“What?” Gabriel asked, trying not to reveal his annoyance. “Why not?”
“The Sky Amoeba has imposed very strict laws upon us regarding noninterference. Humanity must be allowed to have free will, but with free will comes the responsibility to make your own successes, as well as your own failures.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the protectors of humanity?” Gabriel asked. “How the hell are you supposed to protect someone if you practice noninterference?”
“Inspiration.” The slug wriggled its antennas. “Persuasion, reason, logic, love. We can talk to you, and we can guide you to the right path if you choose to take our help, but we are not permitted to actually interfere with the course of human history. We can paint a picture of morality for you, but you must make the decision to follow it. We can’t help you with this task. But we do know someone who is allowed to intervene in times of emergency.”
“Marvelous. And who would that be?”
“Our leader.”
“Your leader.” If they talk about that Sky Amoeba again, I’m going out for a cigarette.
“Yes. He’s been wanting to speak with you for some time, actually. He’s very curious about your experiments here.” The slug crawled closer, right up to the edge of the desk.
Gabriel rubbed his eyes then looked at the cloudy night sky out the window. “Forget it. I don’t want to hear another word about your goddamn Sky Amoeba again. If I—”
“I’m not speaking of the great Sky Amoeba,” Leopard Print said with the slightest hint of irritation in its metallic voice.
“Then who?”
“One of us. The leader of the slugs.”
“You have, um… let me get this straight. You’re not the leader of the slugs? You have a different leader?”
“Indeed. And he will speak to you three days from now, at exactly three o’clock a.m. He’s very exact when it comes to times, so be ready.”
“Got it, sure. Lots of threes.” Gabriel held back a groan. The slugs mystified him. They seemed to get stranger with every encounter, and every time he attempted to figure out whether or not they were real, he was left with a splitting migraine and no logical answers. Still, they were the only help he had. “Tell me, by any chance, does this marvelous slug leader of yours have a name?”
“Of course.” Leopard Print’s antennas straightened. “His name is Michael.”
Chapter 22:
Empty
Autumn 1981
“So in conclusion, gentlemen, I trust that after reviewing all of this information, you’ll understand why it’s imperative for us to pursue potential cures for this contagion before it becomes more widespread.” Gabriel turned off the projector and stood before the group of black-suited businessmen in their black-and-white room, trying to keep his knees from wobbling.
The men in front of him controlled the medical industry, the key to his future. The window shades were lowered, and the room was dark and silent, other than the sound of a man in the back smacking his lips. Gabriel spun his wedding ring around his finger then clasped it tightly. Give me strength, Yvonne. When I come home tonight, I’ll finally be the man I’m supposed to be.
Gabriel had gotten through the slideshow presentation, told them all about his research, and explained the virus. He’d given them all the evidence from confirmed cases and his hypothesis on what had caused the virus. He had also presented examples of the current infections occurring in San Francisco, where people were increasingly popping up with swollen lymph nodes, bizarre symptoms, and strange cases in which the immune system failed to fight off simple infections.
If the men didn’t rally behind him, the whole game was over. He was just one strange little man living on a sailboat with his dance instructor wife, and he needed their financial resources. He needed labs, proper equipment, and paperwork know-how that went over his head. He could also use some lawyers to keep him out of any legal hot water.
“I have a question,” said Rufus Verne, staring at Gabriel with the amber eyes of a predatory falcon.
“Yes, Mr. Verne?”
“Well, from what I can see, you’re asking for us to fund your research, yes?” His deep, gravelly voice cracked under the pressure of at least four decades of harsh cigarettes.
Gabriel nodded. “Yes.”
“You want us to spend an enormous amount of money, time, and resources on your project.” Verne’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were untouched. “You want us to supply you with a research team, media attention, a whole hullaballoo. Am I correct, Mister… Schist, is it?”
Don Foyer, a churlish, Michelin-Man figure who wore white suits meant for a man three sizes smaller, snickered. The other men remained dead silent.
“Schist, yes,” Gabriel said, attempting to project a confidence he didn’t feel. “And you are correct, sir. That’s what I’m asking for.”
“I see. Now, Mr. Foyer”—Verne glanced back at Foyer—“was that a laugh I heard? Is there something you’d like to add to this conversation?” Verne’s eyes and mouth pulled toward the center of his face, wrinkles knotting together into an icy, unfeeling smile.
Foyer’s eyes bulged, and he raised his massive shoulders. “It’s very, um… interesting. You’re a smart guy, Mr. Schist, but is pouring all our money into your research practical?”
“Yes,” Gabriel stated.
“Yes, you seem quite sure of yourself,” Verne said, giving Gabriel a grandfatherly wink. “I concur with Mr. Foyer in that I found your presentation quite interesting. However, may I ask you something?”
Gabriel looked down briefly then straightened his back. He couldn’t allow himself to look weak, not even for a moment. “Of course.”
Verne narrowed his eyes. “This hypothetical disease you speak of, aren’t you really just speaking about this whole gay cancer business? The situation that’s going on over in San Francisco?”
“Gay cancer.” Foyer smirked. “Yep.”
Gabriel tightened his jaw. “It’s been referred to by that name, yes. But I can assure you —”
Verne held up a hand. “Mr. Schist, can you tell me why we should dump all of our money into developing a cure for some homosexual disease?”
