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“Correct,” Tim said. “Your notes described an incubation period of between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before infected victims start to show symptoms. So if we’re lucky, these men are in there another two days, just to be sure.”

The black diver spoke. “I find your definition of luck somewhat wanting, Doctor Feely.”

The white diver rested his forehead against the inside of his cell wall. “Oh, man … two more days?”

Tim walked back to the airlock door and opened a cabinet mounted just to its left. He pulled out two cellulose test boxes, then returned to the black diver’s cell.

“Master Diver Kevin Cantrell, meet Doctor Montoya and Agent Otto,” Tim said. “How about you show them our fun little drama called it puts the lotion in the basket.”

Tim placed the box in a small, rotating airlock mounted in the clear door, then moved his hands in midair. It took Clarence a second to remember Tim was using his suit’s HUD to control things. The airlock turned. Cantrell opened the white box, pulled out the foil envelope inside.

He stared at it like it was a living thing, something pretending to be still until it was ready to bite.

“Your t.i.tle is wrong,” Cantrell said. “I prefer The Merchant of Venice.”

“Venice,” Tim said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Margaret answered. “It’s Shakespeare — If you p.r.i.c.k us, do we not bleed?”

Cantrell glanced at her, then at the testing unit, then looked at her again, stared hard.

“Lady, are you … are you here to kill me?”

A direct question, but it didn’t make sense. Clarence noticed a slight gleam on Cantrell’s forehead. He was perspiring a little … did he have a fever?

Margaret answered in a calm, measured voice. “Mister Cantrell, why do you think I want to kill you?”

Clarence understood: she thought Cantrell might be showing signs of paranoia, one of the main symptoms of infection.

Cantrell blinked rapidly, sniffed. He forced a smile, gestured to the walls around him.

“I’m a guinea pig, ma’am,” he said. “It’s a logical question.”

Before Margaret could ask another question, Cantrell removed the white plastic tube, pressed it against the tip of his right pointer finger. The yellow light started flas.h.i.+ng immediately.

Clarence watched, tension pulling his body forward, making his hand itch to draw his weapon — a weapon he didn’t have. He felt naked. He needed to get a rig that would let him wear a holster over the suit. Was Cantrell’s light about to turn red? Was a piece of thick gla.s.s all that separated Margaret from one of the infected?

The flas.h.i.+ng yellow slowed, then stopped and blinked out.

The green light turned on.