“I was going to call tonight,” she said lamely, upset that Ralph was getting information about her from Dubchek.
They went down to the CDC cafeteria for coffee. At that time of the afternoon the room was almost deserted, and they sat by the window overlooking the courtyard. Ralph said he was en route between the hospital and his office and that he had wanted to catch her before the evening. “How about dinner?” he asked, leaning forward and putting a hand on Marissa’s. “I’m dying to hear the details of your triumph over Ebola in L.A.”
“I’m not sure that twenty-one deaths can be considered a triumph,” said Marissa. “Worse still from an epidemiologic point of view, we failed. We never found out where the virus came from. There’s got to be some kind of reservoir. Just imagine the media reaction if the CDC had been unable to trace the Legionnaires bacteria to the air-conditioning system.”
“I think you are being hard on yourself,” said Ralph.
“But we have no idea if and when Ebola will appear again,” said Marissa. “Unfortunately, I have a feeling it will. And it is so unbelievably deadly.” Marissa could remember too well its devastating course.
“They couldn’t figure out where Ebola came from in Africa either,” said Ralph, still trying to make her feel better.
Marissa was impressed that Ralph was aware of the fact and told him so.
“TV,” he explained. “Watching the nightly news these days gives one a medical education.” He squeezed Marissa’s hand. “The reason you should consider your time in L.A. successful is because you were able to contain what could have been an epidemic of horrible proportions.”
Marissa smiled. She realized that Ralph was trying to make her feel good and she appreciated the effort. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re right. The outbreak could have been much worse, and for a time we thought that it would be. Thank God it responded to the quarantine. It’s a good thing, because it carried better than a ninety-four percent fatality rate, with only two apparent survivors. Even the Richter Clinic seems to have become a victim. It now has as bad a reputation because of Ebola as the San Francisco bathhouses have because of AIDS.”
Marissa glanced at the clock over the steam table. It was after three. “I have a meeting in a few minutes,” she apologized. “You are a dear for stopping by, and dinner tonight sounds wonderful.”
“Dinner it will be,” said Ralph, picking up the tray with their empty cups.
Marissa hurried up three flights of stairs and crossed to the virology building. It didn’t appear nearly as threatening in the daylight as it had at night. Turning toward Dubchek’s office, Marissa knew that just around the bend in the hallway was the steel door that led to the maximum containment lab. It was seventeen after three when she stood in front of Dubchek’s secretary.
It was silly for her to have rushed. As she sat across from the secretary, flipping through Virology Times with its virus-of-the-month centerfold, Marissa realized that of course Dubchek would keep her waiting. She glanced at her watch again: twenty of four. Beyond the door she could hear Dubchek on the telephone. And from the telephone console on the secretary’s desk, she could see the little lights blink when he’d hang up and make another call. It was five of four when the door opened and Dubchek motioned for Marissa to come into his office.
The room was small, and cluttered with reprinted articles stacked on the desk, on the file cabinet and on the floor. Dubchek was in his shirt-sleeves, his tie tucked out of the way between the second and third button of his shirt. There was no apology or explanation of why she’d been kept waiting. In fact there was a suggestion of a grin on his face that particularly galled Marissa.
“I trust that you received my letter,” she said, studiously keeping her voice businesslike.
“I did indeed,” said Dubchek.
“And …?” said Marissa after a pause.
“A few days’ lab experience is not enough to work in the maximum containment lab,” said Dubchek.
“What do you suggest?” asked Marissa.