knew they
were not immediately forthcoming.

Once again, she felt as if she were hitting a brick wall.

The sense of helplessness was overwhelming. The list of unanswered
questions was lengthening at a lightning clip.

But there were answers, there had to be. She just didn't know where to
look.

Maks studied the hospital number they'd retrieved from Weiman's safe and
narrowed her eyes, brow grim, deep in O' thought. Perhaps Chad was
temporarily immobilized, but she wasn't. At the very least, she could
put in the legwork.

Her steely determination grew as she formulated a plan, sculpted of
intellect, and colored by rage.

Chapter Sixteen.

"HERE'S YOUR MYSTERY patient."

"Thanks, Cher." Maks took the slip of paper, "Was it hard getting the
information?"

"Not through the in-house network. Our mainframes are linked to the
Center. Ever heard of him?"

"Allan Schmidt," she slowly said. She shook her head.

"I can't say that I have. It would be nice if I had something besides a
name."

"There's more." Cheryl handed her a computer printout.

"Oh, fantastic. Let's see. Fifty-six-year old white male, etcetera,
etcetera. Referring physician, Dr. A. Weiman.

Now that's an interesting coincidence. Admission diagnosis cirrhosis.

Alcoholic, that's novel. Complications, congestive heart failure.

Expired on  ...  wow. This guy died."

"You see the date?"

"God, that's amazing. He died the same day he was admitted, just three
days ago. This must have been some sick cookie."

"To say the least. Look, I've gotta run. Keep me posted, okay?" Cheryl
left the bar, a Stony Brook college hangout that was midway between
them. Maks sipped her beer, studying the brief printout. She felt
gratified that she was starting to get answers, but they made no sense.

All she'd learned was that Dr. Weiman had referred a desperately ill
alcoholic, who died shortly after admission, to the Center. She frowned,
biting her lip. There was something else, something she couldn't put her
finger on  ...  And then it hit her.

She checked the dates again, perplexed and frightened.

Schmidt died on Tuesday, the same day Arthur did. And Maks had the
strangest feeling it was no coincidence. She circled several entries on
the printout, removed her ' phone card from her wallet, and looked for a
pay phone. Moments later, her call went through to the funeral parlor.

"Hi, my name's Corinne Phillips. I'm with the business office at St.

Charles Hospital. I'm trying to track down one of our old receivables, a
self-pay who was here a year ago.

I learned that he died three days ago today at the Center, and that you
picked up the body. I was wondering if  ... Schmidt, Allan Schmidt. Last
Tuesday. Yes, I'll hold." She drummed her fingers on the wall, turning
away to avoid eye contact with a young man trying to hit on her. She was
jolted by the reply. "What? Are you certain? But the face sheet says
that you  ...  Cancelled by whom? You didn't get a name  ...  ? Yes, I
understand. Thanks." That was strange.

Maks hung up, more confused than ever. On a whim, and aware that she
might be prying, Maks dialed the second circled number. The next of kin
was listed as Marlena Wolfe, Schmidt's sister, in Astoria, Queens.

"Hello, Miss. Wolfe? This is Harriet Watkins. I'm calling about your
brother, Allan Schmidt, and  ...  I know he's not there, Miss. Wolfe. I
was wondering if  ...  When? Not in a year  ...  ? Yes, no problem. If I
see him, I'll tell him." She hung up, relieved that she hadn't disturbed
a grieving relative. But Maks was disconcerted that Schmidt's sister not
only hadn't seen him in over a year, but didn't even know he was dead.

On Friday night, Dunston decided to go back to work.

Staying with Maks, delightful though it was with her attention, was
growing oppressive. He was normally a mar of action who found a
leisurely, laid back lifestyle cloying He wasn't scheduled to operate
again until Monday, but last-minute phone calls easily meshed with the
desires ol his more apprehensive patients. Thus he found himself back in
the OR at eight A.M. on Saturday, preparing for a splenectomy, He was
scrubbed, gowned, and gloved by 7:55, and the patient was ready for
surgery ten minutes later. Although trauma surgery was his bailiwick, he
occasionally did elective cases. The twenty-two-year old patient had
Hodgkin's disease. By the nineties, removing the spleen of a Hodgkins
patient had been largely abandoned, but there were occasional
exceptions. This was one of them. Dunston had performed over a hundred
splenectomies in his career, and this one-not punctured by a bullet or
ruptured in a car crash should be a walk in the park.

He nonetheless felt unaccountably jittery as the case was readied. He
silently stood feet from the OR table, gowned, capped, and masked,
gloved hands held steeplelike before his chest, as was his custom. He
listened to the glib, black humor of Lance Elliot, the anesthesiologist,
who spoke to the patient while readying his medications. Lance was
younger than Dunston and something of a jokester, but without malice.

"Okay, sweetie, here are those EKG leads I was telling you about." He
connected the wires to pads on her chest.

"Hear that beep? That's your heartbeat. If it stops, we'll start CPR."

"Why's it so fast?"

"You're a little nervous, that's all. If Chad Dunston was operating on
me, I'd be nervous too.,"

"You won't leave me, will you?"

"Don't worry. Only if there's a tire. In which case you'll be the second
one out of the room.

"Who's the first?"

"Me."

"Is Dr. Dunston here?"

"Right over there. Like a bishop at high mass." He placed an oxygen mask
over her nose and mouth.

"What's that on my face?"

"Just a mask. Remember that oxygen I told you about?

Take slow, deep breaths. Pretend it's fresh air from Three Mile Island."
He strapped the mask in place and lined up his endotracheal tube and
medication-filled syringes. "In and out, that's right. Don't worry." To
a nearby nurse, "Josie, give me some cricoid?" Then, "You might feel
that pressure on your neck I mentioned. Just keep breathing." With deft
movements, he injected a dose of Brevital into the IV tubing, following
it with Anectine. "All fight, almost ready.

That stuff works pretty fast, okay? Just count backward from two
million." The patient tried to reply but was almost immediately asleep.
Elliot flicked her eyelids and saw no reflex response.

Her muscles began fasciculating, an involuntary response caused by the
succinyl choline, which provided total paralysis. Then he bagged her,
filling her lungs with oxygen i through the mask, watching her chest
rise and fall, an eye on the pulse oximeter, satisfied with an oxygen
saturation of ninety-eight percent.

When her muscles went flaccid, he removed the mask, exposed her trachea
with a laryngoscope, and inserted the tube. Taping it in place, he
nodded to the nurse.

"All yours," Josie abandoned the neck and opened a prep set, a sterile
pack of towels, gauze sponges, and small basins. She poured equal
amounts of sterile water and povidone iodine, i an antiseptic cleanser,
into the basins. Then she gloved and washed the patient's exposed
abdomen, from nipples to pubic bone. Five minutes later she was
finished, patting the skin dry before giving it a final covering spray
with more antiseptic.

Meg, the scrub nurse, held out sterile drapes for Dunston to frame the
operative site. He stepped forward and took them tentatively, without
the banter to which everyone was accustomed.

"What's wrong, Chad?" she asked. "Didn't get any sleep last night?"

Dunston mumbled something unintelligible and handed the paper towels to
Mitch, the third-year surgery resident.

"Go ahead and drape her."

Everyone stared at him. Reticence was not Dunston's trademark. Those who
worked with him looked forward to his often salacious badinage and the
easygoing, lighthearted attitude which made him a pleasure to assist.

Puzzled, they kept silent as Mitch draped the abdomen with Meg's help,
exposing a rectangle of skin in the left upper abdomen.

Only when everything was ready did Dunston step up to the operating
table.

I"Knife."

When Meg handed him the scalpel, she saw that his hands had an unusual
tremor. Generally, Dunston was steady as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Undaunted, he went ahead with his first incision, a bold subcostal
swipe. He sliced through skin and fat to expose the fascia, clamping off
bleeders along the way. He opened the fascia, then entered the
peritoneum obliquely, until he was in the belly.

"All yours, Mitch."

"What do you want me to do?" asked the surgical resident.

"Have you done spleens before?"

"A couple."

"Fine. Nothing fancy here. You operate, I'll assist. You comfortable
with that side?"

"I'm okay."

"Good. Meg, hold the abdominal wall out of the way with a medium
Richardson. Can you hand me that Wide Deaver? Thanks.

Look, Mitch: while I retract the stomach medially, just lift up the
splenic flexure and clamp the ligament. Keep your eye peeled for
aberrant vessels. Then go after the gastrocolics, but be careful of the
pancreas. After that, the splenic artery and vein'll be staring at you.

Clamp, cut, tie. Heavy sutures. Bingo, nothing to it." Under Dunston's
tutelage, it should have been a piece of cake. But Meg was concerned.

Dunston's movements were strangely tentative. He spoke only when
prompted, and the at best. Still, way he assisted the resident was
mediocre, the case proceeded reasonably smoothly, albeit slowly.

Finally, they reached the vessels that fed the spleen. The rest should
have been simple. But all of a sudden, D'unst4on turned his back and
walked away. there was a confused and palpable For several moments,
silence. Lance spoke up. "You all right, Chad?" Facing the tiles on a
nearby wall, Dunston heard the words as if through a tunnel, distant and
reverberating. He clasped his gloved hands tightly to keep them from
trembling. What was wrong with him? His confidence was gone.

He felt alone and terrified. He wanted to run away.

"Dr. Dunston?" asked the resident.

He found his voice, which sounded forced and creaky.

"Clamp, cut, and tie. Help him, Meg. Just take the damn thing out."
Totally confused, the resident looked at the scrub nurse, who glanced at
the anesthesiologist, who could only shrug.

With the belly open, there was no turning back now. Mitch thought it was
some sort of test, a trial by fire. Cupping the spleen in both hands, he
lifted it upward for Meg to hold.

Yet a splenectomy was not a simple "see one, do one, teach one"
procedure. it required delicate manipulation.

Relative novice that he was, Mitch lifted the spleen much too
forcefully. The splenic artery immediately lacerated, loosing a stream
of blood into the air.

"Jesus Christ!" said the anesthesiologist. "Give him a hand, Chad.

Dunston remained immobile by the wall, filled with uncertainty,
overwhelmed by self-doubt. Did he know anything anymore? After what
happened at the Center, the entire world of surgery seemed alien to him.

He sensed what he should do-had to do-but his emotional turmoil left him
paralyzed. He simply stood there, mute and trembling.

By now, the overhead lamp and ceiling were spray painted scarlet. Mitch
was reduced to an open-mouthed basket case who stared wide-eyed at the
wildly spurting artery.

Lance, worried about loss of blood volume, busied himself with his IV
line, opening it all the way to give the patient re fluid. Meg was
beside herself, growing more angry than puzzled.

"For God's sake, Chad, get the hell over here!" Something in her tone
shook him out of his stupor. it Wasn't simply her fury. Deep within him
there was a stirring, a call to arms, a reminder of an oath he had
taken.

He knew what must be done. He wheeled about and returned to the table.

The drapes were a soggy, saturated mess. Blood welled up from within the
abdomen, nearly to the abdominal wall, obscuring everything.

"Where's the sucker?" Meg handed him the Yankauer.

"Not that. Give me a Poole." He immediately twisted the multi-holed
suction tip onto the tubing and thrust the device into the crimson pool.
The blood quickly drained away with an intermittently slurping noise. As
it did, Dunston felt his self-assurance return. A ring of authority was
in his voice.

"Here's a little trick," he told the resident. "You a righty?"

"Yes, sir." I'll retract the spleen. Take the first two fingers of your
right hand.

Hold them like a scissors on either side of the C, splenic vessels. Then
just squeeze 'em together and you'll compress the artery."

Where?"

"Right below where you see it pumping." The resident complied, and
almost magically, the bleeding stopped. "Give me a clamp," said Dunston.

"Which one?" asked Meg.

"A right angle. A tonsil, if you have one." She slapped the clamp into
his waiting palm. Dunston expertly guided it under the resident's
fingers, then squeezed the clamp jaws shut. "Don't let go yet. Meg, give
him another clamp."

"Another tonsil?"

"Doesn't matter. A long Kelly, whatever." She handed the resident what
was available. "Now, Mitch, clamp the vessel just above your fingers,
okay? Right. Now let your fingers go." Caught between the two clamps,
the lacerated artery no longer bled. The dry but ragged tear was clearly
visible in its wall. There was a collective sigh of relief from everyone
but Dunston, who was nagged by a lingering-sense of failure ' 11 Walk in
the park, right?" he said. "Give him a Metz." The nurse handed the
resident a pair of scissors.

"Now just cut between the clamps, suture ligate the proximal end, do the
same with the vein, and we're home free." Within five minutes, the
spleen was removed, and all the stumps were dry. They ravaged the
abdomen with warm saline. "I take it you know how to close?" he asked
the resident, whose smile was evident even behind the mask.

"I think I can hack it."

"Then I'll be in the locker room. Any problems, just holler."

"Yes, sir. And thanks." It had been a near disaster turned to triumph.

There were kind words and congratulations all around, save from Dunston,
who walked out of the OR and into the hall straightjacketed by lingering
doubt and a sense of foreboding.

The remainder of Dunston's day was emotionally brutal.

His mind kept playing the masochistic game of might-have been. He
contemplated a career shift toward teaching, going into academic
medicine; but the thought of inflicting his uncertainties on students
left him uneasy. He also considered just packing it in, leaving private
practice entirely. Yet he felt he'd be abandoning his patients. That
night, he rehashed the day's events, discussing his misgivings with
Maks.

"I could've killed that patient," he said.

"But you didn't. You were there when they needed you.

"Was I? I felt like I was on a foreign planet. I didn't even belong in
the same room with them." She considered it. "You know what your problem
is, Chad? You act like you're superhuman. After what happened last
Monday, anyone else in your shoes would've taken off a month or two. But
not you. This is some son of perverse dedication to your job. You waltz
right back into the OR like you're Albert Schweitzer emerging from the
jungle." He stared at his upraised hands with curious scrutiny, as if
they were appendages from Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. "Manos de piedra.

"I don't follow."

""Hands of stone." It's what the boxer Roberto Duran called his fists.

Unflinching, indestructible. But Jesus, look at these," he said,
watching the fine tremor in his fingers.

"What's happening to me? Have I lost it?" She put her arm around him,
soothing him as a mother would a child. "You haven't lost anything.

You're as good a surgeon as ever. Psychologists call it a crisis of
confidence. And you know what? Like any crisis, it'll pass. it takes
time, Chad. Just give it time."

"Think so?"

"I know so. Things are very confusing right now. For me as well as for
you. Let me tell you what happened the other day. I had a drink after
work on Thursday with Cheryl. I asked her if she could dig up anything
on that hospital number we found in Arthur's safe. I tried myself, but I
got nowhere on my computer. To make a long story short, Cheryl said it
was no sweat accessing the admitting office data through Brookhaven's
classified network."

"What did she find out?"

"The number was assigned to a man named Allan Schmidt. He's a nobody, an
alcoholic Dr. Weiman admitted on Tuesday." Tuesday? That's the same day
Arthur died."

"Precisely. Schmidt might have been the last patient he cared for.

Schmidt's diagnosis was cirrhosis caused by alcoholism. Now listen to
this. According to the Center's fact sheet, Schmidt died not long after
he was admitted."

"You're kidding."

"Some coincidence, huh? The guy croaks just before your friend is
killed." .

"What did he die from?"

"Apparently, congestive heart failure. According to a printout Cheryl
got from the Center, the body was released to a local funeral parlor. So
I called them. Are you ready for this? They said they never picked the
body up. They were about to drive over there when a doctor called from
the Center and cancelled the order."

"That's nonsense," said Dunston.

"I though so too, but I suppose it's possible. Those people get calls
from doctors all the time."

"Not from the Center they don't. There aren't any doctors there.

"Oh, Christ. I forgot about that."

"He didn't say who the doctor was?"

"No, he couldn't remember."

"That figures. Well, somebody's lying," said Dunston.

"Either the guy at the funeral parlor or whoever made the call. But that
raises an interesting question. Where's Schmidt's body now?"

"That's what I wanted to know. So I called his sister, who is listed as
next of kin. She didn't even know he was 11 dead. She said she hadn't
heard from him in over a year.

"That's not unusual in alcoholics. They have this peculiar habit of
disappearing."

"Chad, if a doctor, or someone claiming to be a doctor, did call the
funeral home, do you still think it's impossible that a real person is
behind all this weirdness at the Center9l,

"Jesus, Maks. You can't let that one die a natural death, can you?"

"Why can't you admit I might be right?"

"God, you're stubborn."

"Me?"

"Okay, okay, Let's think this out. We'll forget about motive for now. In
the first place, any human behind these perverted stunts would need a
detailed understanding of how the Center works. If someone killed
Arthur, tried to kill me-"

"And maybe Chrissie."

"-disposed of Schmidt's body, and, yes, maybe killed Christine too. That
person would require complete familiarity with the Center. For my money,
that means someone like me who helped design the place." Like someone in
the Interface Group?"

"Right. And there were only three of us. Besides me, there was Arthur
and Dr. Randall McKenna."

"I guess we can rule out the first two. Who's this McKenna?" '"Randy's a
neurologist. Last I heard, he was out of town.

He's a pussycat. I'd have to consider him very unlikely."

"Weren't there people who contributed to design who weren't on the
Interface team?"

"A handful. I didn't meet them all that often. I can't remember most of
their names." His eyes clouded over.

"Except .

"Except who?"

"Stingley. You know, that SOB is just malevolent enough to have
concocted ' something like this."

"Is he really the type?" Are you kidding? Walter Stingley is a positive
misanthrope. He absolutely hates my guts. Come to think of it, there
aren't many people he likes. He's got the connections, that's for sure.

Rumor has it he worked for the government before he went into a
hospital-based practice. And he's very sophisticated about commuters. if
you're looking for a prime suspect, I'd put my money on Stingley."

"The government," Maks mused. "Everything that's happened is so bizarre,
so secret. When I think about those two words, I think government."

"As in conspiracy?"

"Something like that." Good Lord, Maks. Your creative mind comes up with
pretty improbable thoughts. Absolutely devious. But, impossible? Hell, I
guess anything's possible. Why not ask your friend Cheryl? She works for
Uncle Sam. Even if she's not a conspiracy freak, she might be able to
come up with a government angle."

"I already asked her. Cheryl eats that stuff up. I also gave her the
Christine diskette."

"What for?"

"it seems to me that whoever made that diskette is some one we should
look at. Or at least talk to. He might turn out to be just who we're
looking for. Why are you making that face?"

"I'm not. I'm thinking." Dun'- n paused. "Did you check out Schmidt's
social security nurfiber?"

"Looking for what?"

"Everything's on computer these days, fight? For identification
purposes, most places use a person's social security number more often
than they assign a number of their own. Insurance companies, government
agencies, universities, and hospitals, to name a few. Let's say, for the
sake of discussion, that Schmidt's body was released to a different
funeral parlor than the one you spoke with. If they entered his number
into their computer, it might be possible to access it."

"Sort of a cross-check?"

"Exactly."

"I have a hunch Cheryl can help with that too."

"Incidentally, you didn't tell Schmidt's family he was dead, did you?"

"Of course not' That'd be cruel."

"Indeed it would." He looked into her blue eyes then, a long and
searching stare that spoke to his own gratitude.

For the short time he'd known her, Maks had been anything but cruel.

Rather, she'd been unusually caring, understanding, and giving. He
understood what she was doing: drawing him out, getting him to talk,
keeping him from withdrawing into himself. He adored her for it.

And it was working. He was be-inning to feel like himself again. There
was a part of him that wanted her very much. Until now, theirs had been
a rollercoaster relationship of emotional ups and downs, and every time
he felt the tug of desire, something had always interfered. In the
beginning, Maks had worn her neediness so openly that forcing his
attention on her would have been unfair. Then it had been his turn, with
his injury, with what happened at the Center, and with Arthur's death.

It felt strange to have spent so much time in the company of a beautiful
woman without once yielding to his physical impulses. But now that his
depression was lifting, Dunston's need for her was greater than ever. As
she gazed back at him, he sensed a stimulating mutuality to their
attraction. His longing for her was palpable and overpowering. Maks'
lips parted, and her tongue grazed her lower lip. Dunston reached for
her, his fingers sliding across her cheek to her neck. Eyes fixed on
hers, he was slowly drawing her toward him when the phone rang.

For a long moment, they both ignored the sound. But after three rings,
he pulled away.

"You expecting any calls?" 11 No."

"Then let it ring."

"Could it be your service?" He scowled. "Better not be." After another
ring, she decided. "I'll make it quick." She picked up the receiver. "Oh
hi, Cher  ...  As a matter of fact, I am." His touch was too
distracting; she gently took his fingers in hers. "Of course with him.

Who else?

How important?" She straightened up and listened for thirty seconds,
during which her expression turned from disinterest to concern. "All
right, I'll ask." She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "It's
Cheryl."

"Speak of the devil. What does she want?"

"She wants to meet you."

"How flattering." She poked him in the ribs. "With her boss. She says it
has something to do with the Center." He stiffened. "Like what?"

"That's what they want to talk to you about."

"I'm not interested."

She looked him in the eye. "Is that what you want me to tell her?"

"Exactly. Tell her that . He stopped, deep in thought, a faraway look on
his face. It's got to occur eventually, he thought. It's what Maks had
in mind. Sooner or later, I've got to face it. "When is she talking
about?"

"She wants to bring him over tomorrow," He slipped away from her, got
up, and began pacing.

"Hang on, Cher," Maks said patiently.

He sighed deeply and stopped. "All right. Let's get it over with.,,

Chapter Seventeen.

THE NEXT MORNING, the doorbell rang at precisely ten A.M.

After showing in the guests, Maks made the introductions.

"Chad, this is Cheryl," she said, bemused by Cheryl's expression, that
of a rock star groupie about to melt at the mere mention of her idol's
name. She looked like she was about to drool, and she refused to let go
of Dunston's hand until nudged by Maks. "Well, Cher?"

"Oh. This i's Victor Sawyer," she said, with an adolescent giggle.

"Good Lord, Cher," Maks whispered. "Get a grip." Sawyer smiled broadly
and extended his hand. Dunston had seen that kind of look before. Behind
the urbane facade, here was a man who was all business, the consummate
professional.

"Dr. Dunston, I presume""

Dunston returned the handshake. "Someone once told me that presumption's
the mother of all screwups."

"All too true, I think." He looked at his watch. "We're just waiting for
ah, here he is now." A compact sedan pulled up on the driveway. An
overweight, middle-aged man got out and approached the doorway.

"Good morning, Merlin," said Sawyer. "I think you've

met Dr. Dunston," he indicated. "And Miss. Lassiter." Maks was somewhat
surprised by the bespeckled, balding man with the pencil-thin mustache.
"Is Merlin your real name?"

"No, in fact it's Marion, Like Dr. Sawyer here, I work for the DOE. In
my line of work, I do a lot of tinkering with gadgets, inventions.

Someone once tagged me with Merlin, and once the word got out, I
couldn't shake it."

"Spoken with undue modesty," said Sawyer. "Man's a genius."

"Come in, everyone," Maks prompted.

In the kitchen, they sat down to coffee and fresh croissants Cheryl had
brought. At first they made small talk, exchanging bios, discussing
common threads that linked their professions. Maks listened to Cheryl's
peculiarly girlish chatter with growing annoyance. And then she scolded
herself; there was no reason to get pissed off simply because her friend
was behaving like a man-hungry twit. No one mentioned Dunston's nearly
healed bruises.

"What exactly do you do at Kashiwahara, Miss. Lassiter?"

"It's Maks."

"Victor," he smiled.

"Well, Victor, I'm in admin. Your upper echelon, token female in a firm
run by Asian men. But don't knock America, right? You want into the
market, you go with the trend."

"From what I understand, they're doing rather well."

"Not bad. Lots of competition. Sharks in the water."

"But no blood, I hope?"

"Not yet."

"My son has one of your HDTVS. The picture's really exceptional."
Cheryl's ears perked up. "You never told me you had a son."

"Yes, just married. it was our wedding gift."

"Terrific," Cheryl said deflatedly, looking at Maks.

"And this is the guy I've worked with for five years?" Sawyer didn't
skip a beat. "How about computers?" he ventured, testing the waters. "I
heard Kashiwahara's coming out with a new line."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Just talk." I"That I's news to me. Not that we don't use computers.

But I think your information's bogus. No way we're going to tackle NEC
or any of the big boys."

"Yet you do work together, that's no secret," Sawyer persisted.

Maks smiled back. "Only our samurai."

"I mean in an ideological sense."

"But we don't share products."

"Oh, I think you do. In a friendly, noncompetitive sort of way. Not that
America's exempt. Cray used Apple to refine its supercomputers, and
Apple used Cray to design the MacIntosh. And it goes beyond national
boundaries. For example, at one time Cray got most of its chips from
Fujitsu."

"But Fujitsu makes its own peripherals," said Cheryl.

"I'm not referring to that. I'm saying these are essentially integrated
systems, each using some of the other's components. Think of it as a
gigantic food chain, where one biological niche helps another survive.

Don't you see?" Maks sipped her coffee. "Somewhat. There's more
cooperation, that's for sure. I think it's mostly attitudinal, a
philosophical orientation. You mentioned supercomputers.

From what Chad says, America's still way ahead. But the grapevine has it
that the Japanese have the industry targeted. They bought more Crays for
building cars than Detroit, and they'll probably dominate the field
soon. They're very single minded that way."

"Ah, constant vision. Isn't that right, Dr. Dunston?"

Dunston put down his napkin. "Okay, Victor, you've broken the ice.

Breakfast was great, but you didn't come for the calories. What do you
want?" Sawyer stared back. "Your file suggested you'd be direct."

"What file?" Sawyer opened his attache case and removed a thick manilla
folder. "Everyone has a file, Doctor. Except it's usually in bits and
pieces, not assembled. Now, take yours: there's information about
education, your draft status, social security, IRS, credit rating,
employriient history, you name it-"

"My divorce?"

"Perhaps," Sawyer said smoothly. "Almost everything about you is on a
computer somewhere. For the past two days I've gone from database to
database compiling your dossier. Particularly as it pertains to your
profession, your knowledge of computers, and your involvement with the
Center for Human Potential. It makes impressive reading." Dunston waxed
sarcastic. "I'm sure it does. But you didn't answer my question. What do
you want?"

"The Human Genome Project."

"What about it?"

"It's done. Finished. The entire genetic code's been cracked."

"Gimme a break."

"I'm quite serious."

"Right." He paused to stare at Sawyer, who looked back in unperturbed
honesty through steely gray eyes. Slowly, Dunston's attitude changed
from cynicism to amazement, and the expression on his face turned from
annoyance to wonder. "You're saying you actually unraveled the genome?"

"Not we, I'm afraid. The Center has."

What?"

"Pour some more coffee, Doctor. This may take E while."

Over the next half hour, Sawyer gave a verbal presentation not
dissimilar to that he'd delivered earlier in the week at the Department
of Energy. Dunston listened, astonished. Though more familiar with the
project than the average physician, the ramifications of Sawyer's
assertion were staggering. He knew something was horrifyingly wrong at
the Center, but the idea that it had cracked the genetic code only added
to his confusion, raising still more questions to which he had no
answers. He simply couldn't fathom what the Center would want to do with
such information.

"You're sure of this?"

"Positive. Checked and double-checked."

"Well, I'll be damned. Just unbelievable. Who else knows?"

"Not the press, thank God. It's pretty well contained."

"So why are you telling me?"

"Because we wanted to get some insights, some ideas, from people who had
an ongoing interaction with the Center. We know the Center's up to
something, but it's not telling us what. We hoped that one of you-the
Interface Group, is it?-might be able to give us some clues. Yet
obviously this comes as a complete surprise to you. Do you think it'd
also surprise the others?"

"It'd blow Randy McKenna's socks off. Good thing he's out of town. And
as for Arthur, well  ...  "

"Yes, I've heard." He folded his hands atop his papers.

"Nothing personal Dr. Dunston, but I'll be frank. You weren't my first
choice. I was already acquainted with Dr. Weiman. I wanted to run this
by him, but since his accident-" It was suddenly sickeningly clear to
Dunston, who sprang out of his chair as if shot from an ejector seat.

His face was ashen. His eyes were wide, and his mouth opened and closed
like a marionette searching for words. His voice was distant. "It was no
accident." The geneticist leaned forward. "Could you repeat that?,

"I said what happened to Arthur was no accident." He cleared his throat,
feeling his temper rise. "He was murdered, dammit! What, is everybody
blind? Whether it had to do with this genome stuff, I don't know," He
began to pace, impatiently raking his fingers through his hair. "But he
was on to something, I can tell you that. Something that dealt with the
Center. And when the Center found out, Arthur was killed!"

It was Sawyer's turn to be dumbstruck. "Surely you're joking."

"Joking? I'm serious. Dead serious. Am I making myself clear?" He
stopped and leaned his arms against the table. "And now that you've
napalmed my village, I'm going to light a fire under yours. So strap on
your seat belt," he said, returning to his chair, "because you're in for
a long ride." For the better part of the next hour, fortified by freshly
brewed coffee, Sawyer, Cheryl, and Merlin listened in awe to a
reenactment of Dunston's brush with death. As he spoke, his cuts and
bruises seemed more prominent. When he finished, they sat there in
glassy-eyed incredulity, at a loss for words. At length, Sawyer removed
his spectacles.

He wiped the lenses with a paper napkin before rummaging through some
additional papers.

I suppose that explains these," he said, placing several sheets on top
of the table.

Dunston examined them. One was a computer printout from the Center,
attesting to a satisfactory hernia repair; another, a medical report
from the Brookhaven I.C.U, to which Stingley had appended an attestation
regarding Dunston's mental instability; and the third, a police report
compiled in longhand by Captain Donohue. Dunston read through them
quickly, sniffing amusedly in some places frowning in others. He slid
the pages back to Sawyer.

"Interesting reading," said Dunston.

"Very.

"Judging from everything you've said, you seem as much in the dark as
I've been. And now, on top of everything, unraveling the genome." He
shook his head. "Nothing makes sense any more. I keep asking, why? Why
was Arthur murdered, why did the Center try to kill me? And why this
sudden interest in the genome?"

"At least we both agree on the questions. Do you have any answers?"

Dunston considered it. "The other day, Maks suggested something. Sort of
thinking out loud. You see, the idea of motive has always been the
toughest part for me to understand. It's just so hard to attribute
intent to computers and robots. So Maks said, there's got to be someone
behind all this. A person, with human motives."

"Sounds like you have someone in mind," said Sawyer.

"You're damn right," Dunston said, emphatically tapping one of Sawyer's
papers.." This bastard," Sawyer looked where Dunston pointed. "Dr.
Stingley?"

"Yes, good old Stingley. He certainly had the means.

The man knows almost as much as I do about the Center.

And he hates my guts."

"But that doesn't explain his motive. Why would he want to murder two of
his colleagues?" Dunston shook his head. "That, I don't know." Merlin
spoke up. "It's much more likely for a group of people to be involved in
a plot like that than a single individual," he said. He touched his
mustache, looking around the room. "I hope you don't mind my chiniing
ini"

"No, please," said Sawyer.

"This is much too complicated for one person to pull off. For the Center
to figure out the entire genome, to try to kill two of its benefactors,
and to perform unauthorized surgery, is way beyond a lone person's
capability. It're quires a group of people. And when you're talking
group, you're talking conspiracy."

"Oh brother. I give up." Dunstoti got up and walked away from the table.

"I need some air."

"Chad!" Maks called, going after him. Cheryl followed her.

Alone for the moment, Sawyer turned to Merlin. "When I Suggested you
provoke him a little, I didn't mean make him flip a gasket."

"He's fiery, I'll grant you that. That's a plus. You're going to need
someone who can handle stress, Victor. If the man went to pieces when I
ratcheted up the pressure, he's not the man you want. Agreed?"

"I see. You're not really a conspiracy theorist, then?" Merlin shrugged.

"Who knows? I just knew it would make him jump."

"What's your take on him, overall?"

"Very intelligent, obviously. He's got an edge to him. It looks like he
knows how to handle himself. Overall, I'd say you scored a bull's-eye."

"I think so too," said Sawyer. He turned to see Dunston returning and
lowered his voice. "Now comes the hard part." ,

"Know what I think, Victor?" Dunston asked. "You've got a lot of guts
coming here, knowing you might be dealing with some psycho." 111 admit
the thought had occurred to me. But not any more." He reflected,
squinting, then put his glasses back on. "Funny. In a strange way, that
business about the testicular biopsy might be relevant."

"How so?" Sawyer talked as he thought, his fertile mind roaming.

"A testicular biopsy, spermatogonia. The genome, the very foundation of
life, or creation of new life  ..." He shook his head. "I'm not sure.

The theoretical possibilities are endless, but I can't spot the
connection. Regardless, the Center specifically has you in mind, for
whatever its little project is."

"Correction. Had me in mind. For all I know, it thinks I'm dead."

"You can't be certain of that."

"If we were wagering, I'd take the bet. The larger question is, why me?"

"Oh, that's much simpler. For one reason or another, you were the right
man. To the Center's computers, you're a walking mass of cells,
protoplasm, chromosomes, and genes. I guess they liked what they saw.

And so do we, Doctor."

"What do you mean 'we'?" Sawyer spoke in a softly modulated tone. "As of
this moment, I'm speaking in an official capacity, with approval from
the highest authorities."

"What is this, spy week?"

"Everything I've said until now is confidential, and I trust you'll keep
it that way." follow.

Dunston began to feel uneasy. "I don't

"Based on everything we've discussed, I'm more convinced than ever that
the answer lies with the Center. Something's happening over there. You
know it, and I know it.

Millions of man-hours, billions of dollars, and the most profound
secrets depend on what that answer is. Obviously, I can't force you. The
choice is yours. But there's no doubt about it. You're the right man."
As Dunston stared at Sawyer, he was overcome with a fear more intense
than he'd ever experienced. His skin turned to gooseflesh, and a chill
penetrated his body. His voice grew hoarse with the question that had to
be asked.

"The right man for what?"

"The Center." Sawyer paused, fingers intertwined, not taking his eyes
from Dunston's. "We want you to go back."

Chapter Eighteen.

AFTER CHERYL, VICTOR, and Merlin left, the remainder of the day became
quiet to the point of solemnity. Dunston had a thick aura of uneasiness
that was almost tangible, as if he'd cloaked himself in a mantle that
read, "do not disturb." While Maks quietly read the paper, he repeatedly
passed through the house and Carded, pacing back and forth like an
expectant father. Her heart went out to him. She longed to mother him,
to cuddle, soothe, and explain. Yet she was astute enough to understand
that, as the anxiety he'd experienced was uniquely his, so too did its
resolution have to come from within him.

Slowly, Dunston began to lighten up as the day was winding down. Dunston
sat on the couch next to Maks, sinking heavily into the cushions with
the kind of deep exhalation that bespeaks finality. She put down what
she'd been reading and waited for- him to talk. l, What I don't
understand is," he finally said, "what makes me the right man?"

"Your computer profile."

" There are lots of people who know more about computers than I do. Like
you. But I didn't exactly notice you tryin- to dazzle Sawyer with your
knowledge."

"I'm sure he already knows and isn't interested. Any way, that's not the
only thing on your profile."

"How do you know?"

"Victor told me. While you were sulking."

"What else is in this infamous profile?"

" Demographic stuff. Place of birth, health, education."

She paused, looking away. "Your marriage."

"Don't miss a trick, do they? What else?"

"Victor, or rather, your profile, makes you out to be quite the jock,
your aches and pains notwithstanding. Baseball, boating, scuba diving,
and something called sporting clays." She raised her eyebrows. "What in
the world are sporting clays?"

"Yuppie shotgunning. you know skeet?"

"I shot trap a few times with my father." Well, trap and skeet rely on
set positions and pretty standard trajectories. Whoever invented
sporting clays wanted something more realistic, closer to what's in the
field. So now they've got these clay pigeons of all different sizes,
rolling, bouncing, going straight up, whatever."

"Now, there's the thinking man's sport."

"Don't knock it. It was that or computer chess. Actually, much more
therapeutic," he said, waxing into a Southern drawl. "Shucks, with a
chaw of Red Man in my cheek, I could blast those suckers into powder all
day." Maks cocked her head, smiling dreamily. "What a man." , She had to
avoid confrontation. The order of the day was to keep him relaxed. With
a cheerful smile, she leaned forward and brushed back a stray lock of
his hair. "Let's go for a ride."

"Now? Where?"

"On your boat. It doesn't matter where. it's still warm out. I feel like
some fresh air."

"It's a lot more work than you think. First we have to drive there. Then
we have to unsnap and stow the rain cover, fill the tank-"

"Oh for God's sake," she said, getting up and pulling him to his feet.

"You sound positively geriatric. Think old, feel old. At this rate, I
won't see the water again until I'm in menopause." An hour later, they
were streaking through the open water of the Sound, heading east. Maks
sat in the back seat of the deep-V powerboat, her blouse dampened by the
salt spray. She'd been watching Dunston stand with his hands on the
helm. The high-performance powerboat had a steep twenty-two degrees, and
at speeds of over thirty knots, with the forefoot nearly out of the
water, Dunston saw the horizon best while standing. The lines of worry
had left his face. Maks smiled, knowing the outing was a sound
suggestion.

It had been easy, glassy riding without pounding. North of Mattituck,
DUDSTON eased back on the throttles and began a slow U shoreward, the
first leg of their return trip. Suddenly he veered right. As the boat
tilted starboard, Maks heard something thud into the keel beneath them.

She dug in her nails for support. The Mercruisers made a straining,
grinding noise. Dunston immediately slipped the throttle into neutral,
and the boat slowly idled to a stop.

"Jesus," he muttered.

"What was that?" He walked behind her and bent over the port side,
fishing in the water with his hand. Latching onto some sort of submerged
line, he traced it aft, toward the engines. Then he dropped what he was
holding and straightened up, hands on hips.

"This is ridiculous."

"What is?"

"The right props fouled. Looks like pot warp."

"What's that?"

"The rope attached to a lobster pot. Man, I'd like to get my hands on
that idiot."

"Is it in the wrong place?"

"Very wrong place. It should be a lot further offshore.

Also, the traps should be marked with a red buoy, or flag.

Whatever clown laid out these pots was pulling a fast one.

No flag. He's got a plastic detergent bottle for a marker, floating
about a foot under water. I didn't spot it in time.

That makes for problems, my dear."

"So, what now?"

"I get the prop unfouled, that's what. Try to cut the warp off the prop.

Soon as I unravel this mess, we'll be on our way." He took a deep
breath. "Open that storage compartment, will you?" He was pointing to a
four-by-three-foot deck trapdoor, just forward of the rear seat
cushions. Maks grabbed its ring while Dunston laid anchor. When opened,
the trapdoor hinges locked in place, leaving it three-quarters ajar.

Scuba paraphernalia was belowdecks. Two air tanks were strapped in
place, lying on Styrofoam cradles. Beside them was a carrying bag with
air hoses, along with places for fins, mask and snorkel, a folded wet
suit, and other items.

Rejoining her, Dunston unstrapped one of the tanks and placed it upright
on deck.

"I didn't know you smoked cigars." I"Huh?"

Maks pointed at the trap door opening. "There's a cigar box down there.

Monte Cristos."

As she reached for the container, it suddenly hit him.

"Don't touch it, Maks!" He took her hand and carefully led her to the
back of the boat. Then he slowly made his way back to the trapdoor and
cautiously eased the box from its hiding place. A ninevolt battery was
taped to its side, and two wires connected the battery to something
inside.

"I'm not sure what this is, but I don't get a good feeling about it. I'd
feel better if we got it the hell off the boat."

Maks swallowed nervously, her throat dry. "Is that what I think it is?"

"I'm not going to open it to find out. Help me wrap it in that plastic
liner, Okay? I don't want to get the damn thing wet." Together, they
painstakingly covered the box in several layers of disposable marine
liner. Satisfied that it was watertight, Dunston gingerly put it down.

"Are we going to leave it like that?" asked Maks "No, we're going to put
as much distance as we can between us and the box. Can you hand me that
bag of hoses?" He smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, I've done this a
dozen times." Dunston unzipped a handbag-size case and removed four
coiled black air hoses, all joined to a bar of silvery metal.

He called the apparatus a regulator. He unraveled its hosing and held it
up to hang free. He bent down and removed the jacketlike item from the
storage compartment.

"Life vest?

"Sort of. It's an inflatable BC, a buoyancy compensator.

A fancy vest with pockets and straps." He sat beside her, with the tank
between his legs. Having stripped down to i swimsuit, he slipped the
BC's backpack portion over the tank, orienting the backpack so the tank
valve opening faced it. Then he set about attaching the regulator to the
tank.

After removing protective tape from the valve, he cracked it momentarily
open. A loud hiss expelled any accumulated dirt or water. Dunston spoke
as he worked. The silvery metal to which all hoses attached was the
regulator's yoke, made of chromed brass. The yoke contained the
regulator's first stage, the portion attached to the tank. The purpose
of the first stage, he explained, was to reduce the tank's high
pressure, while the second stage-the portion containing the
mouthpiece-reduced it even further. As Maks watched, Dunston unscrewed a
knob that secured a dust cover. Then he positioned the first stage on
the tank valve so their openings matched, and the second stage hose led
off to the right. After tightening the first stage screw onto the valve,
he attached a hose from the regulator to a low pressure inflator on the
BC. Finally, he pointed to each hose.

"Second stage, alternate air source, low pressure inflator, submersible
pressure gauge. Now, let's see if this baby's got any air in it."

"I do hope you're kidding." He Cranked open the air valve and checked
the pressure gauge. The dial swung from zero to 3,100. "We're in
business."

"You have enough?"

"Plenty. Don't worry. I don't plan being under long.

Give me a hand with this thing, okay? Just keep it from tipping over.

Maks steadied the tank assembly, keeping it from tilting as the boat
gently rocked from side to side. Dunston gave a final tug to the BC's
backpack cinch. After checking that all hoses were secure, he hoisted
the assembled package onto the boat's side rail. Maks held it for him,
surprised by its heaviness, while Dunston donned mask, weight belt, and
fins. Backing up toward the tank, he squatted a bit to slip his hands
through the arm holes, much like getting into a jacket. Then he
tightened the works to his torso by means of a Velcro cummerbund and two
plastic buckles. Satisfied, he bit into the second stage's mouthpiece
and inhaled a blast of compressed air. Then he carefully lifted the
cigar box and cradled it between his arm and chest. He gave Maks a
thumbs-up sign, held onto his face mask, and leaned backward over the
rail, tumbling into the water with a splash. When Maks peered over the
side, all she saw was a trail of bubbles.

As he slowly began to sink, he jackknifed underwater and finned slowly
downward, watching his pressure and depth gauges while he descended. At
forty-eight feet, he reached bottom. At that depth, visibility in the
Sound's temperate waters was rather dreadful, especially once he'd
kicked up some silt. Nonetheless, as the fine particulate matter
settled, he soon delineated the five-foot crate. Workin- carefully, he
opened the trapdoor and freed the lobsters, some thirteen in all. He
then carefully placed the wrapped cigar box in the trap. He righted
himself and began a slow, upward ascent.

When he reached the surface. Dunston swam beneath the hull, backward
alone, the keel. The visibility was fair at best, and he cursed himself
for forgetting a hand-held light.

With a few leg kicks, he reached the stern. The outlines of the twin
props were easy to discern. He pressed his face mask nearer for a
close-up inspection.

As he'd suspected, the left propeller blade was entangled with
heavy-duty yellow nylon rope, one quarter inch thick.

He estimated that at least two feet were ensnared in the blade. He
turned and looked toward the yellow detergent bottle.

There was a sudden tugging about his face. As he eased his head forward,
the mask began slipping toward the right.

It felt as if some invisible force were trying to wrench his mask off.

It took several seconds for him to realize what was happening. He
stopped moving and hovered motionless in the water. Dunston slowly
raised his left arm in an orbit above his head. An instant later, his
hand encountered the monofilament line.

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, he thought. It was heavy duty fishing line,
snagged on the mask strap buckle. Some unsuspecting fisherman had lost
his line to the same illegal trap which entangled the prop. But that
realization was little comfort, knowing that the cigar box was only
meters away.

Trapped like an insect in a spider's web, he was unable to move his head
in any direction. Dunston cautiously reached for the Wenoka strapped to
his shin and slid it out of its sheath. Tracing the outline of his face
mask frame, he located the source of his entrapment and slowly cut away
the strands of tangled monofilament.

He took a deep, relaxing breath through the mouthpiece, moving his head
in an arc, assuring that it was free' Satisfied, he returned his
attention to the prop. He counted at least six strands of pot warp
choking the blades. Using the serrated edge of the knife, he began
sawing slowly. It was easier than he expected. Yielding to the force of
his strokes, the rope's braided strands quickly parted. In less than
five minutes, before he became arm weary, the prop was free.

He swam away from the severed line. Out of the corner of his eye, he
noticed the submerged yellow bottle, now unfettered, buoy itself to the
surface.

It had taken much longer than he'd intended. He prayed they had enough
time. he broke the surface and quickly tossed his face mask topside.

Maks helped Dunston scramble up the stern ladder. Without bothering to
remove his gedr, he hurried to the console and throttled forward. The
boat quickly sped away from the site.

As they skimmed across the wavetops, they nervously looked over their
shoulders toward the package in their wake. From the corner of his eye,
Dunston watched Maks, whose knuckles were white around the windshield's
rim.

The boat had gone five hundred yards when a watery blast erupted behind
them, sending a white geyser skyward.

Wincing and stunned, Dunston throttled back. As the boat slowed, Maks
leaned toward him, seeking the protective warmth of his arms. They sat
there holding one another in unspoken terror, aware that someone,
somewhere, was on to them.

chapter Nineteen.

AT MIDDAY MONDAY, Cheryl called Maks at work. She was in a hurry. After
some meandering chitchat, she got down to business.

"Were you aware the diskette you gave me is a second?"

"Meaning what?"

"You know, seconds. Rejects, something with imperfections. There's not
much of a market for seconds in the technology sector, but in this case,
there were only little scratches, dings in the plastic. Those diskettes
go for less than half price."

"I've never seen them advertised."

"They're not. At least, not to the general public. The market's in bulk,
for commercial use. They're sold by the case."

"What does all this have to do with Christine?"

"Maybe nothing, but you wanted me to find out who made the diskette,
right? Seconds are much easier to track down by their serial numbers
because SO few of them are sold."

"I didn't know they had serial numbers."

"Actually, they're lot numbers. Here on the Island, only one place sells
them. Americorp, that technology super store? I was able to do a little
waltz through their computerized records. There were only three buyers
for one-case minimums with that lot number. One was the school of
communications at the University, and the second was the Board of
Education." Maks held her breath. "And the third?"

"The third was your good friend Dr. Stingley."

Maks was astonished. "Stingley. I don't believe this.

Chad will go nuts when he hears this."

"You don't think it could have been one of the other two?"

"An undergrad in joumalisnl or the school board? No way.

"I don't think so either. So I did a little checking on Stingley. You
know he worked for the government?"

"So Chad said."

"Ah, but was he aware that until ten years ago, Stingley was chief
medical officer in the Defense Intelligence Agency?" Maks' heart skipped
a beat. "I think you're serious." 11 Never more so.

In a way, everything is starting to make sense. When Victor was in
Washington briefing the muckymucks at the DOE, he said the people who
objected the loudest were defense and Pentagon-types. They claimed his
conclusions about cracking the genetic code were 'iffy," wild
speculation. It seems to me those boys have something to hide." Maks was
staggered. Even though she'd been the one to bring it up, she'd long ago
dismissed the concept of conspiracy as fanciful. The idea that Christine
might have died as a result of government duplicity was incredible. Yet
beyond that, what Cheryl discovered only raised more questions. most
important, if Stingley were involved in Dr. Weiman's death, could he be
so careless as to leave the diskette in the desk? As usual, nothing made
any sense.

"What am I supposed to do with this bombshell?"

"Let -Victor handle it. The whole thing is very sticky Politically
explosive. You can't mention it to Chad either The time's not right, and
Victor would have my ass if he knew I told you. You remember how he
reacted when Merlin mentioned conspiracy. And after that bomb on the
botahte, I bet Chad's waffling with the idea of going back to Center.

You have to promise me, Maks." Maks nodded.

"Oh, one last thing. That patient who died, Schmidt? I cross-referenced
his social security number for you. He was a Vietnam vet, in more DWIS
that you can count, and in and out of detoxs for twenty years. Funny. He
was transferred to the Center the day he died."

"From where?"

"The VA. He'd been a patient there for two months. His mind was gone
from the booze."

"Did you come across anything at all which might explain why Dr. Weiman
kept his admission number in the safe?"

"Not a thing. I can't imagine why he'd be interested in the guy, but I
could be missing something. Tell you what.

I'll fax over the information I have and let you check it out." Over the
next few days, Maks' aptitude for listening was largely responsible for
Dunston's return to a kind of shocked normalcy. After learning what
Sawyer had in mind and with the bomb still gnawing at him, he had ridden
a roller coaster from terror to outrage to numbness in a series of
psychological steps not dissimilar to those undergone by the terminally
ill, who suddenly learned their prognosis was death. If the process went
favorably, it ultimately led to acceptance of one's fate. Throughout,
Maks listened to his often-rambling verbalizations with sympathy and
quiet reassurance. Yet although she was instrumental in calming his
state of mind, it was not that alone that won him over.

Deep inside, his sense of professional obligation reemerged.

In the military, such obligation was akin to a call to arms, a
reaffirmation of one's code of duty and honor. In the medical arts, it
was an understanding of one's role as a healer. Dunston slowly came to
appreciate what was expected of him.

Yet Dunston's greatest motivation was neither Maks' assistance, his duty
as a physician, nor his realization that death might yet be in the cards
for him that won him over.

Rather, it was the resurgence of a profound curiosity about the goings
on at the Center. Sawyer had been amply convincing, and now he had to
find out for himself. He was like a larva molting, shedding layer after
layer of understanding until he finally felt ready to take flight into
the unknown. it was an undertaking, Merlin hinted, replete with arcane
terminology and an ample overlay of Special Forces technology. Dunston
was no firearms devotee, but he knew enough about weapons to understand
the implication that he return packing firepower. They had no idea who
was behind the Center's strange goings on; and if the bomb on the boat
proved anything, it was that he had no qualms about Uling whoever got in
his way. But a shootout, if it came to that, was strictly a fallback
position. More important was a one-on-one linkup with, and thwarting of,
the Center's computers.

"First and foremost," Sawyer said, "we have to find out what the
Center's computers are up to. Second, if you get a chance, we'd love to
know more about what its STM is doing."

"I thought you already knew that." 'it was all presumption. We presumed
their STM literally read the genetic code on a molecular level, in order
to map the genome. But for what? It's got to be doing something with the
information."

"Those are related questions."

"Perhaps. It's certainly within the realm of possibility that the
Center's ultimate goal relates to what it's learned from the STM. In any
event, we'll be grateful for anything you learn."

"It sounds like you're being pressured."

e " That'd be putting it mildly. The military has gone bonkrs over this.

Conspirators in their midst and all that. Cabinet-level personnel are in
a state of paranoia. The idea of waiting a month to empty out the Center
is making them delusional. They see plots and counterplots. They want
answers yesterday, but they might settle for tomorrow."

"I won't be ready by tomorrow."

"I know. But the closer you get every day, I buy time.

I can stall them, but not forever. Some even agree with that idiot
brigadier about storming the place with guns blazing.

I need you on this, Dunston. How much longer do you think it'll take?"

"I don't plan to hang around there long, Victor," he lied.

Time permitting, he had some very personal questions he wanted answered.

"I realize that. But give me a rough idea."

"Well, memorizing the layout shouldn't be tough. I'll need details and
specs on every bit of hardware and software that was ever delivered. The
hardest part will be going over programming and computer languages. I'm
a little rusty, but I think a good day's concentration should do it.

A lot depends on Merlin's help." Sawyer smiled. "He has some toys he
wants to show you. Once you see them, I don't think you'll be sorry. And
then we can talk strategy."

"The only strategy I have is getting out of there alive." Admittedly.

And with good reason. Shall we say Friday afternoon, then? For an early
Saturday return?" Dunston looked away, fighting a current of uncertainty
that swirled about him. Finally, he nodded his head. "I should be ready
by then." Dunston found the middle of the week unexpectedly difficult.
He'd either repressed or forgotten the tedious nature of computer
programming, especially the time-consuming aspects of the more esoteric
computer languages, though not the language fundamentals themselves. On
Thursday, he burned the candle from dawn to dusk, leaning over his
doeared texts like a schoolboy, fortified by cup after cup of espresso,
not taking time to eat. He wasn't hungry anyway. Over the course of the
day he'd grown progressively more somber and withdrawn, but not from
sullenness.

Rather, it was a single minded, -oal-directed intensity that left no
room for distraction. Finally, shortly after seven P.m., he closed the
last book and sat back to rub his eyes, admitting he could no longer
ignore getting bifocals.

His few moments of solitude were shattered by the arrival of Cheryl and
Victor. Cheryl, loquacious as ever, could be heard clear across the
house, her voice unrestrained by Sawyer's more modulated tones. The trio
snaked its way toward Dunston in the living room, where he'd secluded
himself by a low and warming fire he'd kept alive by the hour. It had
now turned to faintly glowing embers. He silently awaited their arrival,
puzzling over Cheryl. She had the brains of an Einstein, the maturity of
an adolescent, and less culture than your Yet he realized that her
knowledge of computers was uncanny, and her presence was therefore
indispensable for the grilling he knew Sawyer had in mind for him.

Sawyer began the conversation.

"So, Doctor. How go the preparations?"

"Not bad. Most of what I've forgotten's come back pretty fast. I still
haven't figured out exactly how I'm going to get the computers to 'fess
up once I'm in there. If I get in."

"Oh, you'll get in, all right. In fact, Miss. Lassiter has that nearly
worked out." Dunston shot her a quizzical look. Maks smiled sheepishly
and was on the verge of saying something when Sawyer held up a hand.

"More about that later. First, do you feel comfortable with the
blueprints?"

"Upside-down and sideways," he said. "I could find my way around
blindfolded."

"You may have to. Much of the Center's unlit. How about your computer
language skills?"

"Got most of it down. I'll look at it again tomorrow.,,

"What did you originally train in?"

"C, mostly. But I once knew a lot of assembly. That's what I was
brushing up on today."

"What's C?" asked Maks.

Cheryl's look dripped incredulity. "Maks, don't be such a dweeb."

"I'm serious."

"Did you ever study programming, Miss. Lassiter?"

"One semester of BASIC in college."

"Have you kept up with it?"

"Not really."

"Victor," interrupted Dunston, "she has nothing-"

"On the contrary. Miss. Lassiter is playing a pivotal role in the
project, as you will soon learn. She has every right to grasp what
you're referring to. With your permission, Doctor?" Dunston shrugged.

"Up to you.,,

"Thank you." He turned to Maks as Dunston motioned for coffee.

"Computers, you know, communicate through numbers. Binary digits, or
bits, those infamous zeroes and ones that frighten people away. Computer
languages allow YOU to program-to give your computer a series of
instructions-without ever having to utter a single zero or one.

Now, programming languages have three levels of sophistication. A
high-level language has a structure fairly close to English. A low-level
language, like the assembly language Dr- Dunston referred to, is but a
hairsbreadth away from zeroes and ones. A midlevel language is somewhere
in between.

"As it implies, the BASIC you learned was intended as a teaching tool,
not a serious computer language. It's a high-level language that's easy
to learn and simply requires you to know programming commands and the
language's syntax."

"Syntax?"

"Programming commands are called vocabulary," said Cheryl. "Language
syntax is the order of the words."

"BASIC's vocabulary only has about 140 'words," or commands," Victor
continued, "which is why it's so easy to learn. Learning the syntax is a
little tougher. But once you've gotten the hang of it, the rest is just
practice."

"So what's C?"

"In a moment," said Sawyer. "Like you, ninety percent of all programmers
began with BASIC, not only because it's easy to learn, but also because
it usually comes with the computer you buy. However, BASIC isn't
perfect. No language is. BASIC has, well, what we call lack of
structure. A language called PASCAL, on the other hand, is very
structured, but it does poor string handling."

"You've totally lost me."

"Hmmm  ...  I suppose that is a tricky concept. All I'm saying is, there
are different languages at different levels, all having strengths and
weaknesses, better for one purpose than another. Other popular languages
are named PROLOGUE LISP, FORTRAN, and ADA. PRO LOG, for instance, is
best for expert systems and theorem proving, while if you want a job in
missile guidance control, you'd best learn ADA."

"I'll keep that in mind." Cheryl rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes and tapped
her blackened nails while Sawyer continued his explanation.

"Now, C. C is the ultimate computer language. Unlike BASIC, it's
considered a midlevel language, and nowhere near as English-like."

"So why use it'?"

"To understand that, you have, to know something about operating
systems."

"Like DOS?"

"Yes, like DOS, although DOS is mainly for personal computers. Any
operating system is a series of instructions that controls the computer
so that you, the programmer, can talk to it. Some operating systems,
like the one at the Center, were specifically designed for larger
computers that dealt with multiple users at once. This 'time-sharing'
capability is something PCS can't do, so other operating systems came
into vogue. The one I'll tell you about is called UNIX.

"UNIX was originally written in that tedious assembly language. Assembly
uses two-to five-letter mnemonics, instead of zeroes and ones, to
represent programming instructions. It's conceptually difficult because
it's so unlike English."

"And there isn't just one assembly language," said Dunston. "There are
several."

"Precisely. But let's not unnecessarily confuse the poor girl. So: here
we have this new multiuser operating system that all the universities
want, but it's written in obtuse assembly language. That just Wouldn't
do. Finally, someone came up with the bright idea of simply rewriting
the operating system in a higher level language, less primitive than
assembly. That language was christened B, which was later modified and
upgraded to C." He paused. "And there you have it." Maks was still
bewildered. "This UNIX operating system and C have something to do with
the Center?"

"Exactly. The Center's computers deal with thousands of users at
once-say, inquiries from the dietary dep@inment, sending out lab
results, or communicating with terminals off campus. It's a true
multi-user system, because the computers have multiple things to do
simultaneously.

UNIX helps put it all together. As I said, most of UNIX is written in
C-"

"But some was written in ADA and LOGO," said Dunston. "Unless, somehow,
it's internally rewritten itself. In which case I'm screwed." Maks shook
her head. "That's it. Thanks for trying, but I give up."

"No, please," Victor persisted. "This is already more complicated than I
intended. All I meant was to give you an overview. End of lecture,
deal?" Maks sighed. "All right." Now, Doctor," said Sawyer, unfolding
the Center's blueprints. "You'll be entering here"-he indicated-"at the
offloading ramp. It's one floor below the lab. We have a strong hunch,
backed up by your recollections, that the Center's shenanigans involve
the lab. But since we have no way of confirming that, it might be
pointless nosing around there."

"Not to mention lethal."

"Right. At any rate, we'll probably get what we want from querying the
computer directly. Once inside, your destination is level two, where
you'll be offloaded by autobot.

From there, proceed down the stairwell to the computer center at level
three. After that, you're on your own."

"Hold on," said Dunston. "That's a quantum leap. Even if the Center
thinks I'm dead, it's sure to have my photo and everything else about me
in computer memory. You think it's going to let me mosey on into the OK
Corral unchallenged? Those autobots have optics. It's not about to offer
me a free ride."

"And it won't. You see, you're not going in as yourself"

"I'm not?"

"You're going in as a toilet."

"Say again?"

"Miss. Lassiter will explain." Dunston narrowly looked her way with the
skepticism of one practical joke too many.

"It's something I discovered just last week," said Maks.

"Kashiwahara recently opened a small health care division.

A trial run. About three months ago, it linked up with two other
Japanese companies to develop this high-tech toilet.

No joke. They think there's a market for it. They call it 'the
intelligent toilet." Apparently, it releases somethinglike litmus paper
into the bowl. Color sensors analyze levels of sugar, protein, ketones,
and nitrites in the urine. And they're built in a miniature
chromatograph to do a quickie stool analysis. All the results go on
computer." He clucked his tongue. "What'll they think of next."

"The Center ordered three for installation. Their shipping crates will
be delivered Saturday morning. Two of them will contain just the
toilets. And the third-"

"I get the picture." He turned to Sawyer. "Okay, suppose I make it to
level two. The place is crawling with surveillance equipment. How am I
supposed to get to the computer center undetected?"

"A fair question, and one Merlin will explain tomorrow.

Quite ingenious, actually."

"I bet. Today, the intelligent toilet. Tomorrow, the t, world. What time
tomorrow, anyway?"

"Is nine at the Upton office too early?" 11 That's fine."

Sawyer rose to leave. "Incidentally, I wouldn't worry about that
business with Dr. Stingley and the Christine diskette. My friends in
Washington have gone over it with a fine-tooth comb. They think it's a
red herring. If there is a conspiracy, he has nothing to do with it."
Dunston had a mystified expression. "What business are you talking
about?" He hesitated. Chad's cooperation had disarmed him and now he'd
opened up a whole new can of worms.

"God dammit! Are you saying he was the one who made it?"

"Yes, but it turned out to be meaningless."

"I don't believe this," Dunston said. Rolling his eyes, he looked
upward. With Maks close on his heels, Dunston stormed out of the room.
stingley's phone-number and address were unlisted. It took five minutes
for Dunston to coax the address out of the ward clerk on the psych unit
and another thirty minutes to drive to his Belle Terre home. It was
after nine when Dunston and Maks pulled up. Compared with the other
houses in the neighborhood, the split-level ranch was surprisingly
modest. it was also unlit. It hadn't occurred to Dunston that the
psychiatrist might not be home. He had confrontation in mind, and the
obsessive aspects of his behavior blinded him to reality. Maks was close
on his heels as he briskly approached the front door.

"Don't do anything stupid, Chad."

"I wouldn't think of it. Nothing more than a broken nose."

"Aren't you in enough hot water already?"

"Scalding. All I want is some answers." He rang the doorbell; when that
wasn't answered, he repeatedly worked the heavy brass knocker. After
thirty seconds, a light k went on inside the house. Stingley's
disembodied voice called through the door.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"It's Chad Dunston. I want to talk to you."

"Have you completely lost it, Dunston? It's the middle of the night."
Dunston was infuriated. "Open the goddamn door before I break it down!"
There was the click of a latch, and the door slid ajar, protected by a
security chain. Stingley's face appeared in the opening. "You could lose
your medical license over this. Now get out of here before I call the
police."

"Give me five minutes of your time!"

"Don't be an idiot. Go home and sleep it off." When Stingley tried to
shut the door, Dunston rammed it with his shoulder, much as he'd slammed
into the gunman in the ER. The chain exploded from its attachments in a
blizzard of paint chips and splinters. His momentum carried him into
Stingley. The@psychiatrist's glasses went flying as he was knocked
several feet backward.

"This will cost you, Dunston." Dunston took a menacing step forward,
silently balling his fist. Stingley cowered. "All right, all fight," he
conceded, hesitantly reaching for his glasses. "You made your point.

What is it you want?"

"I want to know What you're up to. I want to know why You made a
computer disk of a four-year-old girl. And I Want to know what the
hell's going on over at the Center!"

"I have no idea what you're referring to." Dunston grabbed him roughly
by the lapels, thought better of it, then released him, mentally
counting to ten. "All right. Let's pretend for a moment you don't. There
are some pretty odd things going on in that hospital, Dr. Stingley.

Things involving me, Arthur Weiman, and Miss. Lassiter's young sister.

What I'm asking is, what do you have to do with all of this?"

"Me? You must be .  kidding." Dunston studied him. "Are you part of some
group that's fiddling with things over there?"

"Group, as in conspiratorial cabal?"

"Something like that."

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because it's more than one man alone could pull off.

And because you were once highly placed in the government, in the DIA."

Stingley gave a wry smile and shook his head. "Ah, the government. I
gave them nearly twenty years, you know.

Twenty daffm productive years, and then came the budget cuts  ...  I
resigned my commission before I was let go. So the long answer to your
short question is, no. I wasn't part of some outside group that
infiltrated the Center."

"All right, then. Were you individually involved in the peculiarities
that went on there?"

"I don't know what you mean. Look, Arthur Weiman came to me a little
before his death to get my professional opinion about what happened to
him during the alpha intercept "You know the sequence of events?" ' I
know what he claimed, that both of you had some sort of blackout during
the process. He and I had a long chat, and I did a brief exam.
Neurologically, he was fine.

And I made no psychiatric diagnosis that could explain what occurred."

"What then?"

"I was intrigued by his story. So I returned to the Center, to query its
computer in that room Weiman described off the lobby. I got some
interesting data."

"You made the Christine diskette?"

"How do you know about that?"

"It was in the desk drawer in Weiman's office. I found it when I
discovered his body."

"What you found, Dunston, wasn't everything I learned.

His diskette was highly edited."

"What are you talking about?"

"When I told Weiman what I discovered, he insisted on getting a copy. I
hadn't completely finished studying it, but he was persistent. So, I
gave him an abbreviated version."

"Where's the original?"

"It's here. Upstairs."

"Get it!

It was nearly midnight when they returned home.

Dunston gave the disk to Maks and followed her upstairs.

She sat in front of her personal computer and switched on the small
workstation lamp. Then she turned on the power and slipped in the
diskette, with Dunston peering over her shoulder.

The data that appeared on the screen reached out to them.

They both stared at the wording wide-eyed, unable to speak. In the
monitor's artificial illumination, the beads of sweat that broke out on
her forehead were almost immediately visible. The information streamed
fast and furious from the diskette. Maks grew anxious and impatient. She
feverishly went from screen to screen, trying to absorb what she was
reading. But its impact was too much. She started trembling, overcome by
a feeling of intense despair.

"Dear God," she said. "It can't be."

Chapter Twenty.

A TORTURED CRY escaped her, calved from a sob frozen in her throat. Her
face was drained and colorless, with one hand over her mouth. Behind
her, Dunston silently" agonized over what he saw on the monitor.

"Chrissie's alive, isn't she?" she managed.

"Maks, don't jump to-"

"She is, dammit, and you know it! The poor kid's somewhere in that damn
hospital!"

"We can't be sure of that."

"Bullshit! You escaped from the OR, so why couldn't she? How much proof
do you need, anyway?" She went from page to page, pointing out words on
the monitor.

"July thirtieth: unable to locate subject thought to be C. Lassiter  ...

August nineteenth: nocturnal movements again detected on levels two and
three, search unsuccessful  ...  September twenty-seventh: continuation
of intermittent faint sounds, pattern recognition suggests human
phonation, source elusive. For God's sake, Chad, Christine's alive!

Except she's no big, strong adult like you. She couldn't get out!" All
at once her fury was spent, replaced by anguish. She put her face in her
hands, sobbing, shoulders quaking.

"She's just a little girl, a baby. She's only four years old, and she's
been trapped in that place for six months. She must be scared out of her
mind! We've got to do some7 thing!" He placed his palm on her shoulder,
and her head with its golden hair came to rest against his fingers. He
felt the warmth of a tear on the back of his hand.

"I don't know, Maks. But I'll do my damndest to look for her. One way or
another, we'll find her."

"When you return to the Center, I'm going with you."

"We'll talk about it. We've got a long day tomorrow.

Let's get some sleep.

Maks arose without another word. But in her silence lay resolution, a
fierce and adamant determination that would brook no interference.

The following morning, they arrived at Upton early. Absorbed in their
thoughts, they'd spoken little enroute.

Maks' stated intention of the previous night remained unchallenged. In
the lab, Merlin was already there, as was Sawyer.

"Did you find Dr. Stingley last night?" Sawyer asked.

"It's a long story, Victor. I'd rather not go into it right now.

"As you wish. Ready for the tour?"

"Sure," Dunston said. "Off to the O.R. room." A queer smile spread over
Merlin's face, a look Dunston had never seen.

"I call it the arcade," Merlin said.

He turned and led the way with childlike glee. When they passed into an
ultramodern machine shop, Dunston thought Merlin could just as easily
have been named Q, after the technical genius of James Bond fame who was
quite possibly the inspiration for Merlin's flighty eccentricity.

The half dozen men in "the arcade" were in various stages of activity.

All wore full-length, zippered white surgical coveralls, and white
surgical caps. None paid the slightest attention to Merlin and his
visitors. Three of them, either indolent or bored, sat in a semicircle
on folding chairs, drinking coffee and discussing the Islanders. The
other three were involved in various mechanical projects, bending over
instruments and apparatuses unrecognizable to Dunston. The shop was
mainly silent save for a faint background whistling Dunston found
distracting. Impatience accompanied his mounting curiosity.

I"So, Marlon, how're you going to make me invisible?"

"Who said you'd be invisible?" Sawyer asked.

Dunston whirled, snapping at Sawyer. "Don't screw around with me,
Victor."

Sawyer smiled. "Not invisible to us. To them. Merlin?"

"You familiar with Stealth technology, Doc?"

"Swell," said an exasperated Dunston. "Yesterday I was a toilet. Today,
I'm an airplane. Tomorrow I am a fountain pen."

"Follow me," said Merlin. "I hope you're not claustrophobic." Dunston
peered ahead, mumbling to himself. "Something's not right with this
picture."

". We know you're good at scuba diving."

"Oh, I get it. An underwater airplane." Merlin stopped before a hanger,
from which hung a loose, black body suit, thicker than a diver's wet
suit, but not as bulky as EVA apparel in outer space ventures.

"Beauty, isn't she?"

"Sure is. What is it?"

"We don't have a name for it yet. Mrhen you squeeze into this baby, the
Center's optical sensors couldn't spot you unless you walked up and said
hello. Just be sure not to trip over the floor-level laser guides.

Interrupt their circuits, and they're on to you pronto."

"Comforting thought. How does the suit work?"

"Like this. The Center's optical sensors aren't your typical
TV-surveillance setup, except in the ORS and the patients' rooms. Since
they figured no human would be prowling the halls, the corridor and
stairwell sensors rely on infrared and x-ray wavelengths. That's where
this suit comes in. Move closer, feel it. Heavy?"

"Not too bad," said Dunston.

"Good. We started with a mil-spec, top-of-the-line Navy SEAL neoprene
wet suit. Covers every square centimeter of your body, nothing exposed.

Then we impregnated it with a Stealthlike coating that blocks all five
radar wavelengths that could be aimed at Stealth. Take my word for it,
nothing can see this baby. Not x-ray, not radar. It's deflected, or
absorbed. Follow me?"

"So far."

"Now, the infrared. Humans give away a characteristic heat signature.

Dead giveaway. So what we did was to eliminate the heat by making you
cold."

"Frigid?"

"Are you-trying to be funny?"

"I'm trying to stay alive." Merlin took in Dunston's seriousness. "Fair
enough. I don't think you'd consider it particularly frigid. The suit's
lining is Gore-Tex and Thinsulate, so you'll stay comfortable. Then, we
built in layers of flexible freon coils, woven through every inch of
fabric. To the Center, you'll be a cold nonentity. Do your part and they
won't spot a thing."

"What about my breath? That would show up. Do you use scuba tanks?"

"Forget it, too bulky. We designed a custom air source regulator out of
titanium and ceramic. Not too big, and it's insulated. Just clench it
between your teeth and no heat'll escape. Here you go," he said, holding
up a thin cylinder.

"About the size of an extra-large Corona cigar."

"How much air does it hold?"

"It's not air. It's oxygen. Enough for forty minutes breathing time."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Well, it's triply compressed, about ten thousand psi.

The regulator's in three stages instead of the normal two, which lets us
step down gradually to breathable pressures.

It's also got a diaphragm-type intake valve that mixes ambient air with
the oxygen, so what you wind up with is slightly enriched room air."

"What about when I breathe out?"

"Now that's the beauty of it. Your breath goes back into the suit.

Nothing's vented out. You'll probably breathe more shallowly than usual
because of the pressurization.

Add it A up, and you got forty minutes."

"No problem with oxygen toxicity?"

"No, that's only at depth. At sea level, the only thing you have to
worry about is getting the cylinder hot. Do that and we're talking
heavy-duty explosives.. Just put in the mouthpiece and inhale lightly."

"Forty minutes, huh?"

"Should be plenty of time. Just remember not to spit that thing out
until you're clear of the Center."

"Don't lose any sleep over that. Anything else?"

"I hope you've got nothing planned, because I'm just warming up. Come
over this way." Maks trailed the two of them, keeping silent to dispel
her fears, which were considerable. Dunston and Sawyer followed Merlin
to another workbench, where he dialed the combination to a drawer lock.
The latch clicked open, and a horizontal compartment the shape of a
safety deposit box automatically extended. Merlin lifted the lid and
removed what appeared to be a keyboard. It was the size of a floor tile,
but about two inches thick. He gingerly handed it to Dunston.

"Be careful with that."

Dunston looked it over. "Is this some kind of word processor?"

"Like hell, you say. This is to a word processor what the space shuttle
is to a biplane. That's a laptop computer, my friend. But not just some
IBM Tbinkpad. This is the cutting edge, compadre, the technology of the
year 2000." To Dunston, the computer was eminently nondescript.

"Could've fooled me."

"And it might, if you're not careful. You've gotta understand this
beauty. We kind of borrowed its guts from IBM-Siemens. They've been
collaborating' on a new generation of dynamic access memory chips,
D-RAM.

Most high capacity commercial chips hold four million bits of
information. The Center used chips that store sixteen million bits.

Don't ask me where they got 'em, because I don't know."

"I have a fair idea," said Maks.

"I bet you do, little lady. And I intend on asking you about that later.

Now getting back to what I was saying. A sixteen million-bit,
superconducting chip makes one helluva fast processor. But take a look
at this." Within thirty seconds, Merlin had disassembled the laptop and
cautiously extracted a fingemaii-size sliver of silicon. "This is true
artistry. I realize you probably can't tell the difference, but this
little number is a chip containing sixty-four million bits of
information, the equivalent of ten good-sized novels. There are a bunch
of 'em in the circuitry. And that, Doc, is how you're going to outsmart
the Center." you got this from IBM?" Merlin held a finger to his lips.

"Stop shouting, for Christ's sake. Not got. Borrowed. And these chips
are prototypes, the only ones they have. Lose this laptop, and I'm up
the creek."

"How's this supposed to help me access the files?"

"Simple. You're gonna pull an All, beat 'em to the punch. Float like a
butterfly, wham-barn the suckers with lightning speed before they figure
out what hit them. See these two horizontal slots? We're sending you in
with two floppies. The first is going to FUBAR their hardware-"

"FUBAR?" asked Maks.

"Fucked up beyond all recognition, pardon my French.

It'll drive them crazy, while the second simultaneously accesses and
records the files you want. Capice?"

"How long is this going to take?"

"Long? I'm talking nanoseconds here."

"And none of what I do will harm the patients?"

"Nope. Think of the Center's computers as a human brain. The brain has a
cerebral cortex, which processes thoughts, and a brainstem, or autonomic
nervous system, which keeps the heart pumping. All this laptop'll do is
shut down the cortex-all their minis and micros linked in parallel for
Al functions. But the brainstem won't be touched.

The hospital and patients will be perfectly safe."

"You're sure?"

"What'm I talkin' Greek here? Of course I'm sure. I'd go into details,
but  ..." He looked distractedly about.

"Where's McKitrick?"

"I expect her any moment," said Sawyer.

"I'll leave the explanations for her. I build the stuff,-but she knows
how to apply it." Dunston looked around for Cheryl and wondered what
bizarre getup she'd be wearing today. A stray thought nagged him.

"Marlon, let's say I make it to the computer center. Where am I supposed
to hook this thing up?"

"Into any port on the mainframe. There are dozens. I'll show you the
schematics. They'll accept ordinary RS-232 cables, just like the wires
that link the video monitor to the CPU you got at home. All that stuff's
industry standard.

It'd probably be easier to yank a plug out of one of their minis and put
yours in, but that's the area you're going to be shutting down. Anyway,
they can't see you. So what difference does it make?"

"What happens if I don't make it to the computer center?"

"Why shouldn't you?" Dunston shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe I'll trip and
break a leg. Wearing that outfit, I'm not exactly Baryshnikov." Merlin
knew what was bothering him. "Worried about the autobots?"

"The thought had occurred to me." Merlin opened another drawer and
withdrew a gadget the size of a toaster. "In that case, you resort to
this. It's a portable coax H-V probe, which we can hook onto the suit.

They use one like it for cable injection testing."

"For what?"

"Testing electrical conductors. Phone wires, antennas, communications
equipment. And computers, of course.

You see, all that stuff is very susceptible to interruption by
electromagnetic pulse, EMP "I thought that only happened in nuclear
explosions," said Maks.

"That's right. Problem is, the government can't exactly go around
setting off nuclear bombs to test communications devices. So it relies
on EMP simulators. of which this is one." His lips widened into a
disturbingly maniacal grin.

"Somewhat modified by me."

"Modified how?"

"Thought you'd never ask. You see, a simulator injects a signal, not
unlike EMP, to see if the internal circuitry can withstand the energy
generated. I won't bore you with the different types of simulators and
their wavelengths. This wonderful device injects an oscillating decaying
frequency that delivers a thousand kilowatts in a hundred megahertz
bandwidth. A dose of that, and your autobot'll melt like wax."

"How does it work?"

"Like this," continued Merlin. "Ordinarily, a simulator injects pulses
into individual pin connectors in the conductor they're testing.

Delicate work, and cumbersome. Dials to turn, rot like that. But fire up
this gizmo," he said, touching a small red button, "and you're ready for
action." When he pressed, a dual-pronged antenna projected twelve inches
out of the simulator's metallic skin. At its tips, an inch apart, were
glistening silvery knobs resembling buckshot. "The prongs are insulated
' but not the tips.". He hit the button once more. "Press a second time,
and you're in business." An intense crackling noise arose from between
the metallic tips, the sound of unbridled energy. He released the button
and the sound disappeared. "Works like a stun gun. No adaptor plates, no
pin testers, no distribution cables. Just a quick zap, and this'll
release a coupled surge that'll liquefy the most hardened conductor."

"Isn't the autobot's frame protected?"

"No, just the outer walls of the Center itself. Who'd figure on a ninja
in a wet suit jousting with a roving robot?

If it doesn't get you first, the thing's no match for you."

"An encouraging thought."

"Now, let's give that suit a try. We have a couple of sizes. Dr. Sawyer
figured you for a medium large, but we can take in or let out parts, if
we have to." Dunston peeled down to his underwear and, with Merlin's
help, pulled on the suit. It felt very much like an ordinary wet suit,
only buwjer. It fit Re a second skin, yet it was surprisingly flexible.
h was one-piece construction, with a neoprene-like hood and boots
already attached to allow an uninterrupted circulation of the coolant
Inside, Dunston felt surprisingly comfortable, without the immediate
sweating that befalls the out-of-water diver. The hood covered his
entire face, the only opening being for his nose.

The eye slits had lenses of insulated silicon.

"How's your vision?"

"Pretty good. No fog."

"You lose a little peripheral, but that's unavoidable.

Turn around, give it a whirl." Dunston gave the suit a brief workout. He
tried a few jumping jacks, side flexes, and deep knee bends. The fabric
hugged his every movement.

"How's the temperature?" asked Merlin.

"Cooler than I expected."

"Good. I was afraid it'd get too warm." He stepped behind a nearby panel
and flicked some switches, eyeing the readings on adjacent gauges.

"Perfect. The invisible man. All I can see is your mouth. I suppose you
could keep it shut, but suffocation's not in the plan." He walked back
to Dunston. "Let's fit that EMP. simulator. You've got a lot of hardware
here, so pay attention and don't get confused. Everything'll be attached
with Velcro straps. The laptop's most important, so we'll hang it right
in front, at waist level, even with your fingertips. With any luck, you
won't be needing the simulator, but the best place for it is around your
thigh. You got a preference for right or left?"

"Left, I guess. So if the autobot attacks, I just press the button
twice?"

"Yep."

"And then what? Knee him to death with the box?"

"No, the antennas have an extender, remember? Before, I let it out about
a foot. But keep that button pressed down, and it'll extend out to eight
feet. Everything but the tips are insulated, so just grab and point the
extender in your hand and twang the metal toad like you're its fairy
godmother." They turned. "All, Miss. McKitrick." Cheryl's green eyes
stared at Dunston. She cocked her head to one side, inspecting him as if
he were an alien.

"Positively neolithic."

"By the way, darling," she said-to Maks, "did you get the documents I
faxed you?"

"To my house?"

"No, to your office. Yesterday afternoon."

"I was gone, Cher."

"Oh, well. I can send it to your home. Anyway," she continued, pulling
two floppy diskettes from her briefcase,

"this is what's going to make the Center spin its guts."

"All that on two floppies?" said Dunston.

"Yes, Doctor. All that. One sends one receives." She paused. "You want
me to continue, or are you going to keep on playing Lloyd Bridges?"

"Merlin, are we done with this thing?"

"Until tomorrow. Let me help you." Dunston pulled out of the suit until
he'd stripped down to his underwear. He was aware of Cheryl's sidelong
glances, but he was accustomed to the occasional coed changing in the.

OR locker rooms; He said nothing until he'd donned a pair of white
coveralls. "You're on, Cheryl.

This is big time, huh?"

"The biggest. I don't give a crap about the Center's superconductivity.

This'll make their sixteen bitters flea.

You got one of those loaner chips, Merlin?"

"Right here." He carefully handed it to her with a tweezers. She
inspected it with a hand-held magnifier.

"Gallium arsenide. With insulated, bipolar, field-effect transistors.

Their electron velocities are five times greater than the Center's
silicon chips. I know this is a little technical, Chad, but trust me.

The circuitry's perfect."

"What are you going to do with this stuff?"

"Simple. We're going to change the parity."

"The sequence of zeroes and ones?"

"Right. Once we're online, with the floppies, your laptop will give
warp-speed instructions to the computer center to alter its parity into,
say, all odd numbers. Now, that won't make sense to them, because their
computers are used to their own parity sequence. So they'll run a parity
check.

One of their SEC controller chips-"

"Securities and Exchange Commission?"

"Get real. Serial communications controller. It'll realize something's
wrong and order an interrupt routine. When it tries to reinitialize
their hardware-which doesn't take a lot of time, but it's time they
ain't got-our floppy FLJBAR's their packet."

"What packet?"

"A ' bit stream's a packet. You know, numerical bytes.

But while they're doing that, our sixty-four-bit floppy retransmits
first and neutralizes them. They'll be temporarily out of commission.

Not long, but enough. They'll be down.

And while they're down, you activate the second floppy to access their
files, the ones about the Human Genome Project and what they're doing
with it. Shouldn't take long.

By the time they finish reinitialization, you should have gotten
everything we want."

"That's all it takes?"

"If it works."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you're on your own. But it should."

"And after that?"

"You haul ass out of there with the floppy containing their files, and
come home to momma. We'll make sense of it."

"I don't know. This hardly sounds foolproof." She shrugged. "Best we
could do under the circumstances." Dunston's mind was already awhirl,
reviewing other things on his personal agenda, things he knew would
consume precious minutes. "How much breathing time, again?"

"About forty minutes," said Merlin. "If you don't push it, forty-five."
Forty-five minutes, he thought. Enough time, he wondered, to steal down
to the computer center, foul up the works, access the files, do some
personal prowling around, and escape? He'd be cutting it awfully close.

"How am I supposed to get out of the place?"

"Same way you got it. Up two flights and out the service door. The doors
don't lock from the inside, so you don't have to sweat it. Of course,
you could probably go right out the lobby and through the front door.
Who's going to see you but some freaked-out families? But we'd prefer
you went out the back. We'll have a car waiting there for you."

"Okay," Dunston agreed. "From the top. Take me through this whole thing
again." It took them all day for Dunston to review the entire process,
stopping only for a hurried lunch. By four P.m. he was finished, if not
exhausted. They'd been through the routine a half dozen times. He
figured he'd absorbed 0 he possibly could in the short time allotted
before his return.

He also knew he'd earned an evening's relaxation and a shot at a decent
night's rest. Sawyer and Cheryl bid their adieus. He waved good-bye and
thumbs up, staying behind with Maks to help Merlin pack up. Merlin
pulled him aside.

"Just remember, you haven't got all day'in there."

"Why do you keep reminding me?"

"You're planning a little side trip, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I'm no dummy. And because I know everything that happened to
you. And because I'd do the same thing, if I were in your shoes."
Dunston's eyebrows raise. "Like what?"

"Like taking a little walk back through the lab to see what's in there.

Like getting a look at their STM. Like trying to figure out what you
thought you saw moving outside the lab. You know, little stuff."

"We know what he saw," said Maks.

"You do? Since when?" While Merlin stood there stunned, Maks and Dunston
reviewed the previous evening's events. The recitation took them little
more than ten minutes. Merlin could only shake his head.

"What about the diskette? He should have told us about that." "Yeah,
but I'm betting he didn't know what to make of it. You'd have to be
aware of what happened to Christine to come up with that kind of
deduction."

"And Christine? This isn't the sort of information you can overlook."

"Oh, I don't plan to. Seeing if I can find her ranks right up there with
locating their STM. I didn't want to tip my hand while Victor was here,
because I don't know how he'd react. He might've been inclined to cancel
the whole thing."

"There's still the time factor, you know."

"I'm aware of that. Don't worry, I know I've got a job to do. But if I
can pinpoint Christine's location, it'll make getting her out of there
all that much easier." Merlin nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. Just so you
remember the priorities." He changed the subject. "Ever seen an STM?"

"No, but it must look like any other electron microscope."

"Not at all. It's tiny, like an old, circular forty-five record player
with this erector set and fly wheels on top. Not that it matters. The
Center doesn't have an STM."

"What?" said Maks.

"Victor doesn't know it, but the Center has an ARM, an atomic force
microscope. To be precise, an optical lever "6p-m. 11

Dunston looked like the wind had been let out of his sails. "Oh great."

"Don't start having seizures on me. It's not such a big deal. They're
not an that different. This is how they work: an STM uses a sharp
tungsten probe to move along a surface. It keeps the electron tunneling
current constant, so it can trace the hills and valleys in an atom's
landscape. On the other hand, an optical lever ARM works by bouncing a
laser beam off a little mirror on a diamond tip. Light reflected by the
moving mirror is detected by a position sensor. The tiniest deflection
is amplified, or levered, by the system's geometry to measure surface
changes in the atoms, or in the interatomic forces." He looked into
their faces for signs of understanding. "That's it in a nutshell.

They don't look all that different."

"No more tunneling?"

"Nope. Just a thin laser beam, a mirror, a diamond tip, an optical
deflector, and a round pan, which looks like something Edison invented."

Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I want to keep You out of trouble. And anyway, I've got a
little score to settle with that place."

"That makes three of us. What's your beef?"

"Borrowing some of my research, for starters." He turned and removed a
small shotgun from a recessed, pantrylike cupboard. "Take a look at
this.,,

"I'd rather not. I've seen what those things can do."

"This just might save your life. I say that if it's good enough for the
Secret Service, it's good enough for you.

Just between us, it'll be a year before they get their hands on this
particular model. You've shot before?"

"Some skeet, sporting clays. Never considered myself that good."

"Probably the firearm, not you. It doesn't matter. This isn't a
marksman's tool. It's a modified scatter gun." The entire piece was no
more than sixteen inches long, of matte finish, glareless black. Merlin
pointed out the various parts.

"Twelve-inch barrel, more than sufficient at the range you might need.

We're talking twenty feet, max. Magazine extender tube underneath. Holds
six rounds. This is the pistol grip, which you hold in your right hand.

The trigger's in front of it. Your left hand grasps the forestock.

Okay?"

"So fr."

"Now, this is an autoloader. You don't aim the thing.

You shoot from the hip. Just point and pull the trigger. The recoil's
pretty fierce, but you're a shooter. I figure you can handle it This
piece is already loaded, so be careful. See that button in front of the
trigger guard?"

"Yeah, the little red thing."

"That's your safety. Pushed in like that, it's on safe.

I)Ush it out," he indicated with his finger, "and YOU Can blast away."
He pushed it in again and handed it barrel first to Dunston.

Dunston hefted it up and down. "Lighter than I thought."

"Four and a half pounds. All plastic, Kevlar, and ceramic, except the
barrel. We'll strap it to your right thigh across from the EMP
simulator. It won't even reach your knee.

"What's it loaded with?" Merlin scratched the stubble of his chin. "I
had to give that some thought. The first two rounds are, well, little
cluster bombs. Eight pellets of double-ought buck, nitroceliue lose
base, C-4 explosive. Blows up on contact with the target. it won't put
down an autobot but it'll blow a computer into plastic and wire
fragments. The next two rounds are specially hardened number four
buckshot." used for what?"

"People, mainly. Tear'em in half."

"You expect me to run into people?" I don't know what to expect, but I
figure it can't hurl" And the last two rounds?"

"Something we perfected from the frogs. It's a seventy millimeter-long
slug they called Silverplus. Used to be made of steel. We modified it to
have a uranium-carbide core. It's intended for penetration." That could
make quite a hole."

"The copr, used 'die original Silverplus for shooting through car doors
and engine blocks. With this core, you can expect five inches
penetration into solid iron, eighteen inches into concrete, and God
knows how much anything else."

"You really think I'm going to need the "Boy scout motto, Doc. Be
prepared."

"Fine by me. That it?"

"Not quite. Now we're all expecting you to make it to the computer
center, right?"

"That's the general idea." Merlin held up a piece of black cable. "Boy
scout motto again."

"Be prepared?"

"It can't hurt. Let's say, for some crazy reason, you don't get down
there. When I went over the architectural plans, I noticed that every
fifty feet or so there was a wall jack. A sort of sprocket that an
autobot or service robot could plug into."

"For what9"

"Maybe its floor guidance system became defective and it had to link up
with the computer center, I don't know.

Anyway, the plans also show connections from these jacks right to the
mainframe. Voilti." He held up the twenty-four-inch cable like it was a
dead eel. "This is our modification of Digital's Thinwire coax. One end
has an adaptor for your laptop, the other plugs into the wall jack. Any
problems, plop this baby in, and you have interactive access to the
computer center." He rolled up the cable and tucked it into one of the
neoprene suit's zippered pockets.

I Dunston smiled. "Thanks, Marlon. Could come in handy."

"You bet. Oh, one more thing." He went to a drawer and carefully removed
several sheets of tissue paper. Between them was a quarter-size circle
of what appeared to be clear glass. He held it up to the light, grasping
it by the edges to avoid smudging. "I got this from some buddies at NASA
who owed me a favor. This is a laser-polished magnifying lens, made at
the Coming Glass Works around the same time they worked on the Hubble
Telescope."

"Interesting. What's it for?"

resort stuff. Think back for a second to uses an FEL, a free electron
laser. The difference between it and a gas or solid-state laser is that
the i @ uses an accelerator, whose magnetic field helps it add energy to
light waves. The Center has a simplified, compact accelerator with
unusually low voltage requirements. But don't let its size fool you. Its
power potential is enormous.

"If the ARM's in the lab, which I bet it is, and you're in a pinch, get
to that ARM. Turn it on and refocus the laser beam by re-aiming it off
the mirror near the diamond tip. Hold this magnifier lens in the laser
stream and point it toward, well, a target."

"What'll it do?"

"I don't know. It's never been tested. But unless I miss my guess, this
magnifier will produce a quantum surge of energy out of that beam. It
could be dangerous, but we're down to crunch time. Might blow the whole
place apart. But if your life's on the line, you might want to consider
it.

Here," he said, rewrapping it in the tissue paper. "Stick it in your
pocket. With any luck, you won't have to use it, and it'll be a souvenir
for your grandkids." His hands fell to his sides. "Guess that's it. No
more trinkets." Dunston shook his hand with gratitude. "You really are a
wizard, Marlon. I appreciate everything you've done. I hope I never have
to use this stuff. But you know what?

I'm scared to death. That place terrifies me. I want a quick mission-in
and out. Yet maybe something will mess things up. If I have to resort to
any of your gadgets, I'll be one grateful guy." He reached out and
hugged the man closely. "Thanks, pal." Tears in his eyes, he took Maks'
hand, turned, and left.

Dunston had another doctor covering for him. Ever since his misgivings
during the splenectomy, he thought it best for his own welfare, and that
of his patients, to postpone patient care until the present matter was
resolved. Thus he left Upton with Maks and drove back to her place with
mixed emotions. On one hand, he was relieved that the matter would soon
be settled, one way or another. on the other, the idea of actually
returning to the Center was giving him nearly hallucinogenic flashbacks.
He had recurrent visions of the autobot stalking him like a pheasant
trapped in a cornfield.

When they reached her place, Maks opened the door and turned on the
lights. Dunston had come to realize that he loved her with a frightening
intensity. Until he met her, he thought that, for devotion and loyalty,
there was nothing like a small dog. But now, he was determined to have
her not just physically, or even spiritually, but in her entirety.

It was strange how their romance had blossomed without sexual intimacy.

It wasn't for lack of interest. The mood had just never been quite
right; and on the ram occasions that it was, one jarring development or
another had posed emotional stumbling blocks. Theirs was a relationship
of mutual trust and support. Dunston presumed that when the right moment
came along, they would both -know it. He didn't question their emotional
compatibility, or that he might even ask her to marry him. Assuming he
survived.

While he put away his jacket, she went into the kitchen, returning
moments later holding a crystalline pitcher filled with martinis. In an
era of light beer and catalog merchandising, the image was a bit. dated,
but Lord, a stiff drink was just what Dunston wanted. She wordlessly
gave him a glass and poured. The pitcher was frosty, beaded with
condensation, a stream of thin rivulets forming a jagged pattern when
she filled his glass.

"Are we in the mood for a double today?"

"More like a triple." He took a deep sip. "God, that's fantastic. What's
in it?"

"Just gin and vermouth, with a twist. The secret's'in the
refrigeration."

"You don't say?"

" You keep it in the freezer. I mixed it before we left. It beats room
temperature or ice cubes. Makes it viscous, sort of oily. Can you tell?"
He emptied his glass in a long swallow and held it out for another. "I
sure can." She smiled and shook her head. "Emily Post says you're
supposed to sip it."

"Screw Emily Post."

"A little late for that, unless you're into necrophilia." She took a sip
of her drink. "I meant what I said last night, Chad,. About going with
you."

"Of course you are. In the van."

"No, I want to go in with you. Into the hospital itself."

"Out of the question. Maks, I'm risking my life going in there. It's
dangerous enough as it is. There's no way I'd want to jeopardize you."

"But don't you see, the Center never heard of me. I think we'd stand a
much better chance if there were two of us.

It knows everything about you, sure. But to them, I'm a cipher, an
unknown. They don't know what I look like, what I sound like, my blood
type, nada. To the Center, I'm a complete stranger."

"Stranger or not, they'd kill you in a second."

"Not if they don't see me. Merlin's got those suits in different sizes,
right? I'm sure the small one would fit me."

"Forget it. This is a one man job. What could you hope to accomplish?"

"This." Maks walked away from him, toward a closet.

He watched her glide across the carpet. Before she made the martinis,
she'd slipped into an oversize sweatshirt.

Christ, he thought, she looked fabulous, even when dressing down. Maks
vanished into the clothes closet and emerged carrying what looked like a
portable typewriter.

"Merlin's got his special laptop," she said, "and f've got mine."

"That's a laptop?"

"Yes, sir. A prototype digital optical laptop. I'm sure this is what
Merlin wanted to talk to fm about at the shop, if we'd had time."

"It's a lot bigger than his."

She nodded. "Enough to give him penis envy. Optics use lasers, and those
beams need lenses instead of wiring.

The number of lenses makes it a tad larger."

"What do you hope to accomplish with that thing?"

"This machine operates at more than a billion cycles per second.

Compared to this, his laptop's speed is puny. Optics let you process an
incredible amount of information simultaneously. You use the optical
channels to link computers, don't you see?" He wasn't sure he did. "Link
for what?"

"Look, I'm not asking for much. I have no intention of going
hand-to-hand with an autobot. All you have to do is get me near one of
those wall jacks Merlin described. My laptop uses the same linkup cables
as his. While you go about your business, I'll hang around the wall
jack. Once you've FUBAR'D their system, I'll know. The whole place will
come winding down. That'll be my signal to plug in my cable and do what
I have to do."

"Which is?"

"Find out about Christine. It'll work, believe me."

"Why didn't you tell Merlin about this?" She hesitated. "We haven't
exactly tested it yet." 11 Christ, first him, then you! I say forget it.

It's too damn risky-"

"Chad, please! I know you're trying to protect me, but don't you see how
important this is to me?"

"I know, but-"

"No buts! Just call Merlin and ask him, okay?" She paused, a beseeching
expression on her face. "I promise to go along with whatever he says."

"Even if he says no?"

"Even if." He knew he had no choice; he couldn't deny her a simple phone
call. "All right, one call."

"And you'll let me talk to him?"

"Yes, provided you agree his word is final."

"Okay.,, Dunston walked to -the phone, knowing this was a gamble that
might be the biggest coup in his life-or his biggest mistake.

Chapter Twenty-one.

MAKS' CALL TO Merlin was patched through to Victor Sawyer. Dunston
stayed off the phone, pacing back and forth as he listened in the
background. During the brief conference call, Maks made a convincing
pitch. From the tone of her conversation, Dunston could tell that she
was winning them over. Finally she hung up, a smile on her face. Merlin,
she said, promised to take care of everything.

When he finished his drink, Dunston was tired. He went upstairs to take
a relaxing, hot shower followed, perhaps, by a brief nap. He wanted to
be well rested prior to their ordeal in the morning. After bathing, he
left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Maks was in the
computer room, standing over the fax machine. Dunston walked in and
peered over her shoulder. Maks looked at his damp hair.

"That's what I'd like," she said. "May be a bath."

"Find anything interesting?"

"No, just some loose ends on Schmidt. Cheryl faxed them over. His health
history" personal data. It's not very useful now." She put down the
documents. "Here, take a took.

She left the room and prepared for her shower. Feeling lighthearted from
the drinks, Dunston lazily leafed through the dozen or so papers- Cheryl
had made a thorough search.

There were several discharge summaries from Schmidt's repeated
hospitalizations, an impressive arrest record, Internal Revenue Service
documents, and. social security information. The final page was a copy
of an old driver's license photo. Dunston picked it up, frowning.

Confused, he went in search of Maks.

He heard the water already running in the shower. Dunston rapped . on
the door and got no answer. Easing it open, he poked his head into the
room.

"Hey, Maks?"

"I'll be out in a second."

"Why did Cheryl fax you a picture of Arthur?"

"A picture of who?"

"Forget it. Finish your shower." Dunston stared at the fax, perplexed.

The man in the picture was a dead ringer for his friend. A sickening
thought occurred to him. Was it possible that Arthur was still  ...  No,
he had seen the dead body. Returning downstairs, he poured a final
martini from the frosty pitcher and quickly downed it, warmed by the
fire in his gut. The fax didn't make any sense. He tried to figure it
out, but the alcohol was making his head spin. As the thoughts went
round and round in his head, he walked unsteadily to the couch. Finally
he sat down and closed his eyes, forcing himself to think. But in less
than a minutephe was asleep.

W hen Dunston awoke on the couch, he was stiff and perspiring. A nearby
lamp burned brightly. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. According to his
watch, it was one A.M.

He switched off the light. For several moments, he sat there in the dark
and tried to remember what he was doing there.

Suddenly, it all came flooding back-the photo, his brief conversation
with Maks, the drinks. It made no more sense to him now than it-did
earlier.

He recalled that they were due to leave for the Center at seven in the
morning. He was ready to do battle, but it was an uneasy readiness. His
thoughts crept through the darkness, like secrets.

He wondered where Maks was. He sat up slowly, hammered by a splitting
headache. He carefully got to his feet and went to the bathroom for a
Motrin. He found the medication vial, took one, and washed it down with
tap water.

As he closed the door to the medicine cabinet, he again Spotted the
smaller bottle with Christine's name on it. He picked it up and realized
that the label's inscription was one of those loose ends that had been
nagging him. Serophene  ...  He returned it to the shelf.

Passing the master bedroom, he saw that Maks was curled up asleep. He
didn't want to wake her. He continued slowly walking across the carpet
toward Christine's room, brows knitted in the darkness, when it struck
him. He suddenly remembered that Serophene was a brand name for
clomiphene citrate, a drug used in reproductive endocrinology. It was
usually prescribed to stimulate ovulation in certain infertility
patients. He was mystified.

With renewed uneasiness, he paused before he got into bed. Christine had
gone to the Center for a routine tonsillectomy, only to die from a rare
cardiac disorder. Could the Serophene have contributed to her death?

From what he recalled of the drug, he doubted it. More to the point, why
would anyone want to make a young child ovulate? And what worried him
most of all, if the vial's dates were accurate, and assuming Christine
took the drug as prescribed, the medication would have made her ovulate
on the exact. day she entered the Center. The whole idea was sickeningly
preposterous.

He. felt chilled to the bone and returned to the master bedroom. Without
disturbing Maks, he pulled up the covers and moved as close to her as
possible, drawing what heat he could from her body. Unable to sleep, he
stared into the darkness, unblinking, trying to calm the terror mounting
within him. In a few hours, he was going back to the Center.

Chapter Twenty-two.

DUNSTON EARD THE crush of driveway gravel and pulled back the bedroom
curtain's sash. It was 6:30. Outside, the van, the size of a UPS
delivery truck, slowly pulled to a stop, omitting a horn honk of
arrival. On its side was written, "H&R Plumbing and Contracting."
Dunston could see the driver, dressed in beige coveralls. No doubt the
others, including, at Sawyer's request, captain Donohue, were within. He
heard Maks' voice behind him.

"You're UP."

"Finally. The van's here. Are you ready to go?" Maks emerged from the
bathroom walking in that graceful, slinky gait he adored and entered the
clothes closet. He could tell she was on edge. It didn't take her long
to dress.

She came out moments later, wearing an oversize pullover big shirt, long
and loose, with a drawstring tie. Below it, capri-length leggings hugged
her limbs.

He went to Mr. Lassiter's closet and put on a T-shirt, sweatpants, and
sneakers, knowing he'd soon be changing in the truck. "I guess we're
outta here," he said. "Sooner begun, sooner done. Come on. Let's do it."

"Ready when you are." She touched his face with a trembling hand.

"Worried?"

"Does it- show?"

"Probably not as much as I am. But everything'll be okay. I just know
it."

"Where'd you get your confidence?"

"From you." Hand in hand, they descended the staircase, crossing into
the kitchen.

There was an abbreviated honk from the van. "We better get going." She
looked at the wall clock. it was precisely seven.

They left the kitchen, crossed through the foyer, and went out the back
door. It was a brisk, overcast day, hinting of rain. At their approach,
the van's side door slid open. Merlin's face was first to appear top of
the mornin' to you, Doc. Slept well, I hope?"

"Well as can be expected." 44Good. You're going to need it. We're right
on schedule. Miss. Lassiter," he said, fixing Maks with a stare, "I hope
your laptop's as good as you claim. Your lives depend on it.,,

"Don't worry. It is." Chad followed Maks. The darkened interior was
light enough to see by. In addition to the packing crates, both sides of
the cab had low, bracketed metal benches. Cheryl sat on one, feigning
boredom. The others watched-Donohue, a technician, and Sawyer-waved or
said perfunctory, nervous hellos. There was just enough bench room for
the newcomers, who squeezed in beside one another. Sawyer rose to close
the door, then knocked twice on the driver's partition. The van took
off. Sawyer checked his watch. 4'It's a forty-minute ride, barring
traffic. We shouldn't run into any problems on a Saturday morning- On
the way here, Merlin rounded up gear for Miss. Lassiter, and I stopped
by the office to have our computer touch base with the Center's
receiving department. They're still expecting a shipment. No last minute
changes. We're in business."

"Time to get suited up, guys," said Merlin. "Maks, mind if I check out
your hush-hush laptop while you change?" She nodded and began to
disrobe. A jealously protective part of Dunston was glad to see that she
wore underwear.

He stripped down to his undershorts. "Just leave our outer stuff on the
bench?"

Merlin nodded and carefully examined the laptop.

"Pretty fancy. You sure this'll work?"

"I hope so, for my sister's sake."

"You honestly think she's still alive?"

"I do." On the open highway, the van picked up speed. With
understandable jitteriness, everyone was silent, the only sound being
the vehicle's monotonous drone. Merlin had packed everything Chad and
Maks would need in a large cardboard box behind the three wooden crates.

He opened it and carefully unfolded the insulated suits. He stood up
and, holding one by the shoulders, helped Dunston pull on the tighter
areas. Then they both assisted Maks.

The process was cumbersome, hindered by the van's motion. Dunston began
to sweat. Before their hoods were applied, Merlin probed the suits'
lumbar areas for switches which would activate the circulating coolant.

After their hoods were on, the coolant began flowing. The immediate
change in skin temperature was a welcome relief. After making final
adjustments and securing the hood, Dunston turned to Maks.

"Is this right out of GQ, or what?"

"Which planet are we visiting today?"

"Good question."

"Turn this way, guys." With exacting care, and assisted by the
technician, Merlin affixed the remaining paraphernalia. The laptop
computers went on first. The auxiliary cables, coiled like sunning
snakes, were taped to the top in clear plastic bags, which also
contained the floppies. Next, for Dunston, came the EMP simulator,
followed by the hip-mounted shotgun.

"What the hell is that?" asked Donohue.

"Something your department might get i@ ten years. If it's lucky."

"Hope he doesn't need a permit for that thing. It'd break my heart to
arrest him now."

"Never thought of that," said Merlin. "How're we doin' for time?"

"Fifteen minutes," said Sawyer.

Merlin stepped back and looked everything over.

"How's it feel in there?" Dunston carefully jogged in place, then
glanced at Maks.

She nodded. "We won't win any marathons, but it'll do."

"I don't give a damn about races. I want you to survive.

Chad and Maks shared a silent look.

"That little goody's in your breast pocket," Merlin said of the lens.

"Just in case."

"What little goody?" Sawyer asked.

"Insurance policy," Merlin deflected. "Okay, folks.

Time to turn you into cargo. Might be a little cramped, Miss. Lassiter.

It wasn't designed for the two of you. You'll have to sit on his lap.

"Oh, how romantic."

"What about the regulators?" asked Dunston.

"Not till we get there. Just follow his lead, Miss. Lassiter.

Keep it out of your mouth until you're loaded. Ready for the crate?"
Chad looked at Maks, who nodded despite the tears in her eyes. "Okay,
Mr. Wizard," said Dunston. "Turn us into a toilet. Pity. Cinderella
settled for a slipper." They unroofed the thick crate with a crowbar.

Dunston carefully climbed in first, with the help of a stepstool,
Merlin, and the tech. A chair was in the crate, bolted to the floor.

Dunston sat down and strapped himself in, impressed: they'd even
provided a seatbelt. Then he helped Maks clamber over the top, swinging
the laptop up to his chest so she could sit on his thighs. He put his
arms around her.

"Comfy?" he asked.

She forced an upbeat tone. "Beats warming."

"Time?" Merlin said.

"Six minutes.

"Okay, Doc. Take these regulators." He reached up. "Got 'em."

"Miss. Lassiter, follow the Doc's lead. Don't panic and You'll be fine.

As soon as we pull to a stop, we'll seal the crate. Any last minute
questions?"

"You're not carrying a spare rosary, by any chance?"

"Sorry, Plumb out." He slapped the side of the crate.

"Sit tight."

Dunston strapped them both in and inspected their new things, the
rough-hewn walls of a wooden crate. Maks' head was just below boxtop
level, shielding them from the others in the van. Alone with his
thoughts, Dunston mused about what he knew and didn't know. - From
outside the crate came forced words of encouragement from Sawyer.

Soon the van began to slow, beginning a series of easy turns that
eventually led to the Center.

"Places," Merlin called. Everyone other than Merlin and the technician,
who now both wore H&R Plumbing coveralls, squeezed behind a partition.

From the back door, only the two men and three boxes were visible.

Merlin handed Dunston a small crowbar. "I only put in four nails, one in
each corner. Once you're in place, just jimmy 'em loose. Leave the bar
on the bottom of the box.

And remember, no regulators until you feel the crate being lifted out of
the van. Got it? I I'M] set." Merlin smiled. "Good hunting, guys." He
pulled the box's square lid atop the crate and began inserting the
nails.

Inside, all was darkness. Maks felt a momentary disorientation, which
soon left her. She sensed the van coming to a stop, probably for the
driver to show his ID, before resuming speed. A minute later, it stopped
again, then backed up and halted. Maks guessed they were adjacent the
offloading ramp. She was comforted by Dunston's arms.

Their crate was last, third in line. In the distance, Dunston heard a
mechanized whir, a sound he'd come to associate with autobots. Despite
the comfortable temperature of his suit, his skin turned to gooseflesh.

The whirring noise grew louder as the autobot approached, drawing to a
stop beside. the van's 6pen doors. There, came another sound,
electrical, this time, lower pitched, followed by a muffled thump on the
van's door.

"Give me a hand getting this thing onto the fork lift," Merlin said.

Dunston whispered to Maks. "I'll give you the signal to put in the
regulator. Slow, easy breaths, like I showed you.

Okay?" Her reply was a reassuring squeeze of his forearm.

One by one, the crates were removed from the van. Dunston imagined they
were probably being transferred to a dolly pulled by the autobot.

Finally, he felt the two metal lifts slide under the crate. In the
darkness, he fought the nauseating tug of vertigo as they were pulled
into the air, then slowly carried backward, out of the van. He signalled
Maks. They both put in their regulators as the van's doors closed with a
resounding thump.

Maks felt the forklift move them backwards, stop, then swivel to one
side. She sensed the crate descending until it came to rest on the
dolly's flat surface. The metal lifts slid out from under the box. They
were alone.

It dawned on Dunston that he'd been holding his, breath.

He inhaled, and the triple-pressurized air forcibly flooded his lungs,
as if he were scuba diving at a depth of ninety feet. Reminding himself
that his air was limited, he inhaled slowly, evenly, avoiding the
panicky impulse to hyperventilate. He listened carefully, reassured by
the smooth, regular sound of Maks, inhalations. Soon his breaths were as
shallow as he could comfortably manage.

They started to move. The second crate gently nudged theirs, jostled out
of the grasp of inertia. Within seconds, they were moving at a steady
pace. Maks sensed the dropoff of a small declivity, probably a ramp.

They were descending into the Center.

Chapter Twenty-three.

Dunston's SKIN TINGLED with the fear of imminent discovery. Much as he
wanted to believe Merlin's pretensions as to their invisibility, he
inwardly expected a warning klaxon to start blaring at any moment. He
nervously fingered the crowbar with one hand while touching the
shotgun's pistol grip with the other. But nothing occurred ' The 'ride
was smooth and virtually soundless. They proceeded deeper into the
building.

A digital watch with faint, visible numbers was built into the suit at
the inner left wrist. Two minutes had elapsed.

The mechanized wagon train stopped, backed up, and slowly inched forward
several feet before drawing to a halt.

This was followed by the sudden roller-coaster sensation of the floor
dropping away, and Maks' stomach wanted to rise into her chest. She was
on an elevator, descending.

An increasingly basso whir of overhead gears, followed by a gradual
stop, marked the end of their plunge. If things were going according to
plan, they should now be on level two. They jolted forward, the autobot
pulling their wheeled platform. Dunston remained motionless, listening,
sifting the silence for audible clues. He sensed Maks shiver, and he
held her more tightly. They picked up speed, rounding one corner, then
another. Finally, after what seemed an in terminable ride, they slowed
to a stop. All was quiet. He looked at his watch. Five minutes elapsed.

They had to get out of there soon.

There came the sound of uncoupling as the flatbed was freed from the
autobot. Something moved-an unloading crane, or the arms of the autobot,
Maks couldn't tell which.

Then, one by one, the crates were offloaded onto the floor.

Once accomplished, the crates were abandoned. She heard the muffled
click of the autobot linking up with the now empty dolly. Then came the
muted, rubberized hum of autobot and dolly, growing inaudible as they
receded into the distance. She took a deep, relaxing breath and patted
Chad on the thigh. With any luck, they were truly alone.

Dunston checked his watch: seven minutes. Once satisfied that all was
silent, he motioned for Maks to move sideways off his lap. He took the
crowbar in both hands. He could tell that they were sweating beneath the
neoprene, yet his grip was firm. He had a mini Mag-Lite in one of his
pockets, but he wanted to avoid unnecessary light at all costs. Using
his gloved fingers, he found the seam where the lid mated with the
crate. He wedged the crowbar into the gap and began to pry.

He was afraid the nails would emit a rusty screech. Yet Merlin must have
lubricated them, or used ones made of Teflon, for the lid came off
without a sound. Dunston and Maks slowly stood up, holding the lid over
their heads. As his gaze rose from within the crate, he could see light.

It was faint, a reflection from the red beams of the laser guidance
system, resembling the red glow of a photographer's darkroom, but
fainter. Still, it was enough to see by. He carefully looked around.

They were in one of the Center's labyrinthine corridors.

It was fifteen feet wide and equally as high, made of the precast
concrete typical of the Center's construction. More important, thought
Maks, it was empty. The three crates stood squarely in the middle of the
hall, at least five feet away from the pencil-thin red beams on either
wall. There were no other boxes or car-go in sight. Maks thought she
could make out a stairwell fifty feet away.

Taking pains to remain silent, Dunston took the lid from Maks and
lowered it over the rim of the crate until it rested on the floor, at a
fifteen degree angle to the wooden box.

Merlin had left the stepstool in the crate with them. After an
apprehensive look around, Dunston motioned for Maks to get on the stool.

Once she was atop it, he made an up and-over gesture. Then he hoisted
her by the waist until she straddled the crate, like a balance beam.

With a nod from Dunston, she dropped silently to the floor. Following
her, he stepped onto the stool and pushed himself up with his arms until
he could swing his right thigh over the rim. After steadying himself, he
brought his left leg up and over, then dropped the several remaining
inches between his soles and the floor. He landed without a sound. He
checked his watch.

Nine minutes had gone by.

Maks' heart was pounding. So far so good, she thought.

Despite her fear, she was spurred on by the thought of Christine, alone
in the building. Her shallow respirations were solid and reassuring. She
saw Chad crook a finger at her, motioning with his head to follow him.

They started down the hall in the direction of the stairwell, which
loomed more prominent with each passing-step. The laser beams gave her
the impression of being on a runway glide path- There Was no indication
of being detected. Thus far, their suits were as good as Merlin's word.

Dunston looked overhead. Every four yards was a halogen lamp, the kind
which it his way when he and Weiman had approached the computer center
for the alpha intercept.

He recalled that they were switched on by infrared sensors.

Their continued darkness was reassuring.

So was the location of the wall jacks. Duriston found the first one
beside the stairwell and pointed it out to Maks.

He looked around, felt the cables in his pocket, and fought an impulse
to just do it, to plug in, link up, access the data, and get the hell
out of there. But after a moment's hesitation, he knew he had to move
on. Merlin had said hooking into the mainframe was preferable.

Also, there was that other little item, the fact that the lab just
happened to be down the hall from the computer center.

He made a gesture with his palms for Maks to halt and wait there.

Pointing again to the jack, he helped her remove the access cable from
its protective plastic bag. He watched as she attached it to her optical
laptop and switched the computer to standby. Using hand signals, he
indicated that she should remain there until he returned. From their
Previous discussions, she knew that a brownout would be the signal to
plug in her computer. Dunston gave her a hug.

Chancing a deep breath, he headed into the stairwell.

Watching him disappear, Maks' emotions rode a pendulum, swinging from
bearable edginess to abject terror.

Her heart pounded with the horrible uneasiness Of being watched. Though
frightened of being alone, she knew she hance to find her sister. had no
choice. it was her only c She knew that without her, Christine was
doomed. The situation was compounded by fear about what might happen to
Chad. She could feel the pulse beating in her neck, and she struggled to
control her breathing- it seemed an enormous struggle to stay in place
and do nothing.

In the stairwell, Dunston found the handrail and proceeded with utmost
caution, for there was no laser fight to guide his way. Each step, each
movement, was guided by touch and feel. As he descended, an image of the
Center's topography came to mind. The hospital was built into the side
of a hill. On one side, at the main entrance, ground. level was called
level one, with the lab and computer center two flights below. However,
due to a seventy-foot gradient as the hill sloped away from the Center's
front to back, the rear of the lab, where he had gone crashing through
the grass, was actually one flight above the ground. The architects
rightly thought that construction into a hillside would save heating
costs.

He was now halfway down the staircase, grim-faced, jaws firm beneath his
hood, imbued with a sense of purpose. Yet another part of him wanted to
be anywhere but there. Preferably, on his boat, fuel tank topped off,
shooting straight across calm water. The thought was a pleasant
distraction. He conjured up an image of an early morning sun breaking
the horizon on Long Island Sound, at six in the morning on one of those
windless days when the Sound was flat as a glistening mirror. He idled
out into open water, preparing to throttle over for an awesome hell-run
to Shelter Island. A gutsy sense of power stirred in his blood. He was
alone on the sea, at one with the sun, the sky, the water.

Reaching channel depth, he opened the throttles. The twin Mercruisers
roared, and he rocketed toward the rising sun  ...

He reached level three. Unlike his earlier visit with Weiman, the
stairwell had no hidden mechanical door, only a doorframe. He paused,
feeling he'd won a minor victory, for a door's opening would have been
detected by the computers. He cautiously peered through the opening into
the long, dark corridor. The overhead lamps remained black, unglowing.

Breathing easier, Dunston stepped into the hall.

He would have been completely blind were it not for the floor lasers,
similar in razor straightness to those one story above, but paler,
yellower. Still, they provided enough visibility to ward off
disorientation. Coupled with his knowledge of the architectural
diagrams, the light was sufficient.

He glanced to both sides, satisfied that the corridor was silent and
empty, before proceeding with his cautious exploration.

Difficult as it was to walk on boot-clad tiptoes, Dunston managed. He
knew precisely where he was and went to the right this time, rather than
to the left, as he'd - done with Weiman. He reached the end of the
corridor, stopped, and momentarily steadied himself against the wall on
an outstretched arm and fingertips. Then he carefully patted him secure.
self down, ensuring that all equipment was Satisfied, he looked around
the corner and went on.

Sticking to the middle of the corridor, he strode seventeen measured
paces, roughly fifty feet. He slowly stopped, feeling rather than seeing
it-die tangible, perceptible aura.

Even through the layers of his suit, the ambient air seemed to throb. He
was surrounded by a life force. Looking to his left, Dunston made out
the wide rectangle of a doorframe.

He had reached the computer center.

This is what he'd come for, the very heart of it all. He took slow, deep
breaths, painfully aware of the muted hiss of air that rushed through
his regulator. But he doubted anyone could hear it, internally vented as
it was. Fortified, he stepped inside.

He'd gone no more than three paces when he stopped again, amazed. Spread
out before him were the precise, even rows of small minicomputers,
tethered together with heavy coaxial cable, linked in parallel. He
counted ten rows of twelve, one hundred twenty in all. Standing before
them, he sensed a lifelike vibrancy, the emanations of unrestrained
intelligence. The enormous room was steeped in eerie darkness. Here and
there, red and green operating lights blinked on and off, like the
navigation lights on a convoy of ships. As before, his vision ran up the
aisles, drawn to room center.

The two supercomputers stood like rectangular monoliths, which, from his
perspective, seemed taller than their fifteen-foot height. Gaze
unflinching, Dunston stared at their sheer mass. He began slow, even
paces in their direction, alert for any sudden sound or movement. All
his senses were alive. As he approached, he was aware of their humming
background noise, a deep, vibrating hum. They emanated sheer power with
an enormity capable of inspiring tenor. Yet much as he had reason to
fear them-to hate them, even, to want to destroy them as they had tried
to do to him-he "Was fascinated by their technological perfection.

Drawing closer still, he tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry
from the combination of anxiety and compressed air. The floor beneath
his rubberized boots shook with a tremulous unsteadiness induced by the
superconductor's magnetic fields. Even through the visual distortion of
his lenses, he could see that the supercomputer mainframes had more
working lights than the myriad of smaller computers. They rose up in a
resplendent pahoramaof light and sound. Twinkling panel lights
punctuated the dimness, and faint sounds chirped like mechanical
crickets. Creeping closer, he heard the soft, on-again, off-again whir
of winding tapes. He was dazzled by the computers' complexity and speed.

Enough praising Caesar, he thought. Time to bury him.

The hair on his neck prickled. He suddenly had the eerie sensation of
being watched. His head whipped around, and he scanned the room. There
was no one. He looked up for ceiling-mounted surveillance cameras, but
the roof was too dark and too high for him to see anything. None were in
the architectural plans, and yet. :. get to work, dammit!

Dunston was now sweating, despite his suit's insulation.

The adapter sprockets would be in the rear of the mainframes. He walked
more quickly now. As he cautiously skirted the large computers, he felt
a sudden drop in temperature permeate the layers of insulating neoprene.
there was some escaping coolant, he recalled, the liquid nitrogen or
helium that helped the supercomputers function. Perspiring as he was, he
found the coolness soothing.

Reaching the back of the mainframes, he looked up. The large machines
towered before him. Across their rear was a maze Of wires, connectors,
and circuitry. What the hell 9 He checked his watch: sixteen minutes. As
a result of his sweating, his lenses had begun to fog up. He would give
anything to be able to see better. He desperately wanted to use his
Mag-Lite, but he knew it would give him away.

Think, old son! Take your time and check out the paneling, like Merlin
told you. You can do it. Just one row at a time.

Dunston stood there, alert eyes flicking from side to side, breathing
more deeply than he knew he should. Steady, steady, he told himself.

It's got to be here!

He finished one row of circuit panels and moved to the next, carefully
side-stepping. It all seemed such a jumble.

And those God-awful lenses  ...  there! He moved closer, in small
increments, until his hood nearly touched the computer. He peered
intently, restraining an impulse to touch it with his fingers. But there
was no doubt about it. It was one of the many two-and-one-half by
half-inch communications ports Merlin told him to look for. Better
still, the faint lettering above it was marked INPUT.

His heart beat faster, and his hand had a noticeable tremor. Daddy's
coming home, he thought, reaching down for the laptop. He switched it on
and carefully held it upright. He uncoiled the attached coax and held it
up to the port. Despite the regulator clenched in his teeth, he felt his
lips widen into a sly grin when he saw that the adapter would fit the
port perfectly.

Without a wasted moment, he quickly removed Cheryl's first floppy
diskette from its plastic baggie-type cover.

Holding it by its corners, he inserted it into the disk drive slot on
the laptop. One of the laptop's small lights went from red to green.

Clutching the computer in his left hand, he lifted the adapter toward
the port. Then he surprised himself by pausing for a moment.

He felt strangely apologetic, the peculiar melancholy a rancher might
feel before shooting a favorite quarter horse with a broken leg. He knew
it had to be done; he was merely paying homage and saying good-bye. But
then he Snapped Out of his reverie, aided by the memory of betrayal-and
revenge.

In a dark, unseen corner of the room, where the far wall met the
ceiling, an optical lens moved. It housed an infrared sensor, analyzing
the image of his beat emanations. Unknown to Dunston, his excitement was
generating far more body heat than his protective suit was designed for.

First, the sensor detected small wisps of warm breath escaping from the
edges of his mouthpiece. Using that as a guide, its computer-enhanced
thermal graphics began tracking him. Like the Prismatic effect of oil on
water, he was being perceived as moving gradations of color. In the
computer's brain, the kaleidoscopic image. rippled, following Dunston as
he moved forward, stalking him like prey.

Just do it, he told himself. FUBAR the computer with odd-number parity.

In the room's dim lights, the massive machines before him seemed to
pulsate. Now or never, man. Deep within their mechanical interiors, the
supercomputers throbbed with life. He raised the plug.

"Good morning, Dr. Dunston."

Dunston's fear-stricken wheeze made him spit out his regulator. The
computer's odd, mechanically synthesized voice seemed to come at him
from all directions at once.

His thudding heart was pounding into his brain. He looked wildly about
but saw nothing.

"I can't let you do that, Dr. Dunston."

Any hesitation he had was now gone. He gulped in a lungful Of icy room
air and thrust the adapter into the port.

But just as their couplings touched, there was a dazzling pyrotechnic
explosion at the end of his cord, and the adapter was ejected from the
mainframe. For a few brief seconds, fumes and sparks spewed everywhere
before fizzling out, leaving an ozone-scented residue. Dunston held up
the cord, stunned. The adapter was melted into a sodden, grotesque
shape.

Oh God oh God oh God  ...  His sudden feeling of pow eriessness was
exceeded by the stark realization of immediate danger. He ripped the
melted coax out of the laptop and furiously threw it at the mainframe.

He had to get out of there now.

He tore off his hood and flung it away. His chest was heaving, and his
breath made streams of frosty vapor. He heard a sound like the pulling
of levers, and the room suddenly became aglow, lit up like a stadium at
night. He looked up' temporarily blinded, shielding his eyes with his
hand. A mist of vaporized body heat swirled around his face. When his
vision returned, he spotted the nearest aisle.

He bolted for it.

He ran like a splinter, clutching the laptop in his left hand. There
were fifty feet remaining between him and the doorframe. His eyes fixed
on it-his goal, his salvation.

But from all around him, the synthesized male voice boomed in resonance.

"I'm glad you returned, Doctor." He charged forward, determined.

"You understand I can't let you leave."

"Fuck you, shithead!" Ten feet.

"You will stay."

"Like hell"-Just as his outstretched knee reached the plane of the
doorframe, a searing jolt of electricity coursed through his body. It
hit him with stunning force, knocking him off his feet and sending him
backward. He was hammered to the floor, nearly losing consciousness. His
mind cleared in seconds.

Wired, he thought. A retrofit. It wasn't on the plans, but it should
have occurred to him. He shook off the cobwebs and quickly sat up,
securing the laptop below his waist. He heard a mechanical whir and
craned his neck around. One of the alpha intercept chairs was being
lifted through the floor, rising into place.

"You cannot escape, Doctor," the voice said firmly.

"The chair, please." Dunston was overwhelmed by fear and rage. But each
emotion cancelled out the other, enabling him to think more clearly. As
the chair locked in place, bathed in a strange glow from an overhead
spotlight, his fingers went to work on the shotgun's restraining straps.
He fired the weapon in an instant, leaping to his feet, pointing it at
one of the mainframes.

Thumbing off the safety, he placed his - finger on the trigger when it
suddenly occurred to him what he would be doing.

"The patients," he softly reminded himself.

Once the surveillance cameras focused on him, the computers reacted
defensively by shutting off the lights. The room was plunged into
darkness, save for the chair, captured in a tubular circle of light that
rose toward the ceiling.

The beam had an otherworldly, phosphorescent glow, alien and foreboding.

"The chair, Doctor," the voice commanded.

That Was More than he could take. Pushed over the edge, the barred that
had been seething inside him erupted into madness.

"No!" he shrieked. He pointed the shotgun at the chair and fired.

In the darkness, the muzzle blast was blinding, a yellowish stream of
fire accompanied by ferocious recoil which nearly tore the weapon from
his hands. But his aim was true. The explosive roar Of cluster bomblets
hitting their target was almost indistinguishable from the shotgun's
blast. A momentary blizzard of steel and Formica flew through the eerie
bluish glow. When it cleared, nothing remained but a twisted hydraulic
stump.

Donston wasted no time. Pivoting like a second baseman, he pointed the
shotgun toward the door. Aiming from the hiip, he lined up the muzzle
with the left side of the door frame and fired. The explosive pellets
struck the junction Of joist and lintel. In a thunderous shower of
sparks, the ceiling rafter sagged, and the side beams were blown apart.

Dunston raced for the doorway, halting inches from what was left of the
frame. He stopped, picking up a ragged piece of sheet metal torn from a
support rod.

He flicked it through the opening like a Frisbee. It passed harmlessly
past the plane of the door, landing in the hall with a tinny clink.

Satisfied, Dunston leaped through the doorway, encountering no
resistance. He had barely landed on both feet when an onrushing autobot
savagely struck him from behind. The wind was knocked out of him, and he
went sprawling.

He slid ten feet across the floor and struck his head on the far wall.

He gasped for air, his diaphragm in excruciating spasm. A light trickle
of blood clouded his right eye.

Wincing, he struggled to roll to his side.

I'm going to die, he thought. He lay there helpless, awaiting the
stinging shot from the autobot's pneumatic chemical gun, the shot which
would undoubtedly end his LIFE. Three seconds passed, then four. The
corridor lights went on, responding to the infrared sensors which
detected his body heat. Grimacing, he chanced opening his eyes.

The front wheels of the autobot made faint, grinding noises. It seemed
stuck there, fifteen feet away, adjacent the laser track on the opposite
wall. It moved frantically forward, then minutely backward, a jostling
hesitation.

It can't turn around, he realized. And it can only fire from the front.

The collision must have knocked one of its wheels out of kilter. Dunston
frantically looked around for his shotgun. Finally he spotted it,
directly across from him, fight in the path of the laser beam behind the
autobot.

Blinking away the blood, he scurried on hands and knees to retrieve it.

Just as his hand closed around the pistol grip, the autobot moved. He
heard an electric whine. It was like that of a golf cart but higher
pitched, almost screeching. He looked up and saw the autobot
accelerating in reverse, bearing down on him.

Jesus, it's trying to run me over! He held fast to the shotgun and
rapidly rolled toward the center of the corridor.

The autobot whizzed by, missing him by a hair's breadth.

His eyes stung with blood and sweat, but his vision was good enough to
see that the robot was quickly drawing to a stop eight feet away. The
computer center, knowing the target had evaded it, issued unheard
instructions. Then the autobot was facing him. When the little portal on
its front panel slid open, Dunston's hair stood on end. Unless he acted
at once, he was dead. He leveled his shotgun just as the PCG's thin
barrel swiveled his way. He fired twice in rapid succession.

In the hall's narrow confines, the roar was deafening. He was bowled
over by blast and concussion as ragged shards of exploding autobot flew
in all directions. The air was filled with dust, gunsmoke, and debris.

Dunston's ears were ringing. He coughed, choking, waving his hand to
clear the air. He struggled to all fours and then fell back, sitting. it
was then that he felt the stinging in his shoulder.

His eyes widened in stark, adrenaline-charged fear. His jaw went slack
as he turned his head, mortified, toward his injury, expecting to find a
BB-size hole "M' his neoprene suit, where the PCG had hit him. Instead,
he saw a two-inch sliver of black Plastic, Protruding like a toothpick.
It was a fragment of destroyed autobot.

Dunston stared at it in fascination. Tears streamed down his face, as
much from joy as from the smoke, dust, and Perspiration. With a dry
cough, he cleared his throat and pulled out the shrapnellike fragment,
oblivious to the small pool of blood that quickly filled the hole.

He hurriedly got to his feet, knowing his joy would be short-lived.

Where there was one autobot, there were sure to be Others. He inspected
his equipment. The EMP simulator was securely strapped 'to his thigh,
and his shotgun still held two rounds. More importantly, the laptop
across his midsection appeared unscathed, its operating light in the
green. He suddenly remembered why he was there. His thoughts turned from
escape to his mission. There was still a chance, albeit a slim one, if
he acted quickly enough. He patted a zippered pocket for the length of
Thinwire-type cable Merlin had given him. Then he charged down the hall,
shotgun at the ready, perspiring more profusely than ever.

The overhead halogen lamps switched on as he raced by.

He found that reassuring, for exposed, there would be no more groping
about in the dark. Where had that damn wall jack been? The stairwell ...
it was around the corner, in the hall, at the base of the stairwell!

He flew around the corner, racing so fast he nearly tripped. A gunshot
rang out as he bounced off the far wall, and he heard a bullet whiz by
his head. His fear was surpassed by astonishment as he -looked down the
corridor.

Approximately fifty feet away, a stationary autobot was poised beside
the open stairwell, waiting for him. He'd been surprised when he first
learned about the PCGS, but he was now positively dumbstruck that some,
at least, were equipped with firearms. The only thing that had saved him
was the mad way he careened and nearly fell as he rounded the corner,
obviously throwing off the robot's aim. But he could clearly see the
autobot's gunbarrel adjust itself his way, threatening to suck I the
life from him. He was infuriated.

"Suck on this, asshole!" With another ear-splitting blast, he fired the
shotgun's next-to-last round. The uranium-hardened slug penetrated the
paneling beside the gunbarrel, destroying it, slicing through the
machine's innards and blasting a gaping hole out the back. The slug had
such residual energy that it struck the wall at the far end of the
corridor, blasting an eighteen-inch hole through the concrete. Dunston
thought he heard a scream, but his ears were ringing too much for him to
be sure. He watched the wheels on one side of the autobot collapse. As
if in slow motion, it toppled over into the stairwell's opening.

The bastards work fast, he thought. Knowing he hadn't a moment to spare,
he ran toward the now visible jack. He pulled up in front of it,
panting, fumbling with the zipper to his pocket. He pulled out the
Thinwire cable, uncoiled its two-foot length, and inserted one end into
the wall jack, narrowing his eyelids against possible sparks. But the
adapter slid in like a hot knife through butter. He heard the laptop
begin to click.

He lifted it to look at its six-inch square monitor. Lettering appeared,
white on black.

SPECIAL PROGRAM X-1 CONNECTED TO CENTER FOR HUMAN POTENTIAL MAINFRAMES,
it read, followed by, SENDING  ... Dunston stared at the small screen.
Each passing second seemed endless.

His heart still pounded, and he breathed open-mouthed, as much from
anxiety as exhaustion. Removing the hood had interrupted his suit's
cooling system.

He sweated profusely, and a bead of perspiration fell from his chin to
the monitor.

"Come on, baby," he cajoled. Hadn't Merlin said it would take a
nanosecond?

OVERRIDING SYSTEM ATTRIBUTES, the screen said.

CHANGING PARITY.

"Thank God!" he said. As he watched the blinking cursor, he softly
invoked, "Odd numbers, odd numbers, odd numbers," nodding his head in
time to the chant, as if davening.

A sound was coming from around the corner at the other end of the hall.

Just when he recognized the dreaded electric hum, the autobot rounded
the corner and stopped, facing him. Gripped by terror, Dunston released
the laptop and went for the shotgun. But suddenly, unexpectedly, the
overhead lights dimmed. The autobot slowed. Then it totally lost power,
coasting forward several feet before stopping entirely.

Throughout the building there was a low, creaking sound, a rumbling
groan, like the tortured shifting of a ship's heavy timbers in
storm-tossed seas.

Chapter Twenty-four.

ALONE IN the bowels of the Center, Maks heard the booms. The first one
made her jump, and she winced when- the others came moments later. They
appeared to originate one floor below her, the sound reverberating up
through the stairwell. They unmistakably sounded like explosions,
separated from them though she was by tons of concrete and steel. She
fought an impulse to run-but toward them, not away, for an instant
later, she recognized them as shotgun blasts.

Chad was in trouble.

But his instructions to her had been explicit: don't budge.

Any false movement would betray her presence. If she were discovered,
any hope of helping Chad, and all hopes of discovering what happened to
Christine, would be so much dust in the wind. She prayed that Chad would
be able to fend for himself. In the meantime, all she could do was
remain by the wall jacks, trembling in her suit.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the signal came that she'd been
waiting for. There was a perceptible decrease in the Center's power,
what Chad had referred to as "winding down." Although there were no
overhead lights, the floor lasers dimmed, and the Center's indefinable
aura of massive strength definitely lessened. That was all she needed.

switched on her laptop and removed the cable. Inserting one end into her
experimental optical computer, she placed the other end into the jack.

Then she began to type.

SUBMIT WHERE ABOUTS AND INTENTIONS FOR PATIENT CHRISTINE LASSITER, she
wrote.

There was a brief pause, the slightest hesitation, and then her machine
proved its worth. True to her expectations, information began to flow
into her diskette in an unending stream. The rapid sequence of lettering
was unintelligible.

But unlike Chad's, her laptop had a "pause" feature, like a VCR. Every
few seconds she would hit the button to read what was being sent into
her floppy. Much of what she saw was medical jargon that was of little
significance to her, but here and there words like "experimental,"

"reproductive," and "investigational" hit her like a sledgehammer.

Dear God, she thought, Chrissie was being used as some sort of guinea
pig!

The thought was infuriating, intolerable. She was filled with an
immeasurable rage that made her want to hit, to punch, to lash out. Yet
much as she recognized her own fury, she was equally cognizant that her
job was only half done. She still had to learn where Christine was being
held.

Through sheer imposition of will, she managed to hold her anger in
check. Returning to the lettering streaming into her laptop, she paused
the sequence here and there to make out what she could.

She found what she was looking a few seconds later. Her eyes played over
the telltale lettering: LOCATION UNCERTAIN, BUT MAJORITY OF PHONATIONS
APPEAR TO EMANATE FROM LABORATORY ENVIRONS. Phonations? A
voicechrissie's voice, somewhere near the labl As the bit stream
continued into her diskette, she furiously closed her eyes, trying to
recall what Chad said about the Center's layout.

She racked her brains, piecing through what she recalled from the
diagrams and Chad's descriptions. Suddenly, she remembered.

No longer paying heed to the lasers, she ripped the cable from the jack
and leapt into the stairwell.

Dunston stood there, gripped by fear, his whole body shaking. His
quivering hands gradually lowered the shotgun and wiped away the sweat
stinging his eyes. Slowly, he lifted up the laptop still attached to his
waist.

PARITY CHANGE COMPLETE, the monitor flashed. uvmrrupr ROUTINE IN
PROGRESS. INSERT DISKE= x-2 INTO DRIVE 13.

Thank God, he thought. His trembling fingers pushed the second diskette
into the disk drive. The screen, having gone blank, lit up again with
the words, FILE SEARCH UNDERWAY. To Dunston, the lightweight laptop
suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. Exhausted, he let it hang from his belt.

He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes in relief, breathing
deeply. He wondered how long before the Center's supercomputers
reinitialized the hardware and rectified the parity. During the ride in
the van, he'd asked Cheryl and Merlin, but they didn't know. Their best
guess was five minutes. Feeling his strength return, he checked the
laptop.

FILE SEARCH COMPLETE. ACCESS UNDERWAY. COPYING  ... The lettering was
replaced by a blur of digital numbering at incredible speed, totally
illegible, as each line and sector of the accessed file was copied onto
the floppy. But a diskette, Dunston knew, could only contain so much
information, no matter how its capacity had been expanded by Cheryl.
Still, he was surprised when the process took no more than five seconds.

COPY ROUTINE COMPLETE. REMOVE DISKETTE.

He did just that, ejecting both floppies and turning off the laptop.

After replacing them in their protective baggies, he unplugged the coax
and stuffed it back into his pocket.

He estimated he had over four minutes left. He glanced with satisfaction
at the two autobots, one destroyed, the other without power. A smile
spread over his face. But it was no time to gloat. Under the neoprene,
he was sweating like a pig. It was time to get out of there.

As a precaution, he switched on the EMP simulator.

"Boy Scout's motto," he mumbled. Checking to see that he had all his
equipment, he turned to the stairwell. He drew abreast of it and halted,
demoralized.

"I don't believe it," he groaned. The destroyed autobot, still
smoldering, had firmly wedged itself into the doorway when it had
fallen. Ordinarily, its four-foot height should have been no problem for
him -to clamber over. But when he tried to lift his leg, he discovered
that his neoprene suit was much more rigid than before. The lack of
coolant, combined with his perspiration, had interfered with its
flexibility. He supposed he could take the suit off. Yet, as tight as it
was before, it now stuck to him like glue and would take at least five
minutes to remove. That was time he didn't have.

He touched the top of the robotic barrier, wondering if he could pull
himself high enough to vault over. But the machine's shorted circuits
made the paneling dangerously hot. The neoprene of his glove began to
smoke, and he yanked his hand away. There had to be another way. He
turned and started down the corridor in the direction of the other
inactivated autobot.

"Chad!" He whirled in his tracks. There was Maks, on the other side of
the robot which blocked the stairwell. Seeing him, she spit out her
mouthpiece, holding it in her hand.

"Your regulator!" she shouted. "They'll spot you!"

"They already have," he shouted back.

She looked frantic. "What are we going to do?"

"It's time we said good-bye to this place. The best way is back in your
direction, but I can't get over this stupid autobot. Watch yourself.

It's so hot it'll peel your skin Off!"

"Chad, my computer worked! I'm sure I've found Christine! She's hiding
somewhere near the lab!"

"The lab?" His brain spun. He cast an over-the-shoulder glance the
length of the hall.

"Isn't it down your corridor? Chad, please! We've got to find her! Help
me move- this thing before the Center powers up again!" Confused though
he was, he began to suspect she was right. "Dammit, Maks, we've only got
a couple of minutes!

You've got to come over to this side! I'd use my suit as a bridge, but I
can't get out of it! Can you slip yours off"

"I think so.,, Unlike him, by remaining virtually motionless in her
refrigerated garb, she'd perspired little. She immediately set to
unzipping her suit. Within fifteen seconds, she wriggled free, pausing
only to retrieve the regulator and her optical computer, with its
priceless information. "Okay, what now?"

"Toss your suit and laptop over here!" She did. Dunston ejected the
diskettes and secured them In one of his pockets. Then be carefully lay
the garment Is fabric atop the destroyed autobot, where it began to
smolder. He forced a calm, reassuring tone into his voice.

"Maks, you only get one shot at this. You can do it, trust me. Nothing
more than a little high jump. Go back up the stairs until the third step
from the bottom." She instantly complied in an unquestioning,
no-nonsense manner. "All right.,, "One giant step'll do it. Just jump
into the middle of the wet suit, and skip on over. Don't think about it.
Just do it!"

"But-"

"Come on. Now!" Still blindly clutching her regulator, Maks shivered
with fear. It was only about four feet from her concrete perch to the
autobot, yet the intervening gap seemed immense. She intuitively
understood that any hesitation would be her undoing. Forcing all thought
from her mind, she leapt in one graceful bound.

Despite his reassurances, Dunston's heart was in his mouth as he watched
Maks' gazelielike stride through the air. Her right foot landed square
in the middle of the autobot's neoprene-covered top panel, and then she
was off it again, leaping toward his outstretched arms. Dunston caught
her in a bear hug, clutching her tight as he lowered her to the ground.

"is your foot okay?" She looked at her sole, which bore a black smudge.

"I think so. A Little smelly, but what else is new?"

"That's what we're going to find out. Hurry, this way!" He led her down
the corridor in the direction of the inactivated autobot. Detecting a
smell, he crinkled his nose at the unexpected aroma of cooking food. A
vision of the hospital's layout flashed in his mind, and he suddenly
realized that the hole he'd blasted in the wall was adjacent the
Center's kitchen. If that were so  ...  God Almighty! In the heat of
combat, exacerbated by the nerve-racking computer access and the dimmed
corridor, the hospital's architectural design had become a blur. He now
understood that Maks was right, and that they must be very close to the
lab. The lab, he recalled, had a wide glass window. And he still had his
shotgun.

And then, suddenly, there it was, just as he remembered it from his
visit with Arthur. Now, however, the door through which they'd gone lay
open. Probably, Dunston guessed, from the brownout. Underpowering did
strange things to sophisticated electronics. He and Maks entered without
hesitation. As before, the lab was almost totally dark. For a moment, he
lost his bearings as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Where the hell
was the window? To the best of his recollection, it was in the lab's
rear corner.

He and Weiman hadn't seen it on their joint visit, for their vision was
blocked by tall rows of automated analyzers.

And then, from the depths of his subconscious, the memories resurfaced.

Waiving slowly past the machines, with Maks in tow, he began to recall
things he'd only vaguely remembered, or perhaps suppressed. The first
memory was clearer, for held been alert, then: inconstant flashes or
flickering, from somewhere in the back of the lab. When he'd walked
toward the twinkling, he thought he'd heard the hum of something
mechanical closing, only-to find nothing. The second recollection was
more remote, for he'd been drugged. He recalled a peculiar vapor like
moonlit fog, a fragrant mist that teemed with life, rows of smooth,
dew-covered receptacles  ...  He continued wailing, trying to calm the
pounding of his heart, frowning as he scoured his memory. He seemed to
recall stumbling through some hidden door into the mistfilled chamber
from  ...  where? Hadn't he found himself in a sort of unused passageway
beyond the lab? The room grew darker. He reached into his pocket for the
Mag-Lite and switched it on. What be saw made him suck in his breath.

During his visit with Arthur, an unseen door had closed, after all. Now
lacking power, it lay open. A steamy vapor rolled toward them in
undulating waves.

"Get a load of that," he whispered, awe struck. "This is it!

"Is Christine in there?"

"Probably. We'll find her." The flashlight's beam cut a yellow swath
through the fog.

Dunston hesitantly stepped into the cryptlike chamber. He couldn't
understand why the room was so dark. He swung the flashlight toward the
near wall on his right, expecting to find the window, covered with
shades, perhaps, or blinds.

Instead, he found the solid masonry of recently filled-in cinder blocks.

He walked over to it and touched, sniffing.

Even the damn mortar smelled fresh. So he'd been wrong after all, as had
the plans. The window wasn't located in the lab proper. It was in this
bizarre, hidden access.

"Can you believe that?" he mumbled. He clutched Maks' hand and checked
his watch. If Cheryl and Merlin were right, they. had just over two
minutes before the computer center corrected its problem, two minutes in
in which they had to find Christine and discover the lab's secrets.

After that  ...  He glanced at the shotgun, which he held barrel
downward. He'd seen what the slug had done to a concrete wall, and that
was after it had passed through a mass of wire and metal. He had no
doubt his last shot would create the escape passage they would need.

Chancing another look, he swung the beam back toward the room's darkest
confines. What in the world  ...  ? There, not more than five feet away,
was a tabletop workstation, on which rested the optical lever atomic
forces microscope.

He quickly headed toward it, wanting at least a cursory inspection. He
bathed it in the glare.

"Chad, what are you doing? We've got to find Christine!

"Hold on a second." it was just as Merlin described. Astonishingly
simple in design, it had a haphazardly improvised appearance, resembling
a Rube Goldbergian erector set on a baking pan. Dunston could clearly
see the small rniffor and diamond tip.

Just behind it was a long, rectangular box he took to be the free
electron laser.

Incredible, he thought. Merlin would be pleased to learn his hunch was
correct. That still didn't'answer what the Center was doing with the
device, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. One hand on the shotgun,
he arched his beam through the rest of the room. The light glinted off a
nearby receptacle.

What he saw made his mind go numb. His eyes widened, and he stood there
agape at what he could now clearly discern but once only drunkenly
glimpsed. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, he approached the
receptacle in a trance.

It contained a growing, unborn baby. Behind him, Maks gasped.

The size of a bottled water dispenser, the receptacle was filled with
gently swirling fluid that had the straw-yellow hue of human plasma. In
the middle of the flask, kgossarner sac of amniotic membranes randomly
billowed in the circulating fluid, like the gentle waving of sea
anemones. Seen through the veil of the membranes, the living fetus
floated in its own amniotic fluid.

His light still shin' g on the receptacle, Dunston swallowed,
dry-mouthed, at once aghast and fascinated. The fetus appeared to be
about six months old. As he watched, it did a lazy roll, unencumbered by
the uterine muscle which Would ordinarily Sue-round it. Its tiny fists
opened and closed, and its unborn lips pursed, a sucking movement.

Dunston could make out a thin skein of tiny red capillaries stretching
across nearly translucent eyelids.

And then the baby's eyes opened and stared at him.

Maks screamed, and Dunston's heart nearly erupted from his chest. She
dug her nails into his arm as they both jumped back in shock. Her voice
was a terrified whisper.

"Can it see us?"

"I don't think so." Or could it? At that appalling moment, he couldn't
recall a single thing about fetal physiology. He quickly walked around
it, shaking his- head in disbelief, keeping his beam steady. Where the
placenta was attached, blood-filled tubing fed it, protruding through
the receptacle's exterior. He recognized it instantly, for the tubing
had the same caliber and texture as the bypass conduit used in
cardiothoracic surgery, tubing that came from a heart-lung machine.

"Chad, give me the light. I've got to find her!" He handed it to her.

"Start over there. I'll look this way.

She took the light and moved away, shining it over the walls, looking
for gaps, crevices. "Chrissie!" she shouted.

"Chrissie, it's Maks! Where are you? Answer me!" Her desperate pleas
were met with silence. She frantically moved onward, momentarily leaving
Dunston behind.

As much as he was trying to help her, he was hopelessly distracted by
what he'd seen. He slowly shook his head, incredulous. But the evidence
was incontrovertible. The Center had perfected a technique called
ectogenesis, a method of bringing babies to term outside the human
uterus.

An unborn child was growing in a womb of glass.

He was aware of reports where scientists had grown rat embryos in glass
dishes to the point where their hearts were beating-but to have come
this far? To have adapted the methodology from lab animals to humans? To
have created truly in vitro, totally artificial uteri, that were being
used to grow a complete test tube baby? The idea was staggering!

As his mind wrestled with the impossibility of it all, his foremost
question was, why? Was this the secret the Center had fought to protect,
be it cloning, genetic engineering with the ARM, or whatever? Did he and
Christine play a role in it, and to what end? He was glutted by
fragmentary thoughts which flickered through his brain like fireflies:
ovulation, sperm and egg, a testicular biopsy, the Serophene.

The Center's power was suddenly restored, jolting the room into
brightness. Hidden doors crashed open, the same doors through which
Dunston had dazedly stumbled after his escape from the OR. While he was
still reacting to the glare, an autobot rushed toward him at top speed.

Dunston reached for his shotgun, a fraction too late. Before he could
level it, the robot struck him full force. The shotgun went flying, and
he was savagely knocked into the wall behind him. His head struck the
concrete with a heavy thud, and he slumped to the floor.

He lay there in a stupor, not quite unconscious, but much more than
dazed. His mind functioned in slow motion. Although he was aware of
something sliding under him and being lifted, then being carried away,
his muscles could not respond. He felt a breeze rushing past his numb
cheeks.

But he was a rag doll, dead weight, virtually unable to move.

Walking with her back to him on the other side of the room, Maks' mind
was occupied. She swung the flashlight from side to side, intent on
finding Christine. The commotion behind her was muffled and distant,
lost in the liquid symphony of the autoanalyzers. Reaching a dead end,
she turned around.

Par behind her, she saw Chad sprawled atop an autobot, his body
encircled by coils. Maks screamed. The flashlight fell from her shaking
fingers, but not before she saw a hidden wall slide open. When the
autobot motored beyond it, the wall immediately closed, abandoning the
room to darkness.

Like a boxer reviving from a knockout, Dunston felt the gradual return
of his senses. He could move his muscles, but with infinite slowness.

Something was pinning him down. He felt the tug of gravity, and he
thought he was ascending. Then his upward movement ceased, and sliding
doors opened. He was being ferried into some sort of corridor. Suddenly
there were lights overhead, and he was entering a room. He blinked his
eyes, clearing the cobwebs, and gazed to one side.

And there, to his absolute amazement, stood Arthur Weiman.

His one-time friend was poised like a fashion model, arms folded,
leaning back against the wall, a smile on his face. He seemed to be
enjoying Dunston's captivity. As he looked on, the autobot rolled to a
stop beside a long, flat table topped with a foam rubber mattress. The
gleaming stainless steel had the familiar appearance of an operating
table. Dunston's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in fear and
anticipation.

"Finally," said Weiman. "It took a while, but I knew you'd be back. Very
predictable. As long as I've known you, you're nothing if not
persistent."

"Arthur, have you gone crazy? Get this thing off me!

For the love of God, what are you doing?" Weiman shook his head. "Such
blind optimism. You really are a Pollyanna. I don't suppose you'd
voluntarily slide over to the operating table, would you?" For the first
time, Dunston inspected his surroundings.

He was in a small, well-equipped treatment room. A bottle of IV solution
hung from a pole beside the OR table, and a small, metal tray held a
half-dozen surgical instruments.

There was also a kidney basin filled with crushed ice, ordinarily used
for preserving tissue specimens. He thought back to his escape from the
Center and the planned testicular surgery. He had no doubt what Weiman
now intended.

He looked back at the internist, who produced a compact stun gun. ?"

"Arthur, are you insane "How did I know you were going to say that?"
Without further explanation, he stepped forward and touched Dunston's
temple with the gun. Chad shuddered, and his body again went flaccid.

Weiman turned to a computer keyboard and typed instructions.

With utmost smoothness, the autobot transfer-red Dunston's limp form to
the table's soft mattress. Weiman went to work securing Dunston's arms
and legs with heavy restraints, making sure to position the left arm for
venipuncture. He cut away the neoprene for access -to the underlying
veins, then put a tourniquet around Dunston's left biceps.

He spoke as he worked.

"You're a bright guy, Chad. I know you can hear me.

You've seen enough stun guns to realize its effects will wear off in a
few seconds. But you make me wonder. Am I insane? Quite possibly I am.
Not that it'll make any difference where you're concerned." Dunston
could indeed hear him. The paralysis that caused his immobilization had
no effect on his sensorium.

Soon he felt his muscle function return. His first few words were
slurred.

"You're in pretty good shape for a dead man."

"So it would seem."

"What are you doing to me?"

"Oh please. Spa-re me. You know they didn't get the job done the last
time you were here. You've got something I need."

"'Like Schmidt did?"

"Don't be an idiot: When I admitted him, Schmidt and his pickled brain
were barely alive. I just hurried the process along with a little
voltage. Could I help it that he looked like me? He added new meaning to
the term 'dead ringer." You see, you and your bozo pals were getting a
little too close for comfort. I'm not sure how you avoided my little
surprise on your boat, but you have to admit the body switch threw you
off for a while." After looking over Dunston's forearm, Weiman produced
an intravenous infusion catheter. He palpated the veins with his index
finger, selecting a prominent one on the back of the wrist. He caught
himself opening a packaged alcohol swab and hesitated. With a
self-deprecating laugh, he tossed it away.

"Am I a creature of habit, or what? Here I'm trying to Protect you from
a few germs, when in a few minutes, they won't matter at all!"

"You are some piece of work."

"Soon to be some rich piece of work. Have you ever wondered what it
would be like to be filthy rich, to have more money than you could
possibly spend? That bitch I married always made me feel like such a
pauper."

"That's what this is all about? Money?"

"Maybe you're not aware of it," Weiman continued.

"There are three million infertile couples in this country." He began to
open the catheter's sterile packaging. "What do you think they'd pay for
a healthy baby? And not just any baby. But one that's beyond disease,
genetically perfect?"

"I give up. You tell me."

"My research says a hundred K. Now, out of that three million, say there
are about ten thousand who have the means and who want the product. Do
the math. We're talking a billion dollars."

"Charming. How are you going to come up with ten thousand perfect
babies'?"

"From you, my friend. And young Miss. Lassiter, of course. I know the
little shit is around here somewhere.

When I want her, I'll get her back."

"Why us?"

"Because the bottled fetuses you saw were just a trial run. The ova came
from the kid, sure. But the donor semen I used left something to be
desired. That's where you came in.

You know the best thing about you, Chad? It's not your surgical skill,
or your rapier wit, oh no. It's your genes.

You and the kid both have fabulous DNA. The way your body seemed to hold
so much promise during the alpha intercept, I just had to have more."
While Weiman spoke, Dunston's mind was working furiously. His gaze
flickered around the room, searching for weapons or a means of escape.

Without being obvious, he painstakingly began to wriggle his right hand
beneath the strap, trying to loosen it. If Weiman were allowed to
continue uninterrupted, Dunston knew held be dead within minutes. The
yellowish solution in the IV solution bore a strong resemblance to the
anesthetic Pentothal. Somehow, he had to throw the older man off. He
watched Weiman tear thin strips of adhesive tape.

oo;-

Suddenly his eyes fixed on the IV catheter. It was one of the longer
sizes, a three-inch, sixteen-gauge plastic tube over a surgical metal
stylet. The stainless inner needle's tip was razor sharp. With virtually
no other options, Dunston immediately understood what had to be done.

"Why are you doing this, Arthur?"

"Don't waste your time. If you have to talk, why don't you say your
prayers?"

"You're such a  ...  pathetic little man."

Weiman's nostrils flared. "Pathetic fat little man? Isn't that what you
meant to say? I'll be thrilled to get rid of your juvenile sarcasm!

"Skipped the weigh-in, Arthur?" That's what you said at the Intercept.

Comments like that made me hate your guts!" As Weiman examined the
exposed veins, Dunston completely -relaxed and let his eyes roll
backward beneath his lids. He felt his limbs grow heavy, and there was a
peculiar tingling in his abdomen he'd come to associate with
biofeedback. He imagined himself scuba diving, totally at eeige, barely
having to breathe at all. He knew his blood pressure was failing. And
without enough pressure, his veins would collapse.

"Christ, your veins suck." Weiman leaned closer, peering at a spot where
the veins had flattened to nothingness. He slapped Dunston's skin with
his palm, hoping that the minor trauma would make the vessels expand.

But it didn't. Choosing what he thought would be. a likely spot, he
hovered over Dunston's arm and worked the catheter's tip beneath the
skin' It was just what Dunston had been waiting for. He peered out of
the corner of his eye. With Weiman as close a,-, possible and the
catheter momentarily trapped in his flesh, he wrenched his upper torso
violently sideways, throwing his head at Weiman. His forehead struck the
internist's nose with the nauseating crunch of shattered cartilage.

Weiman screamed and straightened up, releasing the catheter. His hands
flew to his flattened nose in a protective reflex, and a torrent of
blood seeped through his fingers.

Dunston wasted no time. With all the strength he could muster, he tore
his right hand from its restraint and reached for the IV catheter. He
seized it by its hub just as a bellowing Weiman lowered his hands.

Blinded by rage and blood, the internist reached for Dunston's neck.

Spotting an opening, Dunston lunged.

Wielding the pointed catheter like a dagger, he put all he had into the
thrust. Its stiletto-sharp tip punctured Weiman's chest, just below the
sternum. A muffled cry rose and died in Weiman's throat. For the
briefest moment, his body went rigid. Then, he collapsed to the floor
with a shudder.

Dunston lay back, gasping. He was relieved and sickened at the same
time. He could still hear Arthur's voice. everything Weiman said was
going around in his head, like a squirrel in a cage. But his thoughts
quickly returned to Maks. When the fire in his lungs diminished, he
loosened all the restraints and bolted from the room.

His neoprene suit was in tatters, but he still wore the EMP simulator.

He retreated through the now-darkened corridors, finding his way as much
by touch as by sight.

He finally stumbled into the -waiting elevator and leaned back as its
door automatically closed behind him.

Maks clenched the shotgun in both hands. The safety was off, and her
finger rested outside the trigger guard. Just aim and shoot, Merlin had
said. Lost and alone, she was beyond terror, driven by a fierce will to
survive. She would kill if she had to. Directly in front of her, the
hidden wall began to open again. Growing tense, she took a deep breath
and put her finger on the trigger guard.

"Chad!" Like an embattled warrior, Dunston stumbled toward her.

She lowered the weapon and stepped into his warm emit" brace. They clung
together shaking, bound by love and joined in gratitude. But their
privacy was transient. Dunston heard the dreaded motorized whir and
jerked his head around. An autobot hovered not ten feet away, its
menacing portal open and ready, preparing for the kill.

Maks shrieked and jumped back. Dunston cursed the stupidity of his
distraction and frantically reached for the shotgun. He was lifting it
up when the autobot fired.

The sibilant hiss of the PCG was followed by his own weapon's loud
report. In the fraction-of a second that followed, time warped into a
frighteningly expanded moment, during which his mind was assaulted by a
rush of jumbled thoughts. He was surprised and angered by the stinging
bite of the air-driven drug, and equally astonished that, after five
successive hits, his own gun missed. Lacking time for accurate aim, the
heavy slug went several inches wide of the mark. His painfully expanded
vision watched it plow harmlessly through the air and strike a pipe on
the wall behind the doors. And then all hell broke loose.

There was a deafening explosion, followed by a rolling wave of orange
fire that hurled Maks backward, into the nearest receptacle. Her head
struck it with a loud crack, and she slumped to the ground.

The area had become an inferno. From the hole in the pipe, the
yellowish-blue stream of fire issued upward, as if gushing from a
torched Kuwaiti oil well. The blaze intensified, hiding her from sight.

"Maks!" he shouted again, to no avail.

Alarms began to sound, followed almost immediately by a spray of water
as the overhead sprinkler system was activated. Dunston again shielded
his eyes and checked the nearby floor. The explosion had knocked the
attacking autobot on its side. Nonetheless, its portal was still open in
his direction. All at once, the PCG's astrawfike barrel began to move,
seeking him out. Sickened and in fear, Dunston's stomach wanted to
heave.

He steadied the shotgun one final time and pulled the trigger. There was
the deadened, metallic click of a striker falling on an unloaded
chamber. Jesus, it was empty! He threw the weapon down and leapt aside,
out of the robot's field of fire. Scurrying back into the lab, his eyes
searched everywhere for Maks, but the blaze obscured his vision. He held
a protective hand at eyebrow level as he continued retreating from the
autobot. Nearing the area of the sealed up window, he sensed that,
without his shotgun, their only escape might be a hasty retreat through
the walls of the hospital's main entrance. But even if he could find
Maks, what about Christine? Undoubtedly, other autobots were now
searching for them. He reached toward his left thigh and pressed the
button that powered up the EMP simulator.

He blinked, wondering when the drug would take effect.

When it did, he wanted them to be long gone. He took another rearward
step when he heard a scream.

The cacophony of sounds made the cry indistinct. Was it Maks, he
wondered, or Christine? He looked wildly about, barely able to see
because of the fire. Where the hell was she? Had Maks awakened and gone
off after her sister?

He stopped, eyes wide and searching, glancing from hall to lab and back
again. Then he heard it once more, short but unmistakable, a
high-pitched wail of terror. Dear God, he thought, was it a patient? The
first few molecules of tranquilizer reached his brain, and he felt a
wave of vertigo.

He was momentarily torn, desperately wanting for all of them to flee,
but sickened by the thought that he might have injured a patient. Primum
non nocere, went the physician's credo. Above all, do no harm. His
indecision was temporary, for he knew what he had to do: his duty.

Before the drug could accumulate in his tissues, he had to get around
the autobot, whose wheels spun and swiveled like an upended tortoise
trying to right itself. Dunston held the simulator in one hand, aiming
its dual-pronged antenna toward the robot. He worked the extender, and
six feet of twin antennas sprung out like a switchblade knife. He
quickly touched their metallic tips to the autobot's shell and hit the
button again.

The coupled electric surge was greater than he thought imaginable. The
unbridled energy coursed through the stricken machine, wreathing it in
an electric light show that glittered like dancing neon. But when he was
preparing to retract the antennas, there was an unexpected, intense
crackling noise, and a jolt seared up his arm. It was a peculiar
feeling, electrocution. Just before he lost consciousness, he thought
the top of his head would explode. He fell sideways, passing harmlessly
through the horizontal sheet of flame, unaware that his toppling body
had landed right next to Maks.

His thudding shoulder jarred her awake. Maks . lifted her head and shook
it, trying to clear the cobwebs. When her vision returned, she saw the
Outline of Dunston's still face, profiled in the beam of the Mag-Lite.

She shouted his name and slid next to him, cupping his face in her
hands, fighting back tears. There was a roaring overhead, and she looked
up into bright, licking flames, coming from God-knew-where. She held her
breath and lowered her head to his chest, listening. Then, ever so
slowly, she exhaled, smiling. The thump of his heart was clear and
steady, and he was taking slow, easy breaths.

Speed was clearly of the essence. On knees and elbow",,, she quickly
clambered over his upper torso like a spider, careful not to move him
for fear Of worsening some unknown injury. She retrieved the flashlight
and, next to it. her regulator, having forgotten that she'd blindly hung
on to it in the confusion. Then she carefully retreated back over him.

She was in the process of swinging the flashlight's beam around when she
was buffeted by an earsplitting explosion.

The concussion knocked her to her side. The flames above her
intensified, and their glare made her lids narrow.

A weakened section of pipe beneath Dunston's errant shot had given way,
emitting a surge of Pressurized gas that blew apart an enormous chunk of
the wall behind it. Maks rolled onto her chest and squirmed forward
beneath the flames, wriggling like an infantryman, shining the light
into the semidarkness at floor level. And then the scream reached her.

It was short and strident, a high-pitched wait of terror.

And she knew, without a moment's hesitation, that it was her, sister's
voice.

"Christine!" she shouted. "Chrissie, I'm coming"' The scream seemed to
come from the direction of the explosion. Fighting panic, Maks shined
the light ahead and crawled forward on her knees. Fire and smoke were
everywhere, and the light's beam cut a lazy swath through the choking
fumes. Christine was nowhere to be seen. Dear God, God, was she okay?

She shrieked the child's name again but heard only the flames' incessant
roar. Her light played over the mechanical hulk toppled onto the floor.

It was the autobot, smoking and destroyed, parts of it actually meeting.

She hurriedly skirted it, desperate to find Christine.

The unending jet of gas-fed flame streaked up and Over her head,
spreading horizontal wavelets of fire above her, rising at an angle
toward the ceiling. The heat was intense.

As she crawled beneath the flaming geyser, Maks felt her y the streaming
of liquid topmost hairs singe, followed b down her face. She hesitantly
dabbed at it, almost certain it was blood. But it was clear, and
delightfully cool. Shortly her whole body was soaked, and it finally
occurred to her that it had to be water coming from an automated
sprinkler system. The sprinkler was working full force, dousing her and
everything in sight, though not sufficiently to quickly quell the
flames.

Maks crawled furiously ahead, her vision hampered by the torrent of
spray which rained down. She blinked her eyes and squinted, trying to
see more clearly. She screamed Christine I s name again but still heard
nothing, perhaps because her ears still rung from the explosions. The
blazing propane had a thunderous roar all its own. She halted for a
second, soaked, deafened, and woozy, contemplating her next move. She
realized there was nowhere she could go but forward.

Her arms began to ache, and her elbows were scraped and raw. But after a
few maddening minutes she was finally out of the lab, into the hall
beyond. She lifted her beam, shining it at the wall below the punctured
pipe. Three feet off the ground, the second propane explosion had blown
a two-foot-wide hole in the wall. Beyond it was a blanket of darkness.

Could it be some sort of testing area or an unlit patient's room? She
doubted it. Such places would now be illuminated. She was desperate.

"Christine!" she shouted. But, as before, there was no return voice. She
bent past the jagged hole and carefully inserted her beam into the
dust-filled blackness. She was peering into a five-foot-wide passageway,
and she experienced an eerie, goosefieshfrisson, suspecting she was
looking into the hidden, unused area from which Dunston made his first
escape. She prayed it would not be his last. She swung the light to the
fight, then trained the beam toward the center, seeing nothing but
shattered concrete and debris.

And then she swung the beam to the left. What she saw made her gasp.

She was staring into the face of a terrified child.

Maks felt as if she were paralyzed. She squinted through double vision,
knowing full well who the youngster was, but she was suddenly too numb,
too overcome with emotion to voice the name. Above a tattered gown, the
child's hair was matted. Her face was covered with dirt and grime, and
tears coursed down her cheeks. She seemed mute, but her earlier screams
proved that to be untrue. She was just scared out of her mind. She
averted her eyes from the light's bright glare, revealing her profile.

Maks, still silent, felt the tears well up. She was absolutely familiar
with that profile-the gently upturned nose; the fine, blond, almost
white hair; the clear blue eyes: the eyes of her sister.

Maks' journey had come to an end. Her heart began to pound with the
recognition of discovery. She felt jubilant, wanting to shout. But she
knew the first order of business was to keep her sister calm. If
frightened anew, there was no telling where the child might bolt.

Christine moved minimally sideways, out of the flashlight's glare. Maks
immediately averted the beam. Not only was a blinding light
uncomfortable, but there was also no way her sister could see her. The
light fell on the child's surroundings: a bunched-tip blanket, empty
food containers, drinking straws, a roll of toilet tissue. Finally, it
was time.

Maks carefully controlled her voice. "Christine," she called.

Christine seemed not to hear. She kept her eyes lowered and away, saying
nothing, tucking her head into her chest in fear and solemnity.

"It's okay," Maks urged. She spoke in calm, reassuring tones. After all
these months, did Christine even recognize her voice? My God, how had
she escaped? How had she survived? The air-driven scent of food from the
nearby kitchen reached her, and she realized the answer to that enigma.

Child though she was, her sister had always been bright.

She must have stayed alive by using her wits and her
intelligence-scurrying, scampering, remaining unseen, pilfering whatever
was necessary to survive. Maks was overcome with compassion. She
realized that, over the months, her sister must have heard the autobots
passing beyond the wall. They'd probably scared her to death.

Christ, what gumption! Maks would be damned if she'd let anything more
happen to her sister. She had to get them out of there!

"Chrissie? Chrissie, it's me, maks.,,

The child looked back at her, but her eyes were filled with suspicion
and disbelief, Perhaps because her older sister was still bathed on
shadow. Maks moved cautiously forward, trying to minimize what she knew
must be terror.

She swung her beam from side to side, inspecting the narrow confines Of
the concealed retreat. The passageway had about eighty feet in which one
could move about. it appeared sealed at both ends, like some sort of air
lock. But undoubtedly there were little openings she was capable of
slipping through, for food, to relieve herself, or simply to move about.

Lord, what love and admiration she felt for her sister, a gutsy little
girl who managed to survive by sheer determination.

Another sheet of fire erupted' with a boom that quickly receded.

Christine screamed, her terror mounting. Maks felt a tug of desperation.

"Chrissie, Chrissie. It's me, Maks. Come here, honey." She inched ahead,
but the terrified child, still not convinced, continued to inch
backwards. "Easy, easy," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know
that. It'll be all right. I'm going to take you home, Chrissie. You
remember home, right?" Christine paused, a hint of recognition beginning
to glow in her eyes.

Her den was a squalid lean-to of makeshift cardboard and soiled blankets
covered with scraps of moldy food. Maks toyed with the idea of making a
lunge, but she decided on a different tack. As she neared her sister,
she turned the flashlight over. With the beam now pointing at her, she
held it out like an offering.

"Chrissie, shine the light at me.

Christine hesitated, then took the handle ever so slowly.

She momentarily weighed it in her hand, as if it were a foreign object.

Then she raised the beam until Maks was captured in its light. Maks bit
her lip. For a moment, they were both silent. Finally, Christine spoke.

"Maks, you're all wet. Why aren't you wearing any clothes?" Maks gave a
little cry and leaned forward, jubilant, tears of joy streaming down her
cheeks. She lifted her sister up under the arms. Christine dropped the
light, recoiling slightly.

"Honey, what's wrong? It's okay, it's all right." And then Maks realized
that, after months of stealth and evasion, the child's reaction was more
symbolic than real.

Finally, Christine's token resistance disappeared, and her small arms
reached up toward her older sister's neck. Maks drew her toward her
naked breast, hugging her tight, soothing her with kisses until they
were both weeping. But there was work to be done. Now that they were
reunited, it was time to locate Chad. Their departure from this hellhole
was long overdue.

Back in the lab, the intensified sprinkling splattered water on
Dunston's face. He groggily opened his eyes, not sure where he was until
the roaring fire overhead reminded him even thought it had only been a
short time since he was shot, the drug was rapidly accumulating in his
tissues, assaulting his brain, making him woozy. He propped himself up
with difficulty.

"Maks, Maks, where are You?" he shouted. His voice sounded weak and
lifeless.

In the distance, Dunston thought he heard his voice being called. He
struggled to get up, away from the flame, listening intently.

"Chad, we're coming! I've got Christine!" Where the hell was she? His
legs felt rubbery, and his vision was just beginning to blur. Yet now
out of reach of the fire, his own surging adrenalin counteracted the
drug, stimulant overriding depressant. Her voice seemed to come from
within the hall, or somewhere beyond. Now standing, he stumbled in her
direction with the broad-based gait of a drunk.

Inside the passageway, Maks held Christine's small frame against her
chest. Cradling her in tight satisfaction, she began backing out through
the opening of the hellish environment of the corridor, hoping against
hope that Chad was still safe in the lab.

Roaring fire was everywhere, and they were drenched in the sprinkler's
stinging spray. Christine tucked her head.

Maks sensed the sudden rigidity of her sister's body, and she held her
in firm, reassuring closeness.

"Easy, Chrissie, easy. I won't let go for anything." Christine felt
pitifully happy in Maks' arms, but otherwise she appeared physically
okay. A little malnutrition, perhaps, but nothing that seemed like
permanent damage. At least nothing visible. In the hall, Maks skirted a
wall of fire.

Suddenly, something whizzed behind her, scraping her thigh as it burst
through the blaze, speeding down the corridor. Maks watched the autobot
slow to a stop. Then it began maneuvering her way.

Maks glared at the machine. It's nothing more than a black box on
wheels, she realized. But her emotions refused to accept that
intellectualization. In her mind, she anthropomorphised the robot into
something humanly sinister.

The mechanical rectangle was the embodiment of evil to her, a malevolent
incarnation intent on destroying her and those she loved. She felt
imbued with a rage more intense than she'd ever known. She despised the
machine and everything it stood for. She spoke through bared teeth, her
voice akin to a snarl.

"You bastard," she hissed. "You're dead. I'm going to blow you to
Kingdom Come!" But with what? Maks looked wildly about her, at the
flames which licked at the ceiling and walls. Bits of debris were
everywhere-pipes, concrete, and beams, some of them ablaze. But nowhere
was there a weapon. Unless  ...  She glanced at the regulator, which
she'd been mindlessly clutching ever since she joined up with Chad. She
recalled Merlin's caution against overheating the regulator. Something
about oxygen under pressure. As her head whirled, the autobot continued
stalking them, twisting and swiveling in response to the laser guidance
system. Holding Christine tight, Maks jumped to the side, skittering out
of the autobot's line of fire. Curiously, she felt no fear. Instead, she
was incensed, furious. She wanted to kill.

There! She spotted a foot-long section of two-by-four lying in the
corner, shattered and ablaze. Could she reach it in time? Crouching
against the wall, under the undulating veil of flame, she glanced at the
autobot, whose front portal was sliding open. As she watched, a small
hollow tube began to protrude. She sprang.

Keeping low, virtually crushing Christine against her, Maks traversed
the ten feet separating her from the burning piece of wood. She tucked
the regulator in her underwear as she hurriedly stooped to seize the
piece of lumber.

With a whooshing sound, a blast of high-powered air whizzed by her head,
an inch from her face. She straightened up, throwing herself against the
wall, out of the autobot's sights.

She seethed with rage. "Try to get me, you son of a bitch!

Holding the blazing wood like a torch, she sprinted toward the autobot.

Its swiveling PCG tried to track her, but she zigzagged like an
open-field runner. Dodging and danciiig, she heard another sibilant hiss
as the air-driven drug shot past her. She skidded to a sliding halt just
beside the open portal. As the PCG turned her way, she swung the fiery
two-by-four in an underhand arc. She was furious.

"Want a hot lunch, Tin Man?" With all her might, Maks thrust the piece
of wood through the portal. It wedged tight, burning end inward, forcing
the PCG off to one side. Her fumbling fingers, now free, tore the
regulator from her waist. She was still seething.

"How about some fresh air with your meal?" She quickly but carefully
placed the regulator atop the glowing embers in the portal. Then she
danced off again, toward the lab. Behind her, the autobot's mechanized
whir became a high-pitched screech. It seemed to have gone berserk,
turning this way and that, still trying to line up its target.

When she was inches away from the lab, Maks tripped on a chunk of
dislodged masonry and tumbled onto her outstretched arm. Try though she
did to keep hold of Christine, her sister rolled out of her grasp. The
child whimpered, and Maks reached for her, pausing only to glance at the
autobot. Her heart sank.

The PCG was aimed directly at her.

She pulled Christine under her and closed her eyes, using her body as a
shield. But before the drug could hammer her, Merlin's pressurized
cylinder erupted. Christine screamed when the autobot exploded, spraying
torn bits of plastic and metal over their heads like shrapnel. Maks
sagged, catching her breath. But there was no time to celebrate. Her
first priority was Christine, then Chad. Scooping her sister into her
arms, she found the entrance to the lab.

Choking at the heavy smoke, she climbed inside.

"Maks!" A clearly dazed Dunston propped himself up on a wall.

Tears streaming anew, Maks quickly reached him, then held the trio in a
three-way embrace. Dunston's eyes focused on the child. At the sight of
the stranger, Christine closed her eyes and tightened her grip in her
sister. Droplets of water bathed her face, washing away the grime.

Dunston reached out to rub her cheeks.

"Incredible," he murmured to Maks. "You found her, huh? Hard to
believe," he said soothingly. had, we've got to get out of here! One of
those aus nearly flattened me, and I'm sure another one's going to show
up any minute!"

"What about going back down the hall?"

"No good. it's all blocked off, and the place is a firetrap!

Isn't there another way?" Through increasingly woozy vision, he looked
through the lab, toward the bricked-up window. "Well..

"What about your shotgun?" Out of shells."

"Oh Christ!"

"Just a minute." He tried to keep from reeling as he stared back across
the I.V." he plunged ahead, his right hip thudding, into something,
making him wince. He squinted, concentrating. Good Lord, it was the
workstation for the free electron laser! He held on with both hands,
fearing that if he let go, he'd collapse and never get up again. It had
to have an on-off switch somewhere. His numb and trembling fingers
finally found it and turned it on. The laser emitted a high, turbine
like whine.

"What are you doing?"

"Our ticket out, babe. I-" The chemical gun's snakelike hiss seemed
louder than ever. Dunston shouted and clutched his shoulder blade,
simultaneously turning to look behind him. Through the hole in the lab's
wall, another autobot had silently positioned itself. The PCG slowly
moved, trying to line him up again.

"Bloody pig!" Maks said. She hurriedly put her sister down. A three-foot
length of one-inch diameter pipe lay at her feet, torn free by one of
the blasts. She lifted it in both hands and charged the autobot like a
woman possessed, shrieking in hate and vengeance. She wielded the pipe
like a baseball bat, head and shoulders down, leaning into the swing
with a fierce rip that made Dunston envious. Her first swing shattered
the optics, sending a shower of glass across the room. Heir backswing
took out the stem of the PCG and then she lifted the pipe over her head,
bringing it down like an axe in a vicious, floorward arc.

"Filthy, rotten bastard!" she raged. "I'll turn you into scrap metal!"
She swung the pipe again and again, pulverizing the autobot into
unrecognizable slivers and fragments. Dunston, meanwhile, found the
strength to pick up Christine, who whimpered softly against his
shoulder. Maks finally paused, out of breath. Beads of perspiration
coursed down her neck into the cleft between her breasts. The results of
her wait lay about her feet in pieces.

"I think it got the message," Dunston managed.

Maks nodded, lungs heaving, her breath in spasm. The pipe fell to the
floor with a clang as she plodded heavily their way. She held out her
arms for Christine, eyeing Dunston with concern.

"How're you doing?"

"Been better. Listenta me  ...  You gotta do it, Maks. keep holda
Christine."

"Do what?"

"The laser. Gimme a hand." His drugged mind frantically tried to recall
what Merlin had said. "My breast pocket  ...  Get it. Hurry."

"What are you talking about?"

"Maks, please!" The fire was roaring about them. She quickly rummaged
through one pocket, then another, her trembling fingers searching for
the Oolished magnifying lens. With his remaining strength, Dunston
hugged Christine, keeping a brooding guard over her. Her tattered
hospital gown, speckled with food droppings, had risen up to her chest
when he'd lifted her. She was naked underneath, her abdomen exposed.

Something about her umbilicus caught his trained eye, and he looked
closer. In the lower half of her belly button was a healed semicircular
incision which, to a surgeon, meant only one thing: laparoscopy.

His brain screamed. Not a tonsillectomy, dammit, but a laparoscopy!

That's how Arthur had done it! A gynecologic procedure, the "belly
button" operation, intended to view the female reproductive organs, such
as fallopian tubes and ovaries. Ovaries which, if properly premedicated
with Serophene, could release multiple ova, eggs capable of being
fertilized. Her ova, God in Heaven, his testis. Test-tube babies. It was
positively monstrous!

His knees felt like buckling, but he wouldn't allow it.

Hold on, for Christ's sake! Another autobot could arrive at any moment!

His breathing grew labored as Maks still fumbled from one pocket to
another.

Dunston's peripheral vision was almost completely gone.

"Know what's waiting at home for you, Christine?" he asked. "Your own
bed. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I want to sleep with Maks." She slowly lifted her face and stared at
him. "What's your name?" Christ, he thought, what spunk! Here, the world
was on the verge of collapsing around them, and she was carrying on
polite conversation! "Chad. You're one helluva brave kid, Christine.

Don't worry, you're safe with me," he said, as much for his own
reassurance as hers. God, where was everything? What was taking Maks so
long? "It's okay, I' I protect you." He wondered if he was up to it.

"That's all right. They come mostly in the dark."

"Who?" he wheezed.

"The black things on wheels." He was fading fast. He prayed Maks could
locate the lens.

"But you fooled them, didn't you?" She beamed. "Yeah. I can hide real
fast."

"Chad! Is this it?" She held up a tissue paper-covered oval.

"Yeah  ...  Take the paper off. Don't smudge it." He shook his head, his
vision gone completely diplopic.

"Chad," whispered Christine, clutching his neck. "I'm scared."

"Me too, kid."

"I knew you'd come."

"That so?" She nodded. "I dreamed someone would rescue me." As he hugged
her, he felt an overwhelming compassion, and a love almost as great as
he felt for her sister.

"Hold tight, sweetheart. Whatever happens, stick with me." His double
vision made eyesight almost impossible.

Fortunately, the laser beam was a bright, sapphire blue.

"Chad, please!" Maks pleaded. "What do I do now?"

"I  ...  Help me with this." As his lightheartedness grew more profound,
he pressed against the workstation with all his might, directing maks to
help him. Under their combined efforts, it grudgingly gave way, sliding
in the direction he indicated. With the little strength he had left, he
helped her line it up with the resurfaced window.

He desperately needed time, but he doubted if he had thirty seconds. His
memory had grown as fuzzy as his vision. He was a marathon runner,
hitting the wall. Exhausted and panting, he struggled to recall what
Merlin had told him. He sensed Maks growing frantic.

"Chad, hang on! What're we going to do next?"

"We're gonna blast a hole through that wall, that's what.

Soon as it goes, we haul ass outa here. Not high  ...  Jus' jump."

"Are you crazy? What about Christine?"

"Dammit, do what I tell you! She's safe with me! You're gonna work the
lens. Just get ready." His vision was blackening as he turned to the
child. "Chrissie, I'm countin' on you. Don't let go, okay?" She gave a
fearful nod.

Consciousness dwindling, he finally remembered what Merlin said. "The
lens, Maks. Hold it in fronta the laser beam! "How far Uncertain, she
looked at the lens, then at him. in front? At what angle?" she said,
nearing panic.

"Lemme have it  ...  Stand outta the way, near the wall."

"But-"

"Move it!" Maks was torn, wanting to comply, but terrified for
Christine. Biting her lip in fear and trepidation, she finally moved
back. Clutching Christine firmly. Dunston leaned across the table,
knocking over God-knew-what-hopefully, not the mirror or diamond tip.

Through the mantle of descending darkness, he could scarcely see, and
what little he did make out rippled like a mirage. Christine's firm hug
spurred him on. With adrenalin-stimulated clarity he concentrated on the
laser beam, which now resembled an undulating wave. He held the lens as
steadily as possible in his fingertips. The whole room was spinning. He
concentrated, placing the lens in the laser's stream.

The intensely magnified beam bounced off the mirror, sending a colossal
surge of energy toward the wall. Dunston was far too gone to see it, but
not unaware of the sound. The entire wall next to Maks exploded with a
horrific roar, sending pulverized cinder block and ash outward, creating
an enormous opening toward the world beyond.

Rocked by the blast, Christine screamed, but Dunston could scarcely hear
her. All he could see was light, shadow, and smoke. Maks-where was Maks?

He prayed she hadn't waited for him.

On the verge of unconsciousness, racked by pain and exhaustion, he
summoned up his last ounce of strength to crush Christine to his chest.

Holding her for dear life, he desperately staggered toward the light,
praying his rubbery legs wouldn't give way. One final lunge carried him
through the gap, into the brightness beyond. His last conscious thought
was to protect Christine. Swiveling in midair, he held her atop him as
he plummeted downward, back first.

Then the outdoor brightness turned to starry twinkling, flashbulbs
popping against his retina, before darkness overtook him entirely.

Chapter Twenty-five.

OUTSIDE THE CENTER, Sawyer's van had returned for the rendezvous fifteen
minutes early, parking in an inconspicuous spot in the back. At the
muffled sound of the first propane explosion, Donohue drew his gun and
leapt from the van's front seat.

"What the hell was that?"

"Can't tell," said the driver, a man of few words. "It came from over
there." He pointed in the direction of the blocked-over lab window a
hundred yards away.

"Move it!" The driver hit the gas, with Donohue furiously jogging
alongside. The van swerved onto the service road and screeched to a halt
below the lab. Its rear doors burst open, and everyone jumped out.

"Any idea where we are?" asked Donohue.

Sawyer pointed toward the cinder blocks. "That's where the lab window
used to be. Why's if bricked over?"

"You expect me to know?"

"Isn't that smoke over there?"

"Screw the smoke!" Donohue shouted. "I'm going in!"

"In where?"

"Back through the service entrance."

Sawyer grabbed his arm. Are you nuts? That's suicidal!"

"I got a death wish, so what? They could use a hand!" Just then, the tab
wall erupted. Fragments of block and concrete whizzed outward, several
pinging off the van, causinintinor dents. The air was filled with dust
and choking ash, quickly swept away by the wind. Everyone looked up
toward the huge opening where the glass window had once been.

As the smoke was clearing, a nearly naked woman tumbled from the
opening. She landed heavily on the grass one story below but almost
immediately jumped, up, obviously unhurt. it was Maks. For a moment she
worriedly stared up at the smoking hole, then began to scream
unintelligibly in the direction of the damage. Everyone gaped. From her
frantic mannerisms, the worst seemed to have happened.

As they continued to collectively gape in dumbstruck helplessness,
another body literally hurtled through the opening.

Donohue's jaw dropped as his mind searched for appropriate words,
finally settling on "holy shit." The figure was falling right toward
them. Before an one had a chance to scatter, the body slammed back-first
onto the top of the van with a loud, metal-bending thud.

Donohue, trained for chaos, was the first to react. He clambered onto
the front fender, peered over the top, and found himself staring into
the closed eyes of an unconscious Dunston.

"Jesus Christ," he said, holstering his gun. "It's deja vu all over."

"Who is it?" asked Merlin.

"It's him-Dunston."

"Miss. Lassiter?" considerably shaken but uninjured, ran toward them at
a furious clip. "For God's sake, help him!" Concentrating as he was on
the physician's face, Donohue hadn't noticed what Dunston was clutching.

At the sound of her sister's voice, Christine stirred. Seeing a flash of
movement, Donohue jumped off the fender in fright, not knowing if that
unkempt  ...  thing  ...  were animal or extraterrestrial.

Christine, who'd been whimpering softly, stopped sobbing long enough to
find her voice. "Maks?" Maks went agog. Dear God, she thought. She
stopped running, feeling limp. She so profoundly wanted to believe that
Chad succeeded, that she was unable to. While nearly everyone was
staring dumbly at Maks, as if the action had been freeze-framed, Cheryl
found a smock and, tied it around her friend's shoulders, like a cape.

Maks' lips visibly trembled. Paralyzed by joy and disbelief, she tried
to speak but couldn't.

"Miss. Lassiter?" Sawyer said.

Thus prompted, the name Maks never truly thought she'd say again softly
ushered from her throat. "Chrissie?"

"Up here," came the tiny reply.

"Christine!" Maks shrieked.

Momentarily forgetting about Dunston, she ran to the van's opened rear
doors and vaulted over the fender onto the cargo floor. She put both
hands on the roof and tried to pull herself up, but she didn't have the
strengthen ashen panic, she looked around for something to stand on.

"Gimme a hand, Victor," said Merlin.

They interlaced fingers and palms, creating a step for her.

Nearing hysteria, Maks trilled something incomprehensible as she stepped
onto their joined hands. She regrasped the van's top, and they carefully
hoisted her up until, her waist coming level with the roof, she was able
to swing her legs up and over. Going onto all fours, her eyes linked
with those of her sister.

Still- nestled in Dunston's protective grasp, Christine was looking back
over her shoulder. His body had taken the full impact, protecting her
from injury. For a moment, the two sisters simply gazed at one another
with nearly identical expressions of longing, grief, and torment. The
full light of day only enhanced the emotions they'd barely savored in
the Center. The reality of reunion was too much for a still incredulous
Maks.

Overwhelmed, the dam broke. The tears she'd tried to hold back now
liberally gushed forth. Sobbing uncontrollably, she crawled forward on
hands and knees.

"Who the hell is Christine?" asked Donohue.

"Her dead younger sister," said Cheryl.

Donohue contemplated the reply, then shook his head.

"You broads are all alike. I need a decoder ring to understand what
you're saying." Maks pried her sister free from Dunston's encircling
arms, still oblivious to his presence. Christine, now crying in earnest,
threw her arms around Maks' neck. They hugged each other tight in
tearful, joyous reunion. They rocked ever so slightly from side to side,
and Maks caressed her sister's damp and matted hair. "Oh baby, baby,
baby." Meanwhile, Merlin had managed to scale the van's roof by climbing
up the front. He reached for Dunston's neck and was almost immediately
reassured by the steady throb of a carotid pulse. Despite the massive
dent in the sheet metal roof, Merlin spotted no blood or obviously
broken bones.

"Radio for an ambulance," he called.

"How's he look?" asked Sawyer.

"Like Tyson worked him over. But he's breathing." He looked at Dunston
and shook his head. "Luckiest sonofabitch I ever knew. Twice in three
weeks, who'd a guessed it? Must be trying for some sort of record." Her
sobs reduced to sniffles, Maks eased out of her elated embrace and gazed
adoringly at her sister. Christine still wept. But soon, drinking in the
warm, affectionate look on her sister's face, Christine's crying
lessened to a throaty, spasmodic quake. Maks lovingly wiped away the
tearstained grime and smiled, shaking her head from side to side, not
knowing what to say. There were so many questions, she didn't know where
to begin. She thought back to that awful day she'd brought Christine to
the Center. She tried that as a conversational starting point, but she
could get only as far as, "How  ...  ?"

Mind elsewhere, Christine looked over her shoulder.

"Chad saved me." Chad  ...  Dear God, Chad! She'd been so consumed by
the realization Christine was alive that she'd been incapable of another
thought. Panic returned when her gaze ran the length of Dunston's
prostrate form.

Overcome by fear and guilt, she held her sister by the waist and quickly
crawled to Dunston's side.

"Somebody call an ambulance!" she screamed.

"On its way, Miss. Lassiter."

"Is Chad dead?" asked Christine.

The tears flowed again, and Maks' hand flew to her mouth. Trembling, she
reached out to touch his cheek.

"He's alive," Merlin told her. "Just down for the count.

Took some wallop."

"Can't we get him off of here?"

"Better wait for the EMTS. He could've fractured something."

"Oh no," she said, her voice a quavering whisper.

Merlin carefully patted Dunston's pockets. Unzipping one, he found the
protective baggies. He lifted them up and closely inspected the
floppies. "What'dya know, McKitrick. I think he hit paydirt." He handed
the diskettes to her. "How's that grab you?,,

"Could be," she said. "We won't know until we get back to Upton."

"Do you know Chad, Maks?" asked Christine.

She pulled her sister into another embrace, as much to hold her again as
to dispel her mounting emotions chill.

"Yes, baby, I do."

Christine watched the flow of her sister's tells. "I bet you love him."

"Very, very much." There was the wail of a siren in the distance. It
started Epilogue to rain.

IN A CORNER of the I.C.U, the small group kept a vigil at Dunston's
bedside. Christine was in the bed next to him, holding her sister's hand
atop the side rail. Since arriving at the hospital, she'd been bathed,
fed, and examined, both physically and psychiatrically. A staff
gynecologist confirmed that she had, indeed, undergone a laparoscopy.

But a pelvic ultrasound revealed that her internal organs were intact
and sonographically quite normal. After spending more than an hour with
Christine, a child psychologist told Maks that her sister would likely
have night terrors, but they'd eventually pass. Ongoing play-type
psychotherapy was advisable for the immediate future. Everything
considered, however, she pronounced Christine an astonishingly
resilient, resourceful child who should suffer no indelible emotional
scars.

After her testing was over, Christine, who'd said virtually nothing for
half a year, kept up a cheerful, non-stop banter.

Maks absorbed every word, saying little, relishing the sounds she
thought had been denied her forever. Every few moments she cast a
fretful glance at an unconscious Dunston. She was amazed that Christine
looked so robust and had even grown a half inch in height. No one was
entirely clear how the drugued child had escaped her captors after
surgery, but it was apparent that the hidden lair she'd managed to
construct was a base for nocturnal forays into the nearby kitchen, which
she'd skillfully, liberally looted.

Dunston, similarly, appeared to have come through well.

Donohue insisted he must have had training as an acrobat.

There were no broken bones, no internal bleeding; only a nasty
concussion and the after-effects of the as-yet unidentified drug. They
could only speculate how long it would d take to completely wear off.

At the Center, the fire had been completely extinguished.

A SWAT team, which had rushed in poorly prepared and with a rather
cavalier attitude, had disabled the remaining autobots, but suffered two
casualties in the process. Weiman's severely burned body was found at
the foot of a scorched operating table. In the lab, shattered glass
receptacles and unrecognizable fetal tissue were all that remained of
the only life Weiman had e I ver been able to conceive.

Once the Center was secured, Cheryl divided her time between its
computer center and her own computers at Upton, enjoying the luxury of a
government car and driver.

The process had consumed her entire day, but the information she gleaned
was invaluable, telling all. She reviewed her findings with Sawyer, who
in turn informed his own boss and all those on the "need to know" list.

Precisely at seven, Dunston groaned. Everyone got up at once and hovered
over the bedrails. But he didn't budge, and his stentorous breathing
resumed. A tan though aged nurse, looking like a sun-dried tomato in a
white pants suit, lazily took his pulse and walked away.

"He'll come around," said Merlin. "Guy's hard as nails." Maks simply
stared at him, smiling good naturedly.

Dunston's lids flickered. He tried to raise his head, but it fell back
heavily against the pillow. He grimaced, caught his breath, and slowly
opened his eyes. He blinked, trying to focus. "Maks?" he rasped. "You
okay?" She sought his hand and squeezed. "Yep. A little high jump, just
like you said. But how do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck." , .

Those standing nearby shared a heartfelt laugh.

"I say something funny?"

"You were hit by a truck. Actually, it was the other way around."

"What're you talking about?" Merlin and Maks shared the explanation.

Dunston's face had a no-way expression, believing he was being put on,
until he noticed everyone nodding in unison.

"Unreal," he said. "First a patrol car, then a van. Maybe I went into
the wrong field. How was my form?"

"Considering the degree of difficulty, the judges awarded it nine-sevens
across the board."

"Room for improvement, huh?" The flood of memories returned in a mental
rush. "Jesus, what about-"

"Hi, Chad."

He turned to his right, squinting through the side "Is.

Then he beamed. "Christine! How're you feeling, kid?" I"Good."

He looked at Maks, lowering his voice. "is she all right?"

"Perfect. Who wouldn't be, after riding the world's only human AIRBAG?"
He felt immense relief and chest-swelling pride. "We actually pulled it
off, huh?" Tears welled up in Maks' eyes. She leaned over and hugged
him. "There are no words, Chad. You have no idea.

To have you both back, at the same time? This is the happiest day in my
life. I can't possibly thank you enough for "Oh," Cheryl interrupted,

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Maks looked at her and grinned. "I can't imagine what you're thinking."

"Wait, wait," said Dunston. "What about the fire? The patients? Jesus,
if I caused-"

"Ease up, Doc," said Merlin. "The fire's out, all the patients are fine.

We know all about Dr. Weiman. And we control the Center now." His look
of incredulity faded. "This is really hard to digest." He put his hands
behind his head and looked upward in reflection. "You know, there were
moments when I thought I screwed up the whole thing. And destroyed
myself in the process. But for us to actually get out of there alive,"
he said, turning to gaze at Christine, "with this gorgeous kid as a
perk? Unbelievable." He paused and looked at Maks.

"Yeah," Maks smiled. "Unbelievable."