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Heather picked up the phone receiver. Its plastic surface felt cold and slick.

Don't tell
anybody
about us,
Rowan had told her. He'd stood right in front of her and put his hand on her shoulder and threatened her directly.
If you do, we'll find out. And we'll come back. Do you understand?

Heather understood. Somehow the threat was even scarier when it wasn't explained. And she'd agreed in her mind. She would keep her mouth shut. At least, that was what she'd thought right then, at that moment.

Heather reached for the keypad. Her fingers brushed the Braille buttons, and she started dialing. It was easy to tell which button was which; she'd gotten good at it.

One. Two one two. Five five five. Twelve twelve.

New York City directory assistance.

A day later Heather's feelings had changed a bit. She was still frightened, but now she was angry, too. Heather didn't know much about government bureaucrats, but she was pretty sure they didn't threaten people. So if Rowan and Morrow weren't bureaucrats, who the hell were they?

“Residence of Gaia Moore,” Heather told the recording. “East Seventy-second Street in Manhattan.”

She had to warn Gaia. It was that simple; she had no choice. How could those men “find out,” anyway? Heather didn't think they could. That was just something they'd said to scare her. It was obvious now.

And all their questions had been about Gaia.

There was a click as Heather was connected to a live operator. She got ready to memorize the number—something else she'd gotten good at.

“That number is no longer in service,” the operator told her.

Heather hung up. A cold wave passed over her.

Could they have gotten to her? So
fast?
A day later?

Heather told herself that was silly. It had been a long time since she'd been in New York. It had been a while since she'd spoken to Gaia or anyone else. She'd moved, that was all. Heather had to warn someone else—get the message to Gaia.

One. Two one two. . .

Heather's fingers pressed the Braille buttons. The phone receiver, next to her ear, was already damp with her perspiration. This number she knew all too well.

The phone was ringing. It picked up. Immediately she heard music in the background and shuffling noises.

“Hello?”

Ed's voice. Unmistakably. Heather felt a wave of relief at the sound of Ed's voice.

“Ed, it's Heather.”

“Heather?”
Ed sounded a bit stunned but pleased. “Wow. I don't believe—how are you?”

“Fine. Okay. Not so good.”

“What's wrong?”

Don't tell anyone,
Rowan had warned her.

Too bad.

“Ed, listen,” Heather said. “You have to do something for me.”

“Sure,” Ed said affably. “Anything. Name it.”

“You have to give a message to Gaia.”

“That's going to be difficult,” Ed said heavily.

There was silence at the other end of the phone. Heather could hear Ed breathing in and out.

“Why?” Heather croaked. “Why will it be difficult?”

“We're, um—we're not exactly speaking.”

“Not—” Heather was relieved.
She's all right,
she thought.
Relax.

But wait. Ed and Gaia? Not
speaking?
That was crazy. What could possibly have driven a wedge like that between Gaia and Ed? Heather was almost afraid to ask. “Ed, what happened?”

“That's a long story. She—it's really the best thing for both of us right now. And there's—” Ed paused again, and Heather realized, with her newfound ability to read voices and detect moods, that this was something recent that Ed was reacting to. “There's someone else in the picture. She's got a—Gaia's been spending a lot of time with a guy named Jake.”

Jake?
Heather didn't have the slightest idea who that was. It reminded her again how long she'd been away from New York.

“Do you think you could talk to her anyway?” Heather went on. “I'm sorry, Ed, but it's important. Can you just tell her that I think she might be in some kind of trouble?”

“What?”

“Two men came here yesterday. And. . . they were kind of scary. They asked me a whole bunch of questions about what happened to me, about being blind. . .
and about Gaia. They were seriously kind of scary, Ed. And I'm afraid they're going to come looking for her.”

“Of course.” Ed laughed bitterly. “Someone is always looking for Gaia.”

“They told me not to tell anyone,” Heather went on. “But I had to, Ed.”

“Right.” Ed was breathing again. “What did they look—oh, sorry.”

“I can't tell you what they looked like. They talked about Oliver, too—you know, Gaia's uncle. Could you just tell her what happened? Please, Ed?”

He's not going to do it,
Heather thought.
They hate each other now, and he's not going to talk to her.

“Nine-ten
P.M
.,” the speaking clock in the next room said.

“Of course,” Ed said quickly. Heather's concern melted away. “Of course I'll do it.”

“You don't mind?”

“No, I don't. . . . I mean, we're not really talk—no, forget that. Forget it. If you think she's in trouble. . . then I don't have a choice.”

“Good.” Heather felt a wave of admiration for Ed. She could tell from the weariness in his voice how much he didn't want to do it. But he was going to come through as usual.

“Let me make sure I've got the story straight,” Ed said. All traces of resentment were gone from his voice. “Two men came to harass you and asked questions
about your blindness; they mentioned her uncle and gave the impression that they're going to talk to her next. Do I have it right?”

A wave of relief passed over Heather; it was almost a physical feeling of a weight being lifted.
I've done the right thing,
she thought firmly. She was sure of it.

“Yeah, you got it right. Thanks, Ed. Thanks so much.”

“That's okay.”

“I miss you, Ed.” It was true. She missed everybody. She could spend the next ten minutes giving Ed greetings to pass on to everyone. But that could wait. “Please, just talk to Gaia as soon as you can. It's important.”

“All right,” Ed said. “I'll do it. Don't worry.”

“Thanks, Ed.” Heather suddenly felt like crying, she missed everyone so much.

That's done,
Heather thought, hanging up the phone.
And there's no way those two men will find out.

But she wasn't sure. And she was mildly surprised to find that she was still as frightened as before.

All she could do was sit there like a tortured zombie.

Immeasurably Grateful

WHAT AM I DOING HERE?

Gaia wasn't sure. She was back in the Rodke and Simon building on Sixth Avenue. She was shivering—the waiting room's air-conditioning was going full blast. Pleasant music was playing quietly in the background. Gaia sat in one of the comfortable leather chairs, holding her package in her lap, looking around.

The room was empty except for the white-coated receptionist behind the desk. The receptionist had smiled at her and told her to wait (in a British accent) and then ignored her. Every time the phone rang, the receptionist answered quietly, “Rodke and Simon, Advanced Resequencing Labs.”

When Mr. Rodke had arranged this meeting from his office, he'd told her to expect a bit of a “madhouse” since the laboratories were so new. Gaia wouldn't have called this a “madhouse,” however. Like the Rodkes' apartment, the office had stacks of plywood and construction materials around, but each person she'd seen—the receptionist and the passing scientists in lab coats—had appeared very calm and professional. The atmosphere of high-end science was unmistakable.

So why am I here?

It was a funny series of events, now that she thought
back on it. If she hadn't played chess in Starbucks. . . if she hadn't gotten an opportunity to meet Mr. Rodke. . . if he hadn't graciously invited her to come find out about his company. . . she wouldn't be sitting here, with this package in her lap, about to have a private discussion with one of the world's premier geneticists.

Gaia was rehearsing the things she was going to say. In her fingers the package turned over and over. She could still leave, she thought, turn right around and take the elevator down to Sixth Avenue and get a subway home to Collingwood. She'd tell Mr. Rodke that she'd changed her mind.

But she
hadn't
changed her mind. She wanted to be here. It was as simple as that.
I'm just learning,
she told herself.
The more knowledge I have, the better off I am.

“Miss Moore?” the receptionist said. Again her British accent struck Gaia. It made her sound so reasonable, so professional. “Dr. Ulrich will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Gaia said. Clutching her small paper-wrapped package, she rose to her feet and followed the receptionist's gesture toward a white metal door.

Resequencing Analysis Systems, a sign on the door said. And beneath that, in smaller letters, Karl Ulrich. No alphabet soup of initials and credentials; just his name. Gaia found that reassuring somehow.

She noticed that the door had a complicated electronic combination lock. The lock wasn't engaged—she could push the door open.

The room inside was much colder and much larger. Gaia's breath was actually fogging before her face. There were no windows. The room was dominated by a large Formica-covered table about the size of four Ping-Pong tables pushed together. It was covered in stacks of round petri dishes, piled up like transparent hockey pucks.

At one end of the table was a large gray machine like a bank safe. The machine had a complicated computer connection coming off it and a big round door on its front, like a washing machine. The interior of the machine was brightly lit.

“You must be Gaia Moore,” Dr. Ulrich said, coming toward her. He was a short, dark-haired man with a heavy German accent. He had thick gold-framed glasses. He wore a white lab coat and latex surgical gloves; he was pulling off the gloves to shake hands. “How do you do? Sorry about the cold air—it is necessary for the tissue samples.”

“Hello,” Gaia said. She was still clutching her small paper-wrapped package.

Dr. Ulrich gestured to one side, where a metal desk stood against the wall. Stacks of papers and more petri dishes covered its surface. There was a chair facing the desk, and Gaia sat down. “This place is pretty amazing,” Gaia said, doing her best to make conversation.

“Well, yes, but we have a lot of work still to do,” Ulrich said. His accent was pronounced;
have
sounded
like
haff.
Grunting, Dr. Ulrich dropped into a battered leather chair behind his desk. “This new facility is very exciting. Mr. Rodke has come through on his promises to provide the best of everything. Our work is going very well, mostly thanks to
that.
”

Ulrich was pointing at the big bank safe-looking machine. Gaia looked over politely. “And what's that?”

Ulrich waved a hand dismissively. “Much too complicated. If I answered your question, we would be talking for three hours.”

“But I'm interested,” Gaia protested.

“Ah, yes, I forget—you are a student of the human genome.” Ulrich beamed at her, his glasses glinting in the fluorescent light. “Robert Rodke told me as much. So—that machine is our pride and joy. It is an advanced electron microscope specially configured to allow a complete examination of any chromosome from any tissue sample. It is connected to very powerful computers in the basement of this building.

“Simply put, with this device we can now determine the genetic properties of any living organism and so probe the mysteries of heredity. It takes mere moments. It is no exaggeration to call this the most advanced gene sequencer on the planet. For this machine alone, the company has spent close to two hundred million dollars.”

Gaia kept looking at the machine. It looked so normal, so boring.

But that could be the key,
she realized.
The key to my whole life.
That machine could look at her blood and see what made her fearless.

“But you can't
change
people's genes with that thing, can you?” Gaia asked.

Ulrich leaned forward, intently nodding. “Just so. We cannot do this here. To alter genes, a much more complex procedure is involved over at the hospital, where we have set up our new facility. But again, I talk too much about details.”

“It's interesting,” said Gaia truthfully.

Our new facility. . . over at the hospital.
It was clear that these people meant business. The whole thing seemed very serious and professional. Gaia was impressed, and, more importantly, she was realizing again how lucky she was. Lucky that she'd met the Rodke kids. Lucky that they liked her. Lucky that they'd started talking about genes. And now here she was, sitting in the same room with the most advanced gene sequencer on the planet.

“So what are we to discuss?” Ulrich asked politely. He had taken off his glasses and was polishing them with a white cloth. His face was craggy and kind; his eyes were dark brown. “I understand that you have some questions for me.”

“Yeah,” Gaia said. She had spent some time planning this the night before; she knew exactly what she wanted to say. “Dr. Ulrich, can I make a deal with you?
Can we agree that this conversation is private? Strictly between us?”

Ulrich frowned. His glasses glinted as he put them back on. “Of course. You must understand that this goes both ways: when you leave this room, you must be careful not to give away any of the company's valuable trade secrets regarding techniques that are not yet available to the general public.”