Chapter 22
Six Days, Seven Hours, Forty-Four Minutes
Slowly lifting his hand up to his forehead, Ebdon Finkle wiped away the thin layer of sweat that had formed there. The beads were small, he felt, but they were the sure sign that Dr. Vukavitch has warned him to watch for: the formation of a low-grade fever. He caressed the moisture on his fingertips, staring down at the nothingness, and he wondered if this was truly a sign or if he was coming down with some virus. Flu season seemed to be an around-the-calendar event any more, and he tried to think back over the last few days. Had he experienced any nausea? He didn't remember any bouts. Had he experienced vertigo or an inability to focus? Again, he wasn't certain of it. At his age, some ailments were expected. They were so commonplace that they made the common cold look passé. But he couldn't remember any mounting symptoms of a greater, far more lethal illness ... at least, nothing to the degree that Olga had described.
Slowly, he stood. He walked around the white room, his heart beating a bit more loudly than normal but certainly not racing. He closed his eyes as he walked – after all, there was nothing but the table to run into – and he allowed himself to feel his body, his metabolism, his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the faint whistle of inhaling the processing oxygen. Everything felt normal. He felt himself.
Still, there was the sweat.
It could be anything. Dr. Vukavitch had assured him that her team would run an entire battery of tests. She pledged to him that she wouldn't stop searching for any sign of illness – however large or small – so that, together, they could rule out any great fears. She was a good doctor, he surmised, by the way she spoke with him, hidden as she was behind the environmental suit. All of her aides had appeared that way – separated from human contact through the miracle of high quality latex isolation suits. They couldn't risk exposure, he knew. They couldn't jeopardize their own health, especially if they were the only people on the planet who could help him survive this ordeal.
Still, there was the sweat.
He told himself that it was nothing. He convinced himself that it was all in his mind. 'Nerves,' he rationalized the subtle drips. 'Nothing more but a case of the nerves.' He had led a long, healthy, good, and rewarding life, and – if there were a God in Heaven – the Almighty wouldn't allow for Ebdon Finkle to end his streak of success this way. That wasn't the way the Cosmos were wired. That wasn't what Ebdon Finkle was raised to believe. He would continue to believe what he did until that nice Dr. Vukavitch told him otherwise. Then, if she brought bad news, he would fall on his knees and pray ... pray like he had never prayed before. He would ask forgiveness for himself, and he would ask forgiveness for Frank Parker. After all, he never meant any ill will. Simply, Parker did not know the consequences of what could happen.
Still, there was the sweat.
"Don't do that to yourself, old man," Finkle spoke, more for the benefit of his own ears than it was his sanity. "There's absolutely no reason to fear the worst. The doctor has run her tests, and now it's up to science. Doctors can do all kinds of things these days. They can look at the small atoms – the smallest microbes – and they can even clone sheep. If anyone can help me now, it's a doctor. A government doctor."
Suddenly, he heard the hissing of a broken seal. He turned to where he had learned the door was protected, shielding by ultra-tight pressurization, and he watched the thick metal door with the pure white face open slowly. A pale-suited figure with protective headgear and a respirator stepped through the opening, and he immediately recognized the shapely figure to be that of Olga Vukavitch. She stepped in, and the door closed behind her. She walked up to the old man, one hand gripping the other, and she stared into his eyes.
Finkle swallowed hard.
She didn't have to say a word. Her expression told him everything that he needed to know, and, in that moment, Ebdon Finkle realized that there were far worse things to fear in the world than the Devil himself.
End of Chapter 22
Six Days, Seven Hours, Forty-Four Minutes
Slowly lifting his hand up to his forehead, Ebdon Finkle wiped away the thin layer of sweat that had formed there. The beads were small, he felt, but they were the sure sign that Dr. Vukavitch has warned him to watch for: the formation of a low-grade fever. He caressed the moisture on his fingertips, staring down at the nothingness, and he wondered if this was truly a sign or if he was coming down with some virus. Flu season seemed to be an around-the-calendar event any more, and he tried to think back over the last few days. Had he experienced any nausea? He didn't remember any bouts. Had he experienced vertigo or an inability to focus? Again, he wasn't certain of it. At his age, some ailments were expected. They were so commonplace that they made the common cold look passé. But he couldn't remember any mounting symptoms of a greater, far more lethal illness ... at least, nothing to the degree that Olga had described.
Slowly, he stood. He walked around the white room, his heart beating a bit more loudly than normal but certainly not racing. He closed his eyes as he walked – after all, there was nothing but the table to run into – and he allowed himself to feel his body, his metabolism, his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the faint whistle of inhaling the processing oxygen. Everything felt normal. He felt himself.
Still, there was the sweat.
It could be anything. Dr. Vukavitch had assured him that her team would run an entire battery of tests. She pledged to him that she wouldn't stop searching for any sign of illness – however large or small – so that, together, they could rule out any great fears. She was a good doctor, he surmised, by the way she spoke with him, hidden as she was behind the environmental suit. All of her aides had appeared that way – separated from human contact through the miracle of high quality latex isolation suits. They couldn't risk exposure, he knew. They couldn't jeopardize their own health, especially if they were the only people on the planet who could help him survive this ordeal.
Still, there was the sweat.
He told himself that it was nothing. He convinced himself that it was all in his mind. 'Nerves,' he rationalized the subtle drips. 'Nothing more but a case of the nerves.' He had led a long, healthy, good, and rewarding life, and – if there were a God in Heaven – the Almighty wouldn't allow for Ebdon Finkle to end his streak of success this way. That wasn't the way the Cosmos were wired. That wasn't what Ebdon Finkle was raised to believe. He would continue to believe what he did until that nice Dr. Vukavitch told him otherwise. Then, if she brought bad news, he would fall on his knees and pray ... pray like he had never prayed before. He would ask forgiveness for himself, and he would ask forgiveness for Frank Parker. After all, he never meant any ill will. Simply, Parker did not know the consequences of what could happen.
Still, there was the sweat.
"Don't do that to yourself, old man," Finkle spoke, more for the benefit of his own ears than it was his sanity. "There's absolutely no reason to fear the worst. The doctor has run her tests, and now it's up to science. Doctors can do all kinds of things these days. They can look at the small atoms – the smallest microbes – and they can even clone sheep. If anyone can help me now, it's a doctor. A government doctor."
Suddenly, he heard the hissing of a broken seal. He turned to where he had learned the door was protected, shielding by ultra-tight pressurization, and he watched the thick metal door with the pure white face open slowly. A pale-suited figure with protective headgear and a respirator stepped through the opening, and he immediately recognized the shapely figure to be that of Olga Vukavitch. She stepped in, and the door closed behind her. She walked up to the old man, one hand gripping the other, and she stared into his eyes.
Finkle swallowed hard.
She didn't have to say a word. Her expression told him everything that he needed to know, and, in that moment, Ebdon Finkle realized that there were far worse things to fear in the world than the Devil himself.
End of Chapter 22