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it?”
    “I … I came to apologize,” Anneke said. “I know how much of a bother this ban is for you.”
    “Bother! You have no idea. You can’t apologize. The damage is done.”
    “Dr. Chamberlin, please. We don’t know how this is going to turn out. Our committee hasn’t even had its first meeting. We’re getting together this afternoon.”
    “I didn’t know that. It seems that you’re keeping an open mind, anyway.”
    “I’d like to think so. I’ve done some web research on these institutional biosafety committees and animal-care committees. I’ll be honest, until last week’s meeting, I didn’t know they existed.”
    Noah was taken aback by her conciliatory tone. “I see,” was all he could manage.
    “Sir, I promise you that I’ll maintain an objective attitude on our little committee. I’m sure the other members will do likewise.”
    Noah was left speechless by the woman’s sincerity.
     
    Vera Barnett had agreed to host the first meeting of the ad hoc committee at the clinic. She set out a ring of folding chairs, a box of donuts, and plenty of coffee. After all were seated, Vera spoke. “I think we should begin by electing a chair.”
    The others muttered assent and the group quickly elected the biology teacher, Norman Orgell, to head the committee.
    “Vera,” Orgell said, “how about you and I take on the responsibility of digesting the NIH guidelines for recombinant DNA research. We have the most biological expertise.”
    “Fine with me,” answered the vet.
    “Anneke, would you mind contacting state and federal health authorities about governmental guidelines?”
    “Sure,” she replied. “I think we should also request a tour of the lab facilities. You know, the scene of the crime …”
    “Let’s try to keep an open mind,” Orgell said.
    “Sorry.”
     
    On the day of the tour, Vera Barnett, DVM, studied her reflection in the mirror and casually ran a comb through her short, blond hair. She paused to consider what appeared to be a new wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. “Damn!” she said aloud. Vera had always thought of herself as ordinary-looking. Now in her mid-thirties, she was becoming increasingly self-conscious about her appearance.
    Vera looked forward to visiting the molecular biology institute. She had been to the university on more than one occasion to attend concerts, plays, and lectures, but had never been inside any of its laboratories. Chamberlin seems likeable enough, she mused. Good-looking too. Although she generally shunned makeup, she decided to apply a light shade of lip gloss.
    She tucked the flaps of her blue shirt into her jeans and switched off the stereo. Vera rented an old, two-story clapboard house built during the early 1950s, when the post-war building boom was in full flower. The owner had agreed to convert the bottom floor to make it suitable for her veterinary practice, provided she agreed to a two-year lease. She co-owned the veterinary clinic with Dr. Kalman Forstner, who had graduated from the School of Veterinary Medicine at UC Davis just the previous year.
    Vera hurried into the room she called “the ward” to check on the animals. They seemed calm and comfortable, except for Sparkles, a toy collie recovering from a urinary tract infection. “Hey there, girl,” murmured the vet, rubbing her finger alongside the animal’s jaw. “They’ll be coming tomorrow and you can go home.” Sparkles responded with a whimper. “Kal, would you keep an eye on Sparkles?” she called out to her partner.
    “Sure, no problem,” he replied from the other room.
    Vera left a note for Jane Brennan that she’d be back in a few hours. She carried her black leather vet’s bag—it doubled as a handbag—upstairs to her living quarters, inserted a few personal items, and set off in her blue Porsche hybrid for the university. She drove the two blocks to Lewis Road and then south on Lewis to the campus. In the city, she generally ran the sports car on