Hosts

Jack retreated a step. Three people strained the tiny kitchen's occupancy limit. Let Kate handle it. She was the doctor.

Jeanette's tone changed—same voice, but suddenly more focused. "We do not want to speak of this."

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

Fractured again: "Wasn't me… don't listen to them. It's the virus… changing us."

"Changing you how?"

"My brain… our brains… reaching critical mass…" Another shift in tone. "No! We will not speak of this!"

Jeanette squeezed her eyes shut, seemed to be making a heroic effort to exert control. Might have been fu

"Tell me, Jeanette!" Kate said. "What's happening to you?"

"Eaten… eaten alive. Every minute… every second… less of me… more of them."

"Jeanette, that sounds so—"

The microwave went ding! Jeanette stiffened, blinked.

Damn! Jack quickly reached around Kate, punched another ten minutes into the oven and got it ru

"E pluribus unum! E pluribus unum! E pluribus unum!…"

She kept repeating the phrase and Jack couldn't be sure which Jeanette was responsible. It seemed like a prayer, or a mantra, something you might repeat endlessly to drown out a sound or a frightening thought.

"Jeanette!" Kate still had hold of her shoulders and was shaking her. "Jeanette, stop that and listen to me!"

But she kept droning the same damn phrase.

And then Jack turned at the sound of the door opening and saw Holdstock rush into the room.

"What's going on here!" the pudgy man cried. He wore a gray, three-piece suit; his face was flushed and sweaty, as if he'd been ru

"Hey-hey!" Jack said, stepping toward him and straight-arming him to a stop. "Where do you get off barging in here?"

"I have a standing invitation," he puffed. He held up a key. "See? More than you have, I'm sure."

He tried to slip past, but Jack wasn't about to let that happen. He grabbed him by his suit vest.

"Whoa, pal. Just stay where you are."

And behind Jack the "e pluribus unum" chant continued.

"You take your hands off me! And stop torturing that woman or I'll call the police!"

"Will you?" Jack said. "I wonder."

But the threat did hold weight for Jack. Last thing he wanted was a couple of cops at the door.

"Let me go to her! Please!"

"Let him, Jack," Kate said. "Maybe he can explain what this is about."

Jack released Holdstock who lunged past him toward Jeanette.

"Listen to her," Kate said as Holdstock neared. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Of course," he said.

But instead of explaining he reached past Kate and unplugged the microwave.

"Hey!" Jack said as the chant stopped.

Jeanette sagged against Kate, then straightened and pushed away.

"What…? Where…?"

"It's all right, dear," Holdstock said, guiding her from the kitchen. "I'm here now."

"Get your hands off her," Jack said.

"Should I take my hands off you, Jeanette?" Holdstock said.

"No. No, of course not."

"You're coming with me," he told her, steering her toward the door. "It's not healthy for you here."

"Not so fast," Jack said, blocking their way.

Jeanette glared at Jack. "You! You're an enemy! You're evil! Get out of my house!"

"Jeanette!" Kate said. "Please!"

"I want you to stay, Kate," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on Jack, "but if your brother is here when I come back, I'm calling the police."

Jack didn't move. His gut told him he shouldn't let her go—for her sake—but if she said she wanted to leave, he couldn't see he had much choice but to let her.

Reluctantly he stepped aside. But only a little. Just enough to let them squeeze by.

As Holdstock brushed past, one arm around Jeanette's shoulders, Jack felt something sharp scrape against the back of his hand. He glanced down and saw a fine scratch. How had that happened? Hold-stock's near hand had been in his coat pocket as he'd passed.

He shrugged. Nothing serious. Probably just a pin from a cleaning tag. Barely bleeding.

He turned to Kate and found her still standing in the kitchen, a lost, confused look on her face.

"What just happened here?" she said.

"Damned if I know. You're the doctor. Have you ever seen anything like that?"

"Never."

"Has to be the microwaves. But I know as much about microwaves as I do about string theory."

"I know they're a form of radiation—non-ionizing radiation. Depending on the wavelength, they're used for everything from radar to cell phones to cooking. But I can't believe Jeanette has a personality change anytime she gets near a microwave oven."

Jack took Kate's hand and brushed her fingers over the crack in the glass on the oven door.

"This microwave oven happens to leak."

Kate shook her head. "I still don't understand…"

"I've got a whole list of things I don't understand about this. And Holdstock is high on it. You told me he showed up right after Jeanette's first personality change, right? And now he pops in again. You think he's got the place bugged?"

Kate rubbed her upper arms. "Don't say that. I've read articles about people becoming ill from exposure to microwave snooping devices."

"A couple of months ago I spent a whole weekend with a group of paranoids who had crazy stories about any subject you could name. Among them were tales about CIA and KGB experiments using microwaves for mind control. Maybe they're not so paranoid."

"You're giving me the creeps."

"And what was she saying about the virus changing her brain? You think that could be?"

Kate looked miserable. "Jack, I don't know. It doesn't seem possible. It's an adenovims. Even mutated I can't imagine an adenovirus changing someone's brain."

Microwaves, multiple personalities, mutated viruses—Jack felt as if he'd stepped off a ledge into an underwater canyon.

"Maybe not, but I think the guy to contact is Fielding. I don't know about you, but this is way out of my league. Maybe you'd better get back to him."

"I'll do that right now."

"And while you doctor-talk with him, I'm going to run an errand. Be back in no time."

Jack had an idea he wanted to try. But he'd need some hardware first.

5

Sandy sat at his desk in a daze. This had to be the greatest morning of his life. He still couldn't believe the reception when he'd walked into the press room two hours ago—cheers and a standing ovation. George Meschke had met him in the middle of the floor to shake his hand and tell him that his edition—yes, they'd called it his edition—had been selling out all over the city.

And now his voicemail. He'd just finished listening to the last of nine messages. People he hadn't heard from in years—a former roommate, old classmates, even one of his journalism professors—had called to congratulate him. What next?

"Hi, Sandy."

He looked up and blinked. Patrice Rawlinson, the perpetually ta

He struggled for a reply. "Oh, uh, hi."

Brilliant.

In the past when he'd said hello to her in the halls she'd always looked through him. A real Ralph Ellison moment. But now she'd come to him. She'd walked that gorgeous body all the way to his cubicle and spoken words to him. She'd said his name.

"I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your interview with the Savior. I hung on every word. That must have been so exciting to talk to him."