Read Online Mount Dragon by Douglas Preston - Free Book Online

forehead and under his arms, dampening the inside of his suit.
    This time Brandon-Smith stopped dead. There was a buzz of static and he heard her voice: “Singer, can you enlighten me as to why this joker doesn’t know about X-FLU?”
    Singer’s voice came back. “I haven’t briefed him yet on the project. That comes next.”
    â€œMr. Ass-backwards, as usual,” she said, then turned to Carson. “Let’s go, Guy , the tour’s over.”
    She left Carson at the exit air lock. He stepped through the access chamber into another chemical shower, waiting the required seven minutes as the high-pressure solution doused his suit. A few minutes later he was back in the ready room. He was vaguely annoyed to see Singer, cool and relaxed, doing the crossword of the local newspaper.
    â€œEnjoy your tour?” Singer asked, looking up from the paper.
    â€œNo,” said Carson, breathing deeply, trying to shake the oppressive feeling of the Fever Tank. “That Brandon-Smith is meaner than a sidewinder in a hot skillet.”
    Singer burst out laughing and shook his bald head. “A colorful way of putting it. She’s the most brilliant scientist we’ve got at present. If we pull this project off, you know, we’re all going to become rich. Yourself included. That’s worth putting up with a Rosalind Brandon-Smith, don’t you think? She’s really just a frightened, insecure little girl underneath that mountain of adipose tissue.”
    He helped Carson out of his suit and showed him how to pack it back inside the locker.
    â€œI think the time has come for me to hear about this mysterious project,” Carson said, closing the locker.
    â€œAbsolutely. Shall we head back to my office for a cold drink?”
    Carson nodded. “You know, there was a chimpanzee back there with its—”
    Singer held up a hand. “I know what you saw.”
    â€œSo what the hell was it?”
    Singer paused. “Influenza.”
    â€œWhat?” Carson said. “The flu? ”
    Singer nodded.
    â€œI don’t know of any flu that pops your eyeballs out of your skull.”
    â€œWell,” Singer said, “this is a very special kind of flu.” Gripping Carson’s elbow, he led him through the outer corridors of the maximum-security lab and back up into the welcoming desert sunlight.

    At precisely two minutes to three in the afternoon, Charles Levine opened his door and ushered a young woman, clad in jeans and sweatshirt, back into his outer office.
    â€œThank you, Ms. Fields,” he said, smiling. “We’ll let you know if anything opens up for next term.”
    As the student turned to leave, Levine checked his watch. “That’s it, right, Ray?” he said, turning to his secretary.
    With an effort, Ray shifted his eyes from Ms. Fields’s departing ass to the open appointment book on his desk. He smoothed his hand over his immaculate Buddy Holly haircut, his fingers dropping to scratch the heavily muscled chest beneath the sleeveless red T-shirt. “That’s it, Dr. Levine,” he said.
    â€œAny messages? Sheriff’s deputies bearing summonses? Offers of marriage?”
    Ray grinned and waited until the outer door closed before answering. “Borucki called twice. Apparently that pharmaceutical company in Little Rock was unimpressed with last month’s article. They’re suing for libel.”
    â€œHow much?”
    Ray shrugged. “A million.”
    â€œTell our legal friends to take the usual steps.” Levine turned away. “No interruptions, Ray.”
    â€œRight.”
    Levine closed the door.
    Â 
    With his notoriety as Foundation for Genetic Policy spokesman growing, Levine found it increasingly difficult to maintain a routine existence as professor of theoretical genetics. The nature of the foundation made it a lightning rod for a certain kind of student: lonely, idealistic, in need