“Correct,” Tim said. “Your notes described an incubation period of between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before infected victims start to show symptoms. So if we’re lucky, these men are in there another two days, just to be sure.”
The black diver spoke. “I find your definition of luck somewhat wanting, Doctor Feely.”
The white diver rested his forehead against the inside of his cell wall. “Oh, man … two more days?”
Tim walked back to the airlock door and opened a cabinet mounted just to its left. He pulled out two cellulose test boxes, then returned to the black diver’s cell.
“Master Diver Kevin Cantrell, meet Doctor Montoya and Agent Otto,” Tim said. “How about you show them our fun little drama called it puts the lotion in the basket.”
Tim placed the box in a small, rotating airlock mounted in the clear door, then moved his hands in midair. It took Clarence a second to remember Tim was using his suit’s HUD to control things. The airlock turned. Cantrell opened the white box, pulled out the foil envelope inside.
He stared at it like it was a living thing, something pretending to be still until it was ready to bite.
“Your t.i.tle is wrong,” Cantrell said. “I prefer The Merchant of Venice.”
“Venice,” Tim said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Margaret answered. “It’s Shakespeare — If you p.r.i.c.k us, do we not bleed?”
Cantrell glanced at her, then at the testing unit, then looked at her again, stared hard.
“Lady, are you … are you here to kill me?”
A direct question, but it didn’t make sense. Clarence noticed a slight gleam on Cantrell’s forehead. He was perspiring a little … did he have a fever?
Margaret answered in a calm, measured voice. “Mister Cantrell, why do you think I want to kill you?”
Clarence understood: she thought Cantrell might be showing signs of paranoia, one of the main symptoms of infection.
Cantrell blinked rapidly, sniffed. He forced a smile, gestured to the walls around him.
“I’m a guinea pig, ma’am,” he said. “It’s a logical question.”
Before Margaret could ask another question, Cantrell removed the white plastic tube, pressed it against the tip of his right pointer finger. The yellow light started flashing immediately.
Clarence watched, tension pulling his body forward, making his hand itch to draw his weapon — a weapon he didn’t have. He felt naked. He needed to get a rig that would let him wear a holster over the suit. Was Cantrell’s light about to turn red? Was a piece of thick gla.s.s all that separated Margaret from one of the infected?
The flashing yellow slowed, then stopped and blinked out.
The green light turned on.
Clarence’s body relaxed slightly, a tight spring uncoiling halfway. Maybe these guys still had a chance.
Cantrell carried his test — box and envelope and all — to his toilet. He tossed everything down the open hole. Clarence heard a soft whump: an incinerator flaring to life.
The other diver slapped on the gla.s.s of his cell, making Margaret jump.
“Ma’am, you got to get me out of here,” he said to her. “We’re fine, the tests keep coming up negative, we’re fine.”
It took Tim only two steps to cross the aisle. He put the other box in the airlock, rotated it through.
“And this fine gentleman is Diego Clark,” Tim said. “Clark, how about you quit with the whining and make with the p.r.i.c.king?”
Clark looked at the test box like it was poisonous. He then looked up at the cl.u.s.ter of nozzles mounted in his cell’s high ceiling. Some of the nozzles were stainless steel, others were bra.s.s. The bra.s.s nozzles reminded Clarence of something, but he couldn’t place what. The stainless steel ones he recognized, as he’d seen them in the MargoMobile — they were for knockout gas, in case Tim and Margaret had to go in and work on a dangerous infection victim.
Clark slapped the gla.s.s again. “Let me out! We were just doing our jobs, we shouldn’t be locked up! This is horses.h.i.t! Where’s my CO? Where’s my lawyer?”
“Less talky-talky,” Tim said, “more testy-testy.”
Clark opened the box and removed the foil envelope, then threw the box down and stomped on it.
“When I get out of here, Feely,” he said, “I’m going to shove one of these straight up your a.s.s.”
“As long as you buy me dinner first,” Tim said. “Now do the d.a.m.n test.”
Clark again looked up to the ceiling, then shook his head.
“Ain’t gonna burn me,” he said.
Burn. That triggered Clarence’s memory. He again looked up at the cell ceiling, and understood why the bra.s.s nozzle seemed familiar: it looked like a flamethrower. Clark was right to be afraid — his cage could be instantly turned into a fire-filled oven that would burn him alive.
Tim sighed, clearly bored with the drama. He slowly raised a finger toward the flat-panel controls of Clark’s cell.
“You’re getting tested,” Tim said. “You can either be conscious for it, or I can knock you out and give it to you myself. Your choice.”
Clark instantly shook his head. Whatever Tim used as knockout gas, it clearly had unpleasant side effects. Clark tore the foil envelope open, took the time to use the alcohol swab — which Cantrell hadn’t bothered with, Clarence realized — then stabbed the end into his finger.
The yellow light flashed faster, then slowed.