"They are certain?" Smith pressed.
Mark turned to Dr. Mills. "Any chance-any at all-you could be mistaken?" he demanded.
The geneticist shook his head. "No, sir," he replied. "We knew what to look for. The other samples were clear."
Mark turned back to the phone. "He said-"
"I heard," Smith interrupted. "This limits our focus. I will dispatch Remo and Chiun to Maine at once. Report back here immediately. Tell the staff there to remain. We will coordinate to get more samples to them just in case."
"Gotcha. I'll be back soon." He returned the phone to its cradle and grabbed up his suit jacket from a nearby chair. "We need you to stay at work, Doctor," Mark said as he shrugged on his coat. "We only brought you a random sampling for testing. We'll be shipping some more. With any luck, your findings will hold. Thanks for your help."
Dr. Mills offered a nervous grin. "Thank you for the chance," he said. "Our molecular biologists are fascinated. None of them were around the first time. You know, Boston, 1978. And the BostonBio research data from a few years ago was confiscated by the government I think. I've heard it's surfaced on the Internet, but I wouldn't trust anything I found on Usenet. Basically, what I've heard up until today has been largely speculation and scientific hearsay."
The geneticist was still smiling with nervous excitement. Mark Howard did not return the smile. "You'll forgive me, Doctor, if I don't share your enthusiasm," he said, surprised at the coldness in his own voice. "We'll get those fresh samples to you as quickly as we can. Excuse me."
As Howard brushed past him, Dr. Mills's smile faded.
"I-I didn't mean..." he stammered. "I'm sorry. Anyway, the FBI shouldn't be too worried. Much of the material in the Lubec batch was already inert."
At the door, Mark stopped. "Inert?"
"Dead." Mills nodded. "It's still detectable, but the stuff is dying. It's more potent than the original batch from the seventies-at least from what we can tell-but it's weaker than the BostonBio stuff from three years ago."
Mark's brow dropped low. "It's been altered?"
"As far as we can tell, yes. We haven't cracked all the codes yet, obviously. That could take months or years. But it's definitely not the same stuff according to everything I've ever read on the subject. The biggest change is from the BostonBio batch. The mutational effect of that stuff was permanent. This is only temporary."
Mark was trying to wrap his brain around this. There had been cases of gene-altering material stolen from BostonBio three years ago. He and Dr. Smith had assumed this was what they were dealing with. But substantial changes to the formula meant one thing: access to a lab.
"How temporary are the effects?" Mark asked.
"Ooo, not sure," Dr. Mills said. "Without an undiluted sample of the actual formula and subjects to test it on, I can't say for certain. But based on past cases, probably two weeks. Maybe three. Of course, they can be reexposed to the formula, extending the duration of change."
Howard nodded. "Thank you again, Doctor," he said. Turning, he headed out into the hall.
He was only a few doors along when Dr. Mills called after him.
"Mr. Marx!"
Howard almost forgot his cover name. When he turned, Dr. Mills was leaning into the hall.
"I think you should see this," he called worriedly. Mark hurried back up the hall. Inside the office, Dr. Mills was pointing to the small television. On the screen, the entertainment program had fed into the news.
A female reporter stood on a rural road. Behind her, a group of protesters marched back and forth carrying large signs. The slogans H-2-No!, Water We Fighting For! and S.O.L: Save Our Leech were printed in bold letters.
Mark didn't know why the geneticist had called him back. He was about to ask when the reporter began speaking.
"This was the scene earlier today outside the Lubec Springs bottling plant here in Lubec, Maine," the woman droned. "Environmental activists have gathered to protest the destruction of the natural habitat of a local species threatened with extinction. Supporters have poured in from around the country in the hope of raising awareness and to stem the tide of what has, for many, become the latest victim in the rising flood of man's cruelty toward the species with whom he shares the Earth."
The scene cut to protest footage shot earlier in the day. Mark Howard immediately recognized the celebrities featured in the segment. Bobby Bugget took center stage, flanked by the kleptomaniac actress and the stock-fixing happy homemaker.
"Alls I know," Bugget drawled, "is that mankind'd better watch out who on the food chain he decides to stomp on. You never know when the worm you squish today might turn around and bite you on the ass."
There seemed a look of exhausted desperation on the singer's tan face. The camera cut back to the reporter.
"Sober words from Bobby Bugget, a man who cares. Live in Lubec, Maine, I'm-"
The TV snapped off. Mark Howard withdrew his hand.
"Is this a problem?" Dr. Mills asked worriedly. When he turned, Mark Howard was already heading out the door. The assistant director of CURE was fumbling his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
The look on the young man's face was that of someone who had just been told the exact date and time of Armageddon.
Chapter 16
Dr. Emil Kowalski plodded slowly up the east wing hall of San Diego's Genetic Futures, Incorporated building.
Though a small man, he moved with the swaying, lazy pace of the obese. At some point in the recent past, someone had dubbed him "The Cow." His walk, as well as his sad brown eyes and deep, slow manner of speech, cemented the nickname among the other scientists at Genetic Futures.
A wall of windows on Kowalski's left looked out on a small enclosed courtyard. Sunlight poured in, illuminating name plates and door numbers. All the men and women on this floor were scientists, and all were beneath Dr. Kowalski, Genetic Futures's premier geneticist. A voice here and there called hello as Kowalski passed open doors.
Each time, without turning, Dr. Kowalski gave a long hello. Drawn out on the last syllable, it sounded like a human parody of an animal lowing.
Dr. Kowalski didn't look in any of the open doors. His droopy eyes were staring out the window.
The courtyard was so green, so lush. Always well tended. During the worst California droughts, it was always as fresh as a country meadow.
By the time he reached his own office, Emil's stomach was growling.
He let himself in and shut the door behind him. Plodding across the room, he sank in his chair. He pulled out a small plastic sandwich bag from a brown paper lunch bag tucked away in his bottom desk drawer.
The contents weren't as green as the succulent courtyard grass. They weren't even as rich as they had been when he'd clipped them in his backyard that morning. But they were good enough to settle his longing stomach.
Dr. Kowalski fished in the back and pulled out a fat clump of grass clippings. He stuffed it greedily in between cheek and gums. He was in heaven the instant he started chewing. Moaning in ecstasy, he sat back in his chair. Eyes closed, he savored the sweet sensation.
Over the past two years he had become a grass connoisseur.
He liked the simple heft of orchard or meadow grasses, the body of Bengal grass, the tang of Kentucky bluegrass and the insouciance of the haughtier millets. He reveled in the seductive danger of sword grass.
It hadn't always been this way. For most of his fifty-two years on the planet, he had seen grass as a forgettable part of the scenery. Nothing important. A nuisance, really. Something that he hated to mow since childhood and for which a few years earlier he'd finally hired a professional service to care for when the dandelions and crabgrass in his own yard eventually got too wild.
Not anymore. Two years ago he had fired his service. He was back to caring for his own lawn.
No one else was allowed near it. Emil obsessed over it. He was out there every night and all weekend long. He had put up a fence to keep out unwanted animals and neighborhood children. He mowed it personally, working for hours with an old-fashioned push mower, lest a single poisonous drop of gas or oil touch soil or grass. And once it was mowed, he saved every little clipping in dated bags in freezer and refrigerator. He had even had a brief, unfortunate flirtation with canning. Grass had become his life.
He had brought in a fresh bag today. Emil had earned fresh. After all, now was a very stressful time. Although he no longer felt stress quite the same way as normal people.