Ilythia General was about two hours out of his way, even by executive monorail, so Barkhoff couldn't visit for long; and he wasn't allowed inside the quarantine chamber, so all he could do was look on through the glass, trying in vain to catch a glimpse into the casket within. Nevertheless, he made sure to visit every spare chance he got.

"I told you before, it will take some time to be sure of the results," Kreshner was saying.

"Yes, but you are doubtful."

"This treatment has failed once already."

Barkhoff drew out a long breath. He was not a gambling man. But by that same token, he had already lost one son and Grady was all he had left. There wasn't much time, even with the boy's metabolism reduced. "Fine. Go ahead. —And, just a thought, have you considered lowering the dosage?"

Kreshner blinked. "What, to the boy?"

"To the Hecatians."

"Oh! Well, naturally. Small as you like." I did actually attend medical school, thank you, he thought irritably.

"So why isn't it working?"

The doctor took a deep breath. "Well, frankly, sir, it's because the technology we need to rewrite an entire genome and fortify it before the virus takes over doesn't exist."

"Doesn't it." Barkhoff snorted and looked again into the quarantine room. "Well, perhaps I could get a second opinion."

You mean fire me. "I might remind you, you can't let me go without the risk that I'll talk—Not that I would," he added quickly, seeing the chancellor's face. "And besides, if you do want your second opinion, you'll need me around to educate new staff on your son's history."

Barkhoff glowered. Kreshner waited. The chancellor wouldn't be pleased with the idea, but the doctor was confident he'd surrender to the logic of the situation: New staff would need someone with experience on Grady's case, and if Kreshner were to disappear people might start to ask questions.

After a long pause the shadow passed from the chancellor's face and he sighed. "I don't need this pointless quibbling. I do need you. If you need any extra staff or supplies, let me know."

How like a politician. "Thank you, sir." Once Barkhoff was gone he called in Nurse Medley, a sharp little thing with long black hair. "Go down to screening; see who you can find."

"Does it always take this long? I thought you said people didn't have to get stamped unless they needed to leave town within the week."

"I did. And yet, as you can see, the lines are always longest the first day."

The hospital had a whole waiting room devoted to people waiting to be screened, and it was still packed. There was a sign telling everyone to please keep at least two feet apart, in case of outbreak, but no one paid any attention. (Not that the Doctor blamed them; they'd been living through this nightmare for twenty years and had probably gone through this process hundreds of times without incident.) At the moment, he and Camelia were at the back of the line, a few yards in front of the entrance and a few dozen yards before the screening gates, next to some ice sculptures of dolphins. Funny, that! Dolphins. How did dolphins make it into this world's habitat while things like skunks fell back into mythology—unless this art was of mythology?

They hadn't come straight to the hospital: Camelia had stopped off at her flat to change into something more practical and put on some shoes. "I hope one of the boys from containment likes pumps," she'd said cheerfully. It got the Doctor wondering, though:

"Hey—do you still have . . ." He made a pistol of his hand when he was sure no one else was looking.

"Oh! Yes, of course I do." Seeing him grimace she sent him an annoyed glance and asked, "What about you? Where's your . . .?"

"What? I don't carry! Not ever!"

"Not like that, I meant that—thing.—You had something back at the club you used on the doors."

"Ohhh!" He stuck his hand into his coat and pulled it out. "You mean this!"

Her eyes lit up. "And what's that?" she asked, reaching to take it.

"Hey!" He yanked it away protectively and gave her a reproving look. "It's a screwdriver."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Screwdriver."

"Well—sonic."

She eyed the end skeptically. She looked back at him. "You do know what a screwdriver is, don't you?"

"Ahh—"

". . . A thing that drives in screws? . . ."

"Hey, it does that!" Her eyes danced. "Just . . . sonically."

"And also, apparently, opens doors."

"Among other things." He slipped it back into his coat. "Coming back to you, though: Does everyone on Aurora carry pistols to crowded clubs, or just you?" He said "pistols" as quietly as possible, though no one around them seemed to be listening anyway.

She grinned. "Just me."

"That wasn't really meant as a compliment."

"And yet: it was. Most girls do go out armed, but not with anything much more powerful than a buzzer. My sponsor's host teacher, I told you, gave me a few of his old firearms while I was at university. He fought in the last war and he liked to keep well-stocked. Wanted me to have something to defend myself against infected." She grew quiet. "He was good. I liked him."

There was a long pause as she appeared to sink deep into memory. The Doctor didn't want to interrupt her thoughts, but after a few seconds he could stand it no longer: "I'm sorry, your 'sponsor'?"

"Yes. I had two, actually. Eddie Trisk and Jean something. They were partners—just don't tell anyone," she added, winking.

"But what do you mean? How do you have a sponsor?—or sponsors, rather."

"What do you mean? I just mean sponsors like everyone's sponsors. Even I'm a sponsor. That's what I was doing on Gettys III, in fact—"

"Shhh, hold on!" He held up his hand and nodded in the direction of the booths.

Most of the doctors and technicians were behind the gates where they could, in theory, avoid potential infection from unstamped citizens; but one dark-haired nurse had stepped into the sea of people and appeared to be scanning the crowd with her eyes.

"Now, what's she looking for?" he wondered aloud. She wasn't looking at their faces but at their midsections.

Her eyes stopped wandering, and she went straight to a raggedy-looking man in coveralls. "Excuse me, sir?"

The man appeared disconcerted the moment he saw her coming. He shifted uncomfortably. ". . . Yes, ma'am?"

"Can you tell me your name, sir?"

He shrugged. "Braden Forrest."

"Are you from Hecate, Mr. Forrest?"

His eyes darted to the left. ". . . No."

"Do you have your key on you, sir?"

"What key?"

"Sir, I think it's best you come with me to have some more tests done."

"No, thank you."

"I have to insist. I think you may be at risk."

"I'm fine. I'm just going through that gate or booth thing, an' I'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, but I feel we should have a look at you as soon as possible. You realize you're not the only one you're affecting by refusing to come." When the man still looked uneasy, she said, "Sir, if you don't come with me, I may have to call for a security escort."

He was breathing hard now. His eyes flitted round the room and his fingers twitched. Finally he nodded.

"Thank you. If you'll just follow me—"

But the moment she turned her back he was gone, sprinting towards the exit as fast as he could push through the crowd. She heard him, whirled around, seemed about to shout, then gave up and drew a long, irritated breath. Aware that the people around her were now watching in extreme confusion, she gathered her dignity as best she could, turned, and took off at a brisk pace for the booths.

The man had been Hecatian, anyone could see that. And there was no more obvious reason for the nurse to single him out—unless it was no longer medically sound to wear coveralls.

"You said that no one's allowed to go to Hecate, not without special permission?" asked the Doctor.

"That's right."

"But people are allowed to come from Hecate."

"Usually."

Ohhhh! It didn't make any sense before: If you wanted to quarantine the one place that wasn't diseased you kept people from coming and going, to protect everyone involved. Clearly, though, the Hecatians didn't feel particularly protected. Something was wrong.

He pulled out his screwdriver. "Okay! That's enough waiting around, I think." His buzzed it over the two of them.

"What are you doing now?"

He peered at the reading. Yep. All good. "Taking a med scan. Looks like we're both fine. Come on!"

"Wha—but we haven't been stamped!"

"Yeah, well . . . to be honest, that was never gonna happen. Can't risk being x-rayed on a Class 5 planet."

"What?" He took off before she had a chance to finish her question, though, and it was all she could do to keep up with him.