With the culture in place, fertilization would now begin. The newly formed zygote would start to divide into a cluster of 64 cells, taking about a week to travel down the Fallopian tube to the uterus. There the young embryo--the blastocyst--would attach itself to the lining of the uterus and--if there were no complications--pregnancy would proceed in the usual way.
Using an interrupted suture, the surgeon was sewing up the subcutaneous tissue. One by one the layers were folded back, the wall of the abdomen sealed up, and finally the outer flap of skin and fatty tissue replaced and stitched, leaving a puckered V-shape edged with red against the alabaster white.
Skrote felt relieved that it was over. He thought longingly of a cup of coffee. Even more longingly he thought of his rendezvous with Natassya after dinner that evening. Her note said that she couldn't make it to the bar, their usual meeting place, but that he was to go directly to her room where she would be waiting.
The surgeon called out jovially, "Next, please!" and the operating-room staff dutifully laughed, if a little wearily this time.
As he turned to leave, Skrote noticed a group of people watching from the observation room, high up in one corner behind the angled glass panel. Dr. Rolsom was there--he sometimes liked to look in--but it wasn't usual to see General Madden among them. Madden was gazing down with a rare smile; in fact, he seemed to be actually laughing.
For one dreadful moment Skrote imagined that Madden knew about him and Natassya. But it was impossible. He was being stupid.
"Excuse me, sir."
"Sorry." Skrote stepped aside as the nurse wheeled the trolley to the door, the rubber tires squealing on the linoleum floor. He looked down at the bleached face above the white sheet, the eyebrows like black brush marks on a flawless porcelain vase.
Skrote stood rooted to the spot, his heart small and hard as though the blood had been squeezed from it by an angry fist. He watched as Natassya was wheeled out and the doors swung silently shut behind her.
Sierraville. Loyalton. Vinton. Doyle. Milford. Janesville. Standish. Ravendale. Termo. Madeline. Likely.
The small towns on highway 395 rolled by, the cozy suburbanity of their names in stark contrast to what they had become: the refuge and the dumping ground for those fleeing north to escape the stench and decay seeping up from the south. They had escaped, but they were tainted by it. For Chase and Ruth it hung in the air like a sickly odor.
Chase had done the best he could with the nasty gash in Ruth's forehead. It really required medical attention, though the idea of looking for a hospital (never mind what it would be like if and when they found one) filled them both with wearisome despair. Chase had decided that the sensible course was to reach Goose Lake with all speed; there would surely be somebody at the settlement with medical expertise.
Highway 395 was patrolled by state police and the armored personnel carriers of the National Guard, their blue-and-gold crest fluttering from the radio masts. Without such protection Chase doubted whether they would have made it past Sierraville.
By late afternoon they were midway between Likely and Alturas, about sixty miles from the settlement. Chase had made room for Ruth in the back of the jeep where she was wedged into a cubbyhole padded with blankets. She lay back, eyes closed, her face whiter than the bandage around her head. Without actually thinking about it he'd made up his mind to take Cheryl and Dan back with him. A vulnerable community like Goose Lake was no place for a seriously ill woman, and besides it wouldn't be long, at this rate, before the craziness he'd observed spread there too. The Tomb wasn't impregnable but it was a lot safer than being out here. And it had the supreme advantage of being a sealed enclosure; as the atmosphere continued to deteriorate, such places would be the last remaining refuge in an increasingly hostile environment.
Chase had lost count of the number of checkpoints they'd passed through since Reno. There was another one ahead now. In a sense it was reassuring to know that some form of rule of law was still operating.
The ebbing sun was distended into a flattened brown balloon by the stratified layers of noxious gases in the lower atmosphere. It would soon be dark, and traveling the last fifty or so miles on a pitch-black highway --with or without patrols--was an experience he would much rather avoid. Aside from which he felt ragged with tiredness and his bruised ribs throbbed painfully.
Yet again he went through the rigmarole with documents and IDs, explaining for the umpteenth time what was the matter with Ruth. The young state police trooper on duty, not unsympathetic, advised them, "Don't go through Alturas after nightfall. There's been some bad trouble there. Even the National Guard had to pull out."
"What kind of trouble?"
