Martin glanced at his watch as he hung up the telephone; twenty till ten. He could stretch the next case until breaktime. He hit a function key on the terminal and skimmed the case dossier that came up: A claim for laser-arthroscopy, right knee, three hundred and twelve dollars. Fifty dollar deductible he thought, keying for the client's medical history.
The clicking of the keys echoed loudly. A phone rang unanswered. Martin looked up from the terminal, thinking for an instant that everyone had gone for coffee without him. A pair of men were talking with his section supervisor. Both were conservatively dressed, wearing suits in identical shades of beige and light-colored linen shirts accented by neckties in muted paisley prints. Both of them sported the booth-bred UV-conscious tan in fashion with junior executives that season. Normal enough, yet they somehow made Martin uneasy.
Martin's anxiety increased when the supervisor gestured toward his workstation.
Like a herd of nervous gazelle watching a passing cheetah, every face in the office warily tracked the two men as they crossed the room. One of them glanced around, causing the faces to duck in unison back to the security of their computer screens. The furtive observation continued from beneath pencilled eyebrows and above glasses-rims until the intruders stopped at Martin's desk.
"Martin Darnell?" the older man asked in a brusque voice.
"Yes," Martin answered cautiously, and after a pause added "sir."
"We're from the FHMA, Mr. Darnell. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
When the man identified his agency, the noise level in the office abruptly jumped back to its usual level. Somebody finally answered the ringing phone. Someone else forced the most artificial laugh Martin had ever heard. His panic surged.
There was a rustle of movement from around the room: "Going to coffee, Jim?" "I'll show you those pictures of my niece in the break room." "Yeah, let me grab my mug." "Can I bum a smoke?"
"Just a routine inquiry Mr. Darnell, that's all," the younger agent reassured him.
The door hissed closed, shutting off the flow of conversation.
"That's right sir," the older one amplified. "If you'd please come with us so we can talk in private... ." Something in the man's voice made it clear to Martin that this was not a request.
"But -- but my casework..." Martin said, dazed, realizing that he couldn't feel his face. "That's all right sir, I'm sure someone will take care of it," the older agent said.
"This won't take long," the other added.
Martin stood up mechanically. "Okay," he said, "I suppose it's okay if it won't take long... ."
"No time at all sir," the younger one replied, taking his arm in a casual grip that Martin sensed it would be unwise to object to.
They walked through the doorway and into the corridor. As they passed the break room Martin heard a woman's voice whispering "vampires." He winced as the agent's grip momentarily tightened.
The federal agent did not release Martin's arm until the door to the conference room was closed.
"Have a seat please Mr. Darnell," the older man said. "I'm investigator Ross, and this is agent Lucas.
Ross took the chair on Martin's right, shifting it so that they more or less faced one other. He produced a small tape recorder, checked its batteries, switched it on, and set it on the conference table.
"Mr. Darnell, this conversation is being recorded. I am going to read you your rights," Ross said in a practiced tone. "Please understand this does not mean that you're under arrest. At this point we are merely doing a routine record confirmation, and we will ask you to submit to field analysis."
After a pause too short for Martin to collect his thoughts, Ross continued. "Mr. Darnell, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to refuse field analysis.
"At any time during this interview you can stop talking, or call a halt to the field analysis.
"If you give up the right to remain silent, or the right to refuse field analysis, anything you say or any data acquired during field analysis may be used against you at a later time.
"If you are detained for any reason, you have the right to have an attorney or other specialist present during questioning or full analysis.
"Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
"Um, yeah I guess so," Martin said slowly. He glanced over to see that Lucas had set a carrying-case on the table. The black, briefcase-sized box bore the red caduceus of the Federal Hematological Monitoring Agency, and the acronym FHMA followed by a serial number.
Although he had never seen one, Martin knew that this must be a portable blood-screening laboratory. "Wait a minute!" he protested. "What's all this about?"
"Some irregularities have come up in a routine check of your semi-annual screenings Mr. Darnell," Ross said. "It's probably nothing, but the law requires that we run another test."
"What do you want me to do?" Martin asked, uneasily eyeing the case Lucas was busily rummaging around in.
"We'd simply like you to answer a few questions, and we'll need to take a blood sample for field analysis."
Lucas had opened a pack of disposable Kevlar-reinforced surgical gloves, lightweight and puncture-resistant, and pulled them on. As Martin watched, the agent took a sterile self-loading ampule from the case and broke the seal over the hypodermic needle. Martin shuddered: He hated needles.
"What if I refuse?" he asked Ross tensely.
The federal man looked slightly disappointed. "In that case," he said carefully, "the usual procedure is to hold the subject in quarantine pending a bioanalysis warrant, often in conjunction with a full household blood-contamination audit."
Martin thought it over for a moment. Jenney wouldn't like that at all. She'd grown up in a wealthy household. She was very sensitive to what other people thought of them, especially neighbors and friends. A scandal like this would destroy her neat little world of dinners and cocktail parties.
"Alright, go ahead," he said reluctantly.
Ross nodded at Lucas. "Please roll up your left sleeve," he said. Lucas produced a length of surgical tubing which he looped above Martin's elbow and tightened.
He felt his arm filling with blood; watched the bluish veins begin to bulge, as Ross started his questioning, reading from a pre-printed checklist.
"Mr. Darnell, are you currently taking any prescription medication, or have you been under the treatment of a physician which involved the dispensing of such drugs?"
"No," Martin said, shivering as Lucas wiped the inside of his elbow with an alcohol pad.
"Are you currently under the influence of alcohol or other non-prescription drugs, including any of the several illegal drugs such as marijuana, cocaine, or amphetamine, or have you used any of these substances in the past six months?"
"No -- I mean yes." Martin hesitated. "I have used alcohol in the last six months," he amended.
"On average, how many drinks per week would you estimate you have taken in the last six months?"
Martin thought about it. "I guess maybe three or four beers and one or two mixed drinks per week, maybe a glass of wine," he finally said.
"Mr. Darnell--"
"OW!" Martin cried as the needle went into his arm, even though Lucas had a more practiced touch than the clinician who administered the mandatory six-month blood tests for the insurance company. He felt a slight pulling sensation as the vacuum inside the ampule claimed a precise one-cc sample of his blood.
Ross waited until Lucas had taped a sterile cotton pad over the wound on Martin's arm, then continued.
"Mr. Darnell, in the past six months have you participated in a homosexual relationship or any other act contrary to the Safe-sex Code, Federal Statute number ninety-eight dash twenty-three twenty-six?"
"No."
"Excuse me, Mr. Darnell," Lucas interrupted. "May I have your genetic analog card please?"
Tight-lipped, Martin dug out his wallet, removed his ID, and handed it to Lucas, who ran it through a slot in the top of the portable lab, reading the abstraction of Martin's genetic code from the card's embedded magnetic strip. "Darnell, Martin James," Lucas muttered. "Comparing..."
Lucas loaded the crimson ampule of Martin's blood into the machine and flipped a switch. The portable lab ticked to itself for a moment, then beeped.
"Comparison positive," Lucas said. "This man is Darnell, Martin J."
"Positive identification Mr. Darnell," Ross explained. "Regulations require that we compare your genetic pattern with your ID card."
"Starting pathogen scan procedures," Lucas said quietly.
"Now Mr. Darnell," Ross continued. "To your knowledge, in the past six months has any member of your household been a party to any high-AIDS-risk act, including but not limited to intravenous drug use, oral sex or anal intercourse?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Have you or any member of your household been involved in an act of rape, molestation, pederasty, bestiality--"
"Christ no!"
"Come now Mr. Darnell," Ross said slyly, "We have reason to believe that you have been involved in acts contrary to Statute twenty- three twenty-six."
Ross leaned closer to Martin, breathing into his face. "Or maybe your wife has been indulging in a little... extramarital fulfillment?"
Martin colored. He stared at the investigator's tie tack, a tiny golden eagle clutching a syringe in its talons, against a scarlet background. There were two small gold stars above the eagle's head, one on each side. He tried to control his temper.
"Impossible!" he rasped.
Ross snorted skeptically.
The agent's ugly allegations about Jenney suddenly brought Martin's restrained fury to the surface.
"I think I've taken enough of this!" Martin snapped. "I think maybe I should talk to a lawyer."
Ross looked disgusted, then glancing at his watch, spoke into the tape recorder. "At ten-seventeen a.m. the subject invoked his fifth amendment rights and investigation was suspended pending a formal hearing."
Ross snapped the recorder off and put it in his jacket pocket. "Shut down the lab, Phil. Pack up the sample, usual biohazard procedures."
Lucas muttered under his breath and pushed a button that caused the machine to regurgitate the sample ampule, then started to re-pack the lab in its carrying-case.
"Martin James Darnell," Ross continued, "as a duly authorized agent of the United States Government, I hereby place you under arrest. You will accompany agent Lucas and myself to the local FHMA section office, where you will be placed in restrictive quarantine. You are legally entitled to one telephone call, which you may make at that time. I would suggest that you make that call to your attorney."
"You ready Phil?" Ross asked Lucas. "I want to get this guy processed before lunch. Come along Mr. Darnell."
"You're saying you can't get me out of here?" Martin asked again.
"I'm really sorry, but no, I can't," Martin's lawyer said.
Their consultation was hampered by a sheet of thick transparent plastic. The two conversed by telephone.
"Any time someone's detained on a dirty blood charge, bail is automatically denied, everybody knows that," the attorney said.
"But it's not true! I didn't do anything! Jerry, we've been friends since college, eight or nine years at least. You know me. I'm not a Hivvy.! Am I a junkie? Am I queer?" Martin asked desperately.
"I know it's hard to take Martin, but the law's the law. I'm sorry."
"What's going to happen to me?"
"Well, there'll be a hearing to bring formal charges against you, they'll put you through a full blood screening, then there'll be a trial."
"I don't understand! Why can't they just check my blood and let me go?"
"The courts have been overloaded for decades, Martin. Plus... let's just say it pisses the feds off when people don't go along with the implied consent laws. Frankly, it was a stupid thing for you to do."
"You didn't hear the things they were saying about me, about Jenney. Damn vampires!" Martin spat.
Jerry glanced around nervously. "Watch that stuff Martin! As your attorney, I'd advise you to retain a lawyer who specializes in medical cases. I'm really not qualified to defend these kinds of charges. You know I'm basically a tax attorney."
"Sure, okay," Martin said wearily, "can you recommend anyone?"
"Jesse Phillips. She's one of the best," Jerry said immediately. "You got a pen? I'll give you her number."
"Does it look like I have a goddamn pen!" Martin gestured at the drab quarantine clothing he'd been issued. "Besides, I already used up my call."
"Right. Sorry. Okay, I'll call her."
"Could you do me a favor and call Jenney too. Kind of... explain things to her?"
"Sure Martin, sure." Jerry started to get up.
"And Jerry!" Martin said, before his friend could hang up the phone. "Thanks. I mean it."
"Yeah, no problem Martin."
The door slammed shut with the utter steel finality known only in prisons. It didn't matter that Martin's cell was called a holding area; that with its single cot and its private shower and toilet facilities the cubicle more nearly resembled a cheap motel room than a jail cell. It didn't matter that the building was known as the Federal Protective Quarantine Center. To those incarcerated there it was a prison.
He slumped on the cot with his palms pressed against his closed eyes.
He'd been charged with dangerous practices. Ms. Phillips, the lawyer Jerry had recommended, had petitioned for a writ of habeas corpus. The judge had again refused to grant Martin bail, but had agreed that the FHMA should release the computer records which were the evidence for the accusation. He had also directed that Martin be put through a full blood screening, and be detained in restrictive quarantine until his trial.
The FHMA computers had found antibodies to HTLV-3 in the analysis of his last blood test. Martin was numb: he couldn't believe he had AIDS.
It couldn't be true. He hadn't done anything! There was no way he could have come in contact with the virus. Unless Jenney had been -- no! But there had been that convention last month: He'd been out of town for three days. Jenney could have -- "What the Christ am I thinking!" Martin said aloud, surprised at himself.
Martin looked up when a rectangular panel near the clear acrylic cell door slid open. Sighing heavily, he slowly stood up and went to get his lunch. When he had finished the food he would return the tray to the small compartment, where it would be flash-sterilized before being released into the corridor outside for retrieval by the Q-center staff. Although it was unlikely that anyone would contract AIDS just by handling cafeteria trays, the airlock-type chamber provided a measure of psychological security for the federal employees. It also minimized the possibility of transmitting potentially fatal secondary infections among the "detainees."
As he ate, Martin considered the people in the other cells of the Q-center. Until he had ended up here, Martin had never given much thought to the dregs of society concentrated all across the nation in buildings like this one. He'd never knowingly seen one of the new pariahs before, had never physically been so near the living receptacles of the plague: the Hivvys. Even the skinny adolescent kid he occasionally glimpsed in the cell across the corridor was one of them, an intravenous drug user or maybe a homosexual.
Martin suddenly lost his appetite. Would he soon have to start worrying about dying from some normally harmless infection? He began to consider ways to take his own life before that happened, should his new tests also show that he had somehow been infected with AIDS. Even as he thought about it, he knew there was no way: The cells in the quarantine center had been carefully designed to be suicide-proof.
On the morning of his trial, Martin watched from his cell door, while across the corridor two Q-center medical technicians in full isolation gear strapped the kid into a gurney and wheeled him away to the intensive care section. For two months Martin had watched as, his immune system destroyed by AIDS, the boy's emaciated body was wracked by respiratory infections. He found himself hoping that the boy wouldn't die right away. No amount of suffering could be too much for the little Hivvy bastard, potential death incarnate for an entire society.
Later that day, Martin sat in the courtroom and listened in shock as the state's attorney explained to the judge that there had been a computer error: The records of an already-convicted heroin addict had been appended to Martin's file.
He couldn't understand how the bland-looking federal lawyer could stand there and use techno-jargon terms like "glitch" and "bug" and "anomalous magnetic flux variation" with no trace of concern or regret for the theft of two months of Martin's life.
Quick as the crack of the judge's gavel, Martin found himself outside the courthouse. Free.
"Well Mr. Darnell," said Jesse Phillips, "It's always a relief to see these cases come to a satisfactory conclusion. It's too bad it doesn't happen more often. Usually the client is in intensive care, and sentencing is a matter of formality.
Anyway, I'm glad you're one of the lucky few who didn't really have it. My office will bill you."
"Bill me?" Martin asked dully, as though he couldn't place the phrase. "Ms. Phillips, I got a letter last week."
"Really?" the lawyer responded uncertainly.
"It was from the company, signed by the personnel officer," Martin continued, as though he were discussing the weather. "There was a check in it for two weeks' pay. They said that my position with the company had been terminated.
"They gave some kind of justification like 'cost-cutting' or 'efficiency drive' or something. They took great pains to make it clear that it had nothing to do with my being in Q-center, that they were just... canning me."
"I'm terribly sorry Mr. Darnell," said the lawyer, "but even today there are still misconceptions--"
Martin didn't pay attention to the rest of the lawyer's analysis.
As he stood on the curb waiting for a cab, Martin felt as though the people around him were edging away, as if they could somehow sense why he had been inside Q-center. He tried to convince himself it was nonsense.
During the ride home, He kept trying to catch the driver looking at him in the rearview mirror. Martin had the itchy feeling that the cabbie kept glancing away an instant before he looked up.
The next thing Martin noticed, as he stood in the doorway of his home, was silence. He didn't call out. He didn't move. Somehow he could sense that the house was empty.
He took a few steps inside, and noticed an envelope leaning on the mantle below the oil painting of Jenney and himself, her second anniversary present to him. He opened it.