The Delta Factor (20 page)

“This is really nice,” Cliff declared.

“It's just another clapboard country church,” she replied. “Oh, it's pretty in an old-timey sort of way. But the area around here is filled with so many old churches, I suppose most folks take about as much notice as they would of a beautiful tree.”

“So why do you come here?”

She gave him her patented lopsided smile. “To reach out and touch the invisible.” She started up the front steps. “Coming?”

Inside the church Cliff felt a sense of homecoming. A rightness. A harmony of proper place. Cliff sat and listened but heard nothing with his ears, not because he did not want to, rather because he could not hear over his heart's silence.

After the service, he walked from the church beside Deborah. He carried a peace as strong as pain. The power was too great to hold. It poured forth, emanating from him and from all the people around him. Cliff stood and smiled and nodded to those Deborah introduced and wondered if they felt as he did. If so, did they ever grow used to the power?

The peace remained with him throughout the drive home, a lance that pierced the veil of his life. He looked about him and saw the power everywhere—in the trees, the air, the houses, the people. It rose from the world like waves of fragrant incense, wafting heavenward in a spiral of grace and fulfillment.

Deborah remained silent throughout the drive, perceptive enough to understand his need for inward isolation. She pulled into her driveway and stopped beside his own car. Together they sat and listened to the motor ping as it cooled. Cliff rolled down his window. The wind drifted in, carrying with it the last notes of a song meant for his spirit alone.

Finally he sighed and asked, “Is it always like this?”

“No,” she replied quietly. “Sometimes, but not always.”

“How long does it last?”

“A lifetime,” she said. “But it isn't always possible to feel it as close as you do now.”

“I'm almost afraid to breathe,” he confessed. “If I do, it might get out and never come back.”

“If you let it,” Deborah replied, “if you ask, it will dwell within. And once there, it is there forever.”

Cliff's report on Monday did not elicit the response he had expected. Ralph Summers heard him out in gloomy silence. Sandra responded with her typical frigid anger.

“I'm afraid an indirect enquiry would be premature at this point,” Summers replied when Cliff had finished.

“Premature!” He could scarcely believe his ears. “Ralph, maybe I didn't describe it very well, but that altered rapeweed is a menace.”

“You described it perfectly,” Summers said, avoiding Cliff's gaze by doodling on his pad.

“What if there are secondary alterations?” he pleaded, pushing for them to see. “What if there really is some genetic mutation that's spreading—”

“More likely he's had a wild weekend down there with his little friend,” Sandra snapped. “And got in some kind of trouble, and now wants to cover his tracks. I'll get on the phone and see what the police have to say.”

“Please, Sandra,” Ralph sighed.

“I resent the accusation,” Cliff said.

“Resent it all you like, buster,” she snapped. “I've got your number.”

“All right, that's enough,” Summers said, raising his voice. “We've all got more important things to do than trade unfounded allegations.”

“I agree,” Cliff said.

“Then if you'll excuse me,” Sandra said, slamming her notebook closed and rising to her feet. “I'll go see if I can get to the bottom of this.” She marched to the door, paused, and flung back at them, “I can already tell you what I'll learn. That I was right. That Cliff made a serious error in going down to Edenton, and all this is just a crazy attempt to cover his tracks.”

When the door had slammed shut, Summers said quietly, “There's a grain of truth in what she says.”

“Ralph, I didn't go down and tie one on. This really happened.”

“Not about that,” he replied. “I spent this weekend trying to see if I could get a feel for what Larson was after.”

It took a moment for Cliff to realize what he was talking about. “That subcommittee hearing seems a year ago.”

“I wish it was,” Ralph said, his head still bent over his pad. He was drawing a series of lightning bolts smashing down on three building-shaped letters—FDA. “Congressman Larson is intending to use the echin drug application as an example of how the FDA is abusing its authority, wasting millions of taxpayer dollars, and withholding a vital new drug from the public. I think I've got his words down fairly accurately.”

Cliff was stunned. “That's crazy.”

The director smiled humorlessly at his pad. “My exact response. Larson has been given a vast amount of clinical data, compiled in several European countries over more than twenty years, if my information is correct, which I think it is. The data indicates that the echin compounds are utterly without contraindications.”

Cliff was out of his chair. “But Debs has changed the molecular structure!”

“Sit down, son. I hate talking up to anyone except the President.” When Cliff was again seated, Summers went on, “Based on what I heard, the only alteration was to attach a marker molecule. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, according to my sources, Larson is going to point out that we have reams of data on the harmlessness of the antigens, since every monoclonal antibody utilizes them.”

Cliff leaned back and ran frantic hands through his hair. “I don't believe I'm hearing this.”

“It gets worse, I assure you.” Summers laid down his pen and looked up. “Your trip down granted them the opportunity to formally accuse the FDA of foot dragging—that's what their little session with you was all about. This was one of Larson's conditions in going public. He wanted to have everything above board.”

“They didn't say anything about all this,” Cliff protested.

“They didn't have to,” Summers said wearily. “All they needed was a chance to publicly rebuke us and give us what can later be called fair warning. Which they did. Thanks to you.”

Cliff struggled to come to grips with the news. “And this new problem—”

“Maybe your friend can convince her superiors to look into it,” Summers suggested. “But just stop for a moment and imagine what it would look like for the FDA to respond to this public enquiry by claiming that a drug which has been used by millions of Europeans for years suddenly is shown to turn roses and rapeweed into LSD. We'd be laughed out of Washington.” Summers shook his head. “It's damage control time, son. You are hereby ordered to keep your head in the trenches. Which means no more trips down to Edenton.”

“But Ralph—”

“That's it, Cliff. I'm sorry. Now get to work.”

Cliff returned to his office and immediately put a call in to Deborah. She heard him out in silence, then said, “They're not getting back from Washington until late this afternoon. I've got a meeting scheduled for tomorrow at ten, the earliest slot they had free. You sit tight until you've heard from me.”

“I can't believe this is happening.”

“I can.” Deborah's voice was tight as a whip. “All the pieces are falling into place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Leave it until tomorrow, Junior. I'll call you as soon as the meeting lets out.”

To his sleep-filled mind, the phone's clamor sounded like Armageddon. Cliff fumbled on the side table, found the receiver only after knocking over his lamp and alarm clock. “This had better be good.”

“Harvey Cofield is a worm in sheep's clothing,” said a voice filled with recent tears.

“Blair?” Cliff searched and found the clock, forced his eyes to focus. Two-thirty. “What's the matter?”

“I have been ordered by his royal pain in the neck never to see you again.”

He shook his head, hoping for a little clarity. “Harvey Cofield told you not to see me?”

“Upon pain of losing my job,” she sniffed. “As though working for the pompous jerk were such a source of joy in my life.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That he could keep his cotton-picking mitts out of my private life.”

“That must have pleased him no end.”

“I may be looking for new employment before long.” She came very close to breaking down as she said, “Oh, Cliff, I'm such a klutz when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

“But such a beautiful klutz,” he said, his heart bounding joyfully.

“Have I botched things up totally and beyond repair?”

“I think they could be restored,” he replied. “Given the proper ingredient.”

Another sniff. “What's that?”

Cliff said softly, “Love.”

12

“I've received a complete and total nix,” Deborah proclaimed by telephone the next morning.

“That's impossible,” Cliff replied.

“No,” Deborah corrected. “That's Pharmacon. The suits couldn't care less about anything as ludicrous as our worries. That is the word Whitehurst used—ludicrous. He said I should restrict my activities to the lab and refrain from any more psychedelic accusations. He couldn't have cared less about Tom, either.”

“Tom?”

“The old guy at the hospital, the one who was approached by the foreigner looking for industrial secrets.”

“Oh, right.”

“When I asked them about that, they looked smug and said it was all taken care of.” Deborah sounded very worried. “That about sums up their whole attitude right now. Smug. Better watch out, Junior. It looks like they're getting ready to launch a broadside at the FDA.” She paused, then added, “And to top it all off, I've been forbidden to see you, upon pain of corporate dismemberment.”

“You and Blair both.”

“Oh, you spoke with her?”

“Last night.”

“Does this mean you two are back at being an item again?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, at least there's a small ray of sunshine in this otherwise gloomy day.” Deborah sighed. “I've been racking my brains, Junior, but I'm coming up empty.”

“What if we go to the press with all this?”

“With all what? We don't even have proof that there's a tie-in between the field with our plants and the one with the rapeweed. All we'd do right now is send a few journalists into psychedelic orbit and maybe have a hippie festival closed down. Not to mention alerting the suits to our willingness to go public.”

She was silent a moment, then mused aloud, “No, we've got to wait until we've got the goods, then hit them where it counts. Which is a problem, because if I start any new study here, it's bound to get back to the Tombs.”

“Hang on, I've got an idea.” Cliff searched through his drawer and came up with the card handed to him at the subcommittee hearing. “Have you ever heard of a Dr. Wendell Cooper?”

“Not offhand.”

“You'd remember him. He looks like a six-foot rooster. He's president of something called the Health and Medicine Advisory Council.”

“Never heard of that, either.”

“They've got their own lab, Debs. He offered to do drug analyses for us. For free. And confidentially.”

“Go to an outside group?” She thought it over. “I don't like it. But again, I don't see what choice we have.”

“I don't either.”

“Let me call and talk to this guy, one scientist to another, and see what he has to offer.”

“Good idea.” Cliff read off the number.

“We'll need to collect some more samples in secret and get them up to you.”

He checked his calendar. “I've got an air pocket tomorrow. I'll drive down after work today, take enough time to mend some fences with Blair, and give you a hand.”

Deborah was feeling a little on the frail side, as she put it, so she left Cliff in Cochise's capable hands. They drove and worked in silent accord. Cliff had no trouble with silence. It made for a welcome change from all the hot air filling the halls of federal bureaucracy.

It was close to midnight by the time they turned down the farm road. They spent a long moment watching the bonfires and listening to the shrill festivities, then drove on to the Jones farm, checked the wind direction, grabbed shovels and flashlights, and set off across the fields.

Digging up the echin plants was a time-consuming process. The big man carefully inspected each root in turn, trimmed off stalks and dirt, and handed them over for bagging. When they finally had enough, they walked back to Cochise's truck, dropped off their load, and stopped just beyond the psychedelic festival.

Deborah had been adamant about their preparations for the next stage. They did not know how the substance was ingested, she had told them, and could not afford taking any unnecessary risk. What if it could pass through membranes such as eyes or eardrums? What if it could enter through the skin? They had to go in prepared.

First came the foul-weather gear, including hats—the closest thing to an isolation suit she could come up with without being noticed. Then the silicon swimmers' earplugs. Then the insulated rubber gloves. Then tape around the openings at ankles, waists, necks, wrists—even taping the hats down around their heads. Then microfine masks covering mouth and mose. Vaseline over their faces. Goggles over the eyes. By the time they were done, Cliff was drenched in sweat. He followed Cochise across the stretch of scorched earth, his breath sounding like overworked bellows to his clogged ears.

The revelers showed no interest whatsoever in their approach.

They made their way within a dozen paces of one bonfire encircled by two dozen dancing, shouting, laughing, gyrating people. Young people in various stages of undress. Gray-haired hippies caught by an earlier era, still adorned with headbands and beads and floppy hats and tie-dyed T-shirts. A score of musicians seated beyond the circle, piping and strumming and tapping out music.