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phenomenal. Impulses raced across the paper, patterns she had never seen in all her training at the university or in the hospitals. Or in any of the research which had filled her every waking moment for the last week. Their brains simply didn’t function like everybody else’s. It seemed that none of the normal rules applied.
    What could have caused it?
    A bubbling, rattling sound dragged her attention towards the kitchenette. The jug was boiling, had been for a couple of minutes, spewing steam and scalding water across the laminate surface and onto the floor. Susan flicked the switch and the commotion ceased.
    As she mopped up the water with the kitchen sponge, as she prepared herself a large mug of coffee, the question repeated itself in her mind.
    What could have caused it?
    Five Babies. All born around the same time in the same hospital. Why …?
    She placed the mug on the desk next to the phone. And remembered. A phone call. Richard, disturbed and angry.
    â€œâ€¦ I’m sure it’s not autism, and if my guess is correct” – the words echoed again as clearly as thought – “some drug company’s going to be ducking for cover before this is all over …”
    He was talking to Larsen. He was angry with Larsen.
    â€œDon’ show L.”
    Maybe there was a clue in that red folder. Something Richard wanted hidden from Larsen’s obsession. Something … crucial.
    Susan sipped her coffee and stared at the pre-dawn dark, at the pinpoint stars. And decided.
    She left early the next morning, muttering something to Larsen about “checking some research”. To her own ears it sounded quite lame, but Larsen didn’t question it. He wouldn’t. It was his style to let “his people” have their head, follow their impulses. It was his way of getting the best out of them.
    By eleven o’clock, she was at home in Sydney, a can of Diet Coke in her hand, the red folder open on the desk before her.
    The columns on each of the sheets represented a brief summary of key points of Richard’s investigations. She remembered the excitement in his voice, the first time he’d told her, briefly, of his “discovery”.
    â€œIt’s something completely new, Suse. I can’t find records of anything similiar anywhere in the world. That’s why it has to be caused by something local. But what?”
    But he hadn’t tried to explain. Richard was like that. Sometimes, she believed that half of what he said to her was just thinking out loud, organising his own thoughts. Bouncing ideas off to see how they sounded.
    She looked at his picture on the shelf above the desk, scolding his memory gently.
    â€œIf you’d let on a bit more back then, perhaps I’d know what the hell I’m looking for now. What was it you didn’t want Larsen to know?”
    Something local. Something they all had in common.
    The fever.
    All the records showed that the onset of the condition began with a dangerously high fever and convulsions. Febrile convulsions. A kind of heat-induced short-circuit. But in each case, there appeared to be no cause; no virus, no allergy, nothing to suggest a reason why a normal, healthy kid should suddenly become burning hot and almost die. She scanned the second sheet and the eight names, each deleted with a pencil line.
    Eight of them did die.
    She thought of the five Babies who had come to mean so much to her, and for the first time the significance of her brother’s scribbled words hit home.
    Cause of death … unknown. Whatever had changed the Babies into what they were had the potential to kill. But what was it?
    She stared at the papers on the desk until they swam before her eyes. Then she looked back up at her brother’s picture.
    And suddenly it clicked. Local. Richard had said it had to be something local. A toxic chemical, perhaps. Pollution. But the Babies all came from different suburbs. The thing they had in