Taji's Syndrome (44 page)

“He or part of his military club,” she sighed. “They’re putting pressure on us. And they’re using every trick at their disposal.” She leaned back. “Are you through here?”

He gave a wistful smile. “No. Not by half. There’s another batch of tests to be run and some comparison screens to process.”

“But you think this O-subtype-h technique will work?” She could not keep the anxiety out of her question.

“So far it’s the only game in town,” he said. “And for those with O-type blood, it seems to be working so far. The artificial subtype-h works in the blood without an adverse reaction. It might only mean that the TS is slowed down, but even if that’s all it does, it buys us some time.” He dropped his hand on the largest stack of printouts in front of him. “Do you ever think that last year at this time, we didn’t know about any of this? TS hadn’t happened yet? And now it’s all any of us ever talk about.”

“That’s because it’s communicable and deadly,” said Susannah in her most professional manner.

“Yes,” Jeff agreed. “But I used to talk about gardens and art and music and food and the newspaper. I haven’t done that in weeks. Everyone I know is measuring their lives in terms of TS. Sometimes I think that’s the saddest thing about the disease.”

“You can’t let it get you down, Jeff,” Susannah said.

“And it doesn’t get you down?” he asked.

“I’m coordinator for this Division. It’s supposed to get me down. That’s what they pay me for.” She had wanted this to be droll and amusing, but instead she heard how tired she sounded.

“Strikes me that we’re both in need of a respite,” said Jeff.

“But not yet?” She winked at him.

“Not until the chores are done,” he said. “But if you’re going to be up later, I’ll give you a call before I leave if it isn’t too late.”

“Call me whenever it is,” she said.

“Great.” He got up and slung three of the stacks of printouts in the bend of his arm. “I’ve got to get back to it. I have a hunch we’re going to have a lot of newsflack coming our way in the next couple of days.”

“It’s going to be longer than that, I’m afraid,” she said.

“You can handle it,” he said, and came near enough to bend down and kiss her forehead.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Doctor.” She got up, smoothing her skirt as she did. “Off you go. I know you’ll do the best you can.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said as he let himself out the door.

Ordinarily by six-thirty the halls would be deserted and the half-staff that ran the facility at night would be working in offices and labs. In the last two months, this had changed. There was less staff as people continued to fall ill, but they worked constantly; six in the morning, eleven in the night, the halls were never empty and the sound of work echoed from office to lab to computer stations.

Jeff took the elevator to his lab floor, and almost walked into a large specimen cart being wheeled from the receiving area into the first of three testing labs. He muttered a word of apology as he continued on his way.

“I’m Rita, Doctor Taji,” said a lab assistant Jeff had never seen before.

“Hello, Rita,” he said, shaking hands briefly. “What became of Stan? Or don’t I need to ask?”

“He’s in the hospital,” said Rita. “I’ve been reading the records for the last series of tests. They look pretty good, don’t they?”

“If we weren’t desperate, I’d say they look worth exploring, but right now, I’d say they’re the best bet we have.” He put down the printouts. “Do you want to go over these with me, or would you rather keep on with what you were doing?”

“I’m running the comparison samples. I’ll look over the printouts later, if that’s okay.” She was bright and willing, and Jeff felt a brief pang that she should be subjected to something as pernicious as Taji’s Syndrome. Then he reminded himself that they needed all the help they could get, and sat down to run through the figures he had been given.

It was almost three hours later that Rita came back from her work. “Doctor Taji?” she said as she approached the lab table where he was reading comparisons of ACTH readings in advanced cases of TS.

“What is it?” he asked brusquely, irritated at the break in his concentration.

“I think you’d better have a look at this,” she said uneasily.

“What’s wrong?” He was on his feet at once, his printouts forgotten.

“The control specimens . . . they’re following the curve, but that new compound, the one that you and Doctor Hardy developed . . .” She was having trouble finding the proper description.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jeff demanded as they went into the other part of the lab.

“Nothing. It’s not like the other group, that’s using the previous compound. Those specimens change very slowly, but the new ones don’t appear to be changing at all.” Her face lit up. “It could do it, couldn’t it? It can work in all blood, doesn’t it? I mean, it could be a cure?”

Jeff felt his heart go like a triphammer in his chest, but he reminded himself sternly that he could not jump to assumptions simply because he wanted to believe them. “We’ll see. And there are some questions of side effects, even if it seems it could work.”

“But the Public Benefit contracts will take care of that, won’t they?” Her eyes sparkled. “God, if it turns out I was the first one to see the cure. That would be . . . be—”

“We don’t know anything about cures yet, Rita,” he said with the intention of dampening her enthusiasm. “We’ll find out later if that’s what’s going on.”

“But it could be a cure, couldn’t it?” She would not abandon her hope that it was.

“Maybe, and that’s all I can tell you. I don’t know enough about it to have another opinion yet.” He came up to the three large specimen racks and looked over the vast array of test tubes. “Now, show me what you want me to see.” This was only a formality; he could see that one rack was virtually unchanged while the others showed the telltale alterations in color that revealed the presence of Taji’s Syndrome.

“What do you think?” Rita asked, all but holding her breath for his answer.

“I think this is worth looking into.” He went over to the closet and pulled out his lab coat. “Get Doctor Hardy on the line and tell him to get his ass over here right now.”

“In those words?” Rita wondered aloud.

“If it doesn’t bother you, it won’t bother him,” said Jeff with a trace of amusement. “Tell him that means right now.”

“He’s at—”

“The Control Facility. His extension is seventy-one and if he doesn’t answer the phone, one of his assistants will. Let it keep ringing and they’ll pick it up eventually.” He was already starting to prepare a more complete assessment of the three groups of specimens.

“Right away. I’ll do it right now,” said Rita father breathlessly.

“Good,” said Jeff, and set to work.

It was not quite an hour later when Ace strode into the lab, his short-sleeved shirt sweat-stained and his face shiny. “What’s this I hear about a cure? And who is that kid working your phones?”

“Rita, this is Ace Hardy,” Jeff said for an introduction. “Come here. Well, do something about that shirt, get into a lab coat and then come here.”

“That good, huh?” Ace asked sardonically. “This better be worth all the trouble,” he threatened.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up unless I thought we had a chance,” Jeff said seriously. “Go on; shower and get in here. How is it out there, anyway?”

“It’s fucking hot is how it is. Those old brick buildings, the ones the tourists like so much? You can’t get near them without feeling like you’re in an oven.” He stepped into the men’s room, slamming the door emphatically.

“Is he mad at you?” Rita asked in bewilderment.

“Not that I know of,” said Jeff, going back to his work.

Ten minutes later Ace was back, listening as Jeff outlined what they needed to do. “Let me give Jessie a call, so she’ll know why I won’t be able to visit her tonight,” he said, and went to the telephone.

Shortly after eleven that night, Rita apologized profusely and went home to be replaced by a second-generation Cuban called Charlie.

“I’ll take care of coffee, washing slides and sterilizing anything that needs it, so long as you don’t call me Carlos. That’s for the old folks, the ones who talk about Havana as if it was heaven.” He then set to work in steady determination, all the while singing South American pop songs to himself under his breath.

By four in the morning, Jeff had a thundering headache and the muscles of his neck and back seemed set into a Gordian knot. In spite of it all, he felt jubilant. “What do you think?” he asked Ace as they checked the computer scan against their own notes.

“I think some Public Benefit contracts are going to get put to use. Starting with Jessie’s. She’s type O and if this stuff can help anyone, I want it to be her.”

“What about you?” asked Jeff, trying without success to stifle a yawn.

“Don’t I wish. I’m type A.” He shrugged. “Some of us have to be.”

“Yeah,” Jeff said heavily, much of his elation evaporating in the realization that the discovery would not be able to help Ace, who had spent so much time on this work.

“First we see about potential long-term damage, and if it exists, how severe it is.” Ace ticked off their projects on his spatulate fingers. “If there are no apparent side effects, or if the side effects are minor, then the next step is to prepare a warning and make the material available to everyone with the disease who can benefit from the material.”

“Those with type-O blood,” said Jeff, wishing he could reconcile his relief at the chance of a limited solution with his dejection for those who could not yet be helped.

“You know, President Hunter has type-O blood and this is an election year,” Ace said with a sly smile. “Could be worth a shot, no pun intended.”

Jeff tried to straighten up, groaning as he heard his neck pop. “I’ve got to call Susannah.”

“At four twenty-seven in the morning?” Ace asked, pretending to be shocked. “The sun isn’t up yet.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Jeff, making his way to the phone and pressing Susannah’s number from memory.

She answered after eight rings and her tone was curt. “This had better be important, whoever you are,” she warned as she lifted the receiver.

“I wouldn’t call at this ungodly hour if it weren’t. I wouldn’t be up if it weren’t important,” said Jeff.

“Are you still at the lab?” she asked, sounding concerned and contrite. “Jeff?”

“Still here,” he confirmed. “I’m beginning to think I’ve taken root here.”

“Very funny; now why are you calling?” Though her question was all business, her tone of voice was not.

“Ace and I have been working on these latest tests and we might—I said might, Susannah—have come up with something that will be . . . useful.”

“You mean you’ve got a workable subtype-h over there?” She almost shrieked the question. “Is that it?”

“I hope so,” said Jeff with more emotion than he knew. “It looks more promising than anything we’ve developed so far. I want to run more tests, but at first go, it’s doing well.”

“Oh, Jeff, that’s . . . wonderful. That’s great. Hell, it’s better than any of that.” She sounded as excited as a high school senior being invited to the prom.

“It hasn’t proved out yet,” Jeff cautioned her, though he was having trouble keeping satisfaction out of his voice.

“How soon can we make an announcement?” She was not quite so giddy now.

“Not quite yet, I don’t think. You don’t want to make promises you can’t keep.” Jeff rubbed his forehead and longed for three aspirin.

“But what if someone ferrets this out and breaks it ahead of us?” The apprehension was back in her voice now.

“You mean John Post? No worry there? If you mean Maurice Tolliver, I don’t think he wants us to look good. He’d break it only if he thought he could discredit it later.” Jeff looked up as Charlie sashayed by, dancing to his own whispered song.

“You could be right. I hope, I hope, I hope,” she said. “Look, are you going to be there much longer?”

“Probably another hour or so. I want to put more data into the computer before I leave so that I have something to come back to this afternoon.” Slowly he arched his back, feeling his muscles protest.

“Make it an hour and a half and I’ll take you to breakfast. Be out in front.” Then the breath caught in her throat. “Do we really have a chance, Jeff?”

“A chance,” he said. “It’s a chance.”

“I wish I were still religious. I think I’d want to say thank you.” She gave an unsuccessful chuckle. “Can I thank
you?”

“Not yet. Maybe later,” said Jeff, surprised at the intensity of his reaction to her words. “I’ve told Ace that Jessie can have some of the first batch if this passes all the control tests.”

“Sure, fine.” said Susannah. “I’ll see you later. I’ve got to shower and get dressed. Wait for me.”

“I’ll be there,” said Jeff, and hung up.

“She excited?” Ace asked as he regarded Jeff over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Thrilled. But we’ve still got a long way to go. The last eight attempts made it this far and didn’t pass the follow-up tests.” He was just starting to realize how tired he was; he was not at all sure he could stay awake through breakfast.

“Think of it like symphonies: the ninth is always the best.” Ace waited for a response, and when he got none, he said, “Remember the warning you’ve given me, the one about not asking for trouble? For all you know this stuff will work just fine.”

“And everyone with type-O blood will have a chance,” said Jeff wearily. “And the rest will continue to die.”

“At least it’s type-O and not type-AB,” said Ace. “It gives the chance to the greatest number of people.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s bothering you, Taji?”

“I was just thinking about Max Klausen and Wil Landholm and Sam Jarvis and all the rest of them. It doesn’t matter what blood type they had. They’re dead. They didn’t have a chance.” He lowered his head.

“Yeah, and two hundred years ago you didn’t have a chance with cholera or smallpox or rabies, and ten years ago you didn’t have a chance with AIDS. Maybe this is only a limited chance for a limited number of people—so be it. You can’t let that get in the way or you’ll never get out from under.” He got up and came over. “The trouble with you is you’re worn out, Doctor, and you need to give yourself twenty-four hours off.”