graduated from Cornell with honors, going on to graduate work in the biological sciences at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Her work so impressed government representatives that they offered her a job with Uncle Sam.
She was an executive secretary to the Surgeon General for five miserable years, during which time she fought sex discrimination so that she could be transferred to active research duty. Once she had finally achieved her goal, she had had reason to wish she was back in the typing pool.
She became a lab technician for the West Coast ARDF—or, as they called it affectionately, “Arf.” Sadly, it turned out that this dog’s bite was worse than its bark. It all spelled out the Army research and Development Facilities—a fancy name for an autonomous government-funded unit dedicated to one thing: the perfection of germ warfare.
“Dr. Carr, the head of the Program, is a brilliant scientist,” Patterson admitted, “but, like many dedicated scientists, he loses track of the means through which to achieve his end.”
“Which means he doesn’t give a shit about people,” Harry translated, screwing the mouthpiece of the phone back on.
“Y- yes ,” she hesitantly agreed. “He needed a method with which to test our latest advance which incorporated the responses of several thousand cases. And he was sure that the government wouldn’t grant him the right because of the recent cutbacks in spending, and the danger of mutated contamination . . .”
“Hold it,” Harry declared. “Inflation I can understand. What does the rest of that mean?”
It seemed that the substance they had come up with was not a permanent one. There was a possibility that it could change from causing temporary light damage to causing permanent heavy damage.
What Patterson called the “advance” was a mixture dubbed “Vasculene.” It wasn’t a new hair tonic, but a slowly spreading gas which could cause the tips of the human circulatory system to constrict. In other words, it could cause light cases of frostbite in the fingers and toes.
“The subways,” Harry breathed, pausing in his toils as the information sank in. “He tested it in the subways.” Callahan remembered the old lady holding up her chalky-colored fingers. He remembered blowing on his own digits, trying to dispel the strange chill.
Patterson nodded. “I just stumbled onto it by accident. He was keeping it a secret, but I met him by chance down there and noticed a gas-dispensing device on his attaché case. I confronted him with it, right then and there. He argued that it was harmless, and that he was willing to take the risk himself. I argued that it was unfair, irresponsible, and impossible to gauge the results.”
“Not to mention illegal,” Callahan interjected sourly.
Patterson laughed—a sick, hopeless satire of mirth. “Then I tripped. I was so upset that when I tried to move away from him, I stumbled and fell off the platform.”
That’s how it all started. That simply, and that stupidly. By the time she had saved herself and gotten pulled out, Dr. Carr was already gone. She was confused, upset, and in pain from her broken leg. Suddenly, she didn’t know how to tell the truth without dragging Carr’s name into it. So she lied. She said she didn’t know how she had come to fall.
“Later, I realized that I should have simply said that I tripped,” she admitted. “But by then it was too late.”
“By then, Dr. Carr was having other girls shoved in front of trains so your accident wouldn’t look so unusual,” Harry reasoned.
“But I didn’t know that!” Patterson stressed, leaning forward on the bed. “I just thought that my falling had given some psycho a sick idea!”
Harry got to his feet, work completed. “Until the night I showed up,” he told her. “Come on, we can’t stay here.”
He took her hand and led her down to the basement. From there, they went out the back way and into an alley. Harry’s new car was
She was an executive secretary to the Surgeon General for five miserable years, during which time she fought sex discrimination so that she could be transferred to active research duty. Once she had finally achieved her goal, she had had reason to wish she was back in the typing pool.
She became a lab technician for the West Coast ARDF—or, as they called it affectionately, “Arf.” Sadly, it turned out that this dog’s bite was worse than its bark. It all spelled out the Army research and Development Facilities—a fancy name for an autonomous government-funded unit dedicated to one thing: the perfection of germ warfare.
“Dr. Carr, the head of the Program, is a brilliant scientist,” Patterson admitted, “but, like many dedicated scientists, he loses track of the means through which to achieve his end.”
“Which means he doesn’t give a shit about people,” Harry translated, screwing the mouthpiece of the phone back on.
“Y- yes ,” she hesitantly agreed. “He needed a method with which to test our latest advance which incorporated the responses of several thousand cases. And he was sure that the government wouldn’t grant him the right because of the recent cutbacks in spending, and the danger of mutated contamination . . .”
“Hold it,” Harry declared. “Inflation I can understand. What does the rest of that mean?”
It seemed that the substance they had come up with was not a permanent one. There was a possibility that it could change from causing temporary light damage to causing permanent heavy damage.
What Patterson called the “advance” was a mixture dubbed “Vasculene.” It wasn’t a new hair tonic, but a slowly spreading gas which could cause the tips of the human circulatory system to constrict. In other words, it could cause light cases of frostbite in the fingers and toes.
“The subways,” Harry breathed, pausing in his toils as the information sank in. “He tested it in the subways.” Callahan remembered the old lady holding up her chalky-colored fingers. He remembered blowing on his own digits, trying to dispel the strange chill.
Patterson nodded. “I just stumbled onto it by accident. He was keeping it a secret, but I met him by chance down there and noticed a gas-dispensing device on his attaché case. I confronted him with it, right then and there. He argued that it was harmless, and that he was willing to take the risk himself. I argued that it was unfair, irresponsible, and impossible to gauge the results.”
“Not to mention illegal,” Callahan interjected sourly.
Patterson laughed—a sick, hopeless satire of mirth. “Then I tripped. I was so upset that when I tried to move away from him, I stumbled and fell off the platform.”
That’s how it all started. That simply, and that stupidly. By the time she had saved herself and gotten pulled out, Dr. Carr was already gone. She was confused, upset, and in pain from her broken leg. Suddenly, she didn’t know how to tell the truth without dragging Carr’s name into it. So she lied. She said she didn’t know how she had come to fall.
“Later, I realized that I should have simply said that I tripped,” she admitted. “But by then it was too late.”
“By then, Dr. Carr was having other girls shoved in front of trains so your accident wouldn’t look so unusual,” Harry reasoned.
“But I didn’t know that!” Patterson stressed, leaning forward on the bed. “I just thought that my falling had given some psycho a sick idea!”
Harry got to his feet, work completed. “Until the night I showed up,” he told her. “Come on, we can’t stay here.”
He took her hand and led her down to the basement. From there, they went out the back way and into an alley. Harry’s new car was
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