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at least that is what the printouts indicate. Obviously a machine can’t tell us anything more than the information we give it, but if there is a contamination site we know nothing about, we must take action at once to protect—”
    “I haven’t noticed that there’s been any real increase in toxic waste reactions,” said Gross. “Not that I’ve done much asking. Maybe there’s more sickness around, Doctor.”
    “Why not?” Sylvia asked, doing her best to keep from challenging the man. “Why haven’t you checked for toxic—”
    “Because there isn’t much of it around. Tetanus, TB, typhoid, you name it. Parasite infestations. Sure, those we find every day. It’s because the country’s so damned poor and most of the people are not educated, and those who are aren’t doing much to help those who aren’t. It doesn’t matter whether we’re talking about Mexico or Central America or South America, the problems are still pretty much the same.” He opened his hands to show how futile it was. “Most of them have been slightly sick for so long that they think they’re okay. They don’t know what it means to be healthy, to have a body that really works properly. It’s nothing we can change, not in a detention center like this one. Besides, what good would it do? Most of them are illegals, not refugees, and they’re simply going home to more of the same.”
    Sylvia tapped the file of printouts she had on the edge of Gross’ desk. “Make a few allowances, Doctor Gross. If you find anything that you suspect might be related to toxic wastes, I would appreciate it if you would flag it and send it directly to me. At once. Mark it urgent.”
    “It’s not going to make a difference,” warned Gross.
    “It certainly won’t if you aren’t willing to make the effort.” She made no apology for the pointedness of the remark.
    “But a couple of aliens with suspect symptoms, come on, Doctor . . . uh . . .”
    “Kostermeyer,” she supplied.
    “Yeah,” he said. “You’re asking a lot. Think about what the trouble is here, what we’re up against.” He waved in the direction of the door. “I’ve got over fifty more patients to see and that means I won’t get out of here until seven-thirty at the earliest, assuming that nothing is seriously wrong with any of them and that no more fights break out.” He folded his arms. “They said in Ninety-one that this new border policy would make things better, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”
    “I realize you have difficulties here,” said Sylvia with a patience she did not feel. “And I know that I’m asking a lot, but since December tenth, we have had seven deaths in the greater San Diego area from a condition that appears to be related to toxic contamination. There is debilitation, enervation, anemia, lethargy, a . . . an alteration of blood chemistry, followed by pulmonary distress and vascular collapse. We now have two more cases we’re checking for the . . . blood condition.” She was not anxious to go into the baffling and complex breakdown of connective tissue that was characteristic of the course of the syndrome.
    “What if it’s just another disease, a new version of, oh, say something like leukemia.” Gross made an indulgent grimace. “Surely you’ve considered that, Doctor Kosterm—”
    “It has some leukemia similarities,” she allowed. “And it has others, like pernicious anemia and amoebic dysentery, for obvious examples. And death doesn’t come from any specific agency of the condition, but from subsidiary breakdowns.” She held out the printout file once more. “You might think that there are too few cases to worry about, but the thing that makes this so . . . upsetting is that so far we have yet to diagnose a patient with this condition and have them live. That’s why we’re looking for new cases, possibly early cases, and why we want to find out what toxic wastes are involved.”
    “But suppose it’s not that?” Gross