Final Epidemic Read Online Free PDF Page A

which staff greets most visitors elsewhere are conspicuous in their absence. Here, the uniformed guards take their jobs seriously indeed; the sidearms are clearly not for show. Here, a special system of fans maintains an air pressure that is slightly lower than the world outside; the negative air pressure ensures any exchange of microscopic life-forms will be in only one direction. It also causes a slight hiss that soon becomes unnoticed white noise.
    Andi Wheelwright handed her laminated identification card to one of the guards, who passed it through what looked like an electronic credit card validator. He carefully studiedthe image that popped up on his computer monitor before returning the card.
    “This is Dr. Beck Casey,” Andi said, a hint of emphasis on the honorific. “He’s on Dr. Krewell’s access authorization. This morning’s list.”
    The guard punched in a series of keystrokes.
    “I’ll need to see a photo ID, Dr. Beck.”
    “Sure,” Beck said, and reached for his hip pocket and stiffened.
    The wallet he always carried there was gone.
    “Looks like we have a slight problem,” Beck said.
    “One of us does,” said the guard. He glanced at Andi Wheelwright, who answered with a slight nod. Before Beck could speak, she was already heading down the hall.
    “Can’t admit you without an ID,” the guard said. “But Ms. Wheelwright might be able to do something. It’ll probably be a few minutes, though.”
    “I’ll bet you have a little room where I can wait,” he told the guard. “While all this gets straightened out.”
    “Uh-huh,” the guard said, trying to keep a straight face. “I’ll even keep you company.”
     
    Less than twenty minutes later, the guard escorted Beck past the lobby checkpoint. There was no ID check this time, and no sign of Andi Wheelwright. Instead, Beck walked in lock-step with the guard through a labyrinth of corridors. Occasionally, people passed them, traveling in the opposite direction. No one spoke.
    Finally, they stopped outside one anonymous set of closed doors. The guard knocked once. He winked at Beck and gestured, palm up, at the door.
    Inside, seated at a hardwood desk that butted against tall filing cabinets, was Larry Krewell. Spread out on the desk in front of Krewell was Beck’s wallet and the contents thereof.
    A man’s history, or at least a significant part of it, is contained in the things he carries. Old business cards, receipts,the type and number of credit cards, a phone number scribbled on a napkin: each item adds another handful of pixels to the overall picture. Krewell had made an untidy pile: a commuter ticket, a prepaid phone card, an American Express and a MasterCard, five twenty-dollar bills and a similar number of singles. Apparently, Krewell had already read whatever stories they told and dismissed them as irrelevant.
    All save the driver’s license, which he was examining with a skeptical expression.
    “Damn it, Beck—you trying to tell me you still weigh one-ninety?” Krewell raised his eyes, tracked up and down on his visitor. “Okay,” he said grudgingly. “Maybe. You must have a lot of free time to spend in the gym, though.” He tossed the license onto the pile of other official detritus. “By the way, my paranoid ol’ buddy—whoever did up the other two licenses for you does good work. But where did he come up with the names? You just don’t look like a Wayne or a Buford.”
    “Hello to you too, Larry,” Beck said. “Don’t lose the Metra ticket. It’s a monthly pass, and I’ll need it when I go back to Chicago.” He pulled up the visitor’s chair and crossed his legs. “Which will be on the next flight, unless you can explain why you had that pair of boosters lift my wallet.”
    Krewell grinned. “Bullshit. No way you made ’em.” He thrust an impressive jaw at the monitor that occupied a corner of the desk. “I saw your face when you reached for your wallet, ol’ buddy. About fell out of my chair