he red phone. It won’t stop ringing. He won’t answer it. He can’t. Not until he’s got the situation by the short, scaly tail. For five minutes it will ring. Thirty minutes will pass, if he’s lucky, an hour. Then it will ring again. He’s got to focus. Hoffstetler. This Trotskyite pinko. Glancing at the phone like he’s never seen the color red before, like it isn’t the same red as his homeland flag. Strickland shuffles the papers Hoffstetler handed him. An act, just to let the white coat sweat. He didn’t read more than the opening sentence. Can’t feel the papers with his dead fingers. Doesn’t care, not anymore. Paper is for men, not Jungle-gods.

“Do you need to answer that?” Hoffstetler asks. “If you’d like me to come back…”

“Don’t you go anywhere, Bob.”

The phone keeps ringing. The monkeys have dug their way into that sound, too, howling their instructions. Strickland squares the paper and grins. Hoffstetler avoids his eyes, looks around, nods at the monitors. Half are live, half are paused since yesterday. Strickland feels the same, half alive, half dead, desperate to find Deus Brânquia even as his veins are being threaded with thick lianas vines.

“How is the investigation?” Hoffstetler asks.

“Good. Very good. We have a lead, a very promising lead.”

“Well, that’s…” Hoffstetler adjusts his glasses. “That’s wonderful.”

“You sick, Bob? You look a little gray.”

“No. Not at all. It’s this gray weather, perhaps.”

“Is that right? Coming from Russia, I figured weather like this would be like being home.”

The phone, the monkeys, keeps ringing.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been there since I was a boy, of course.”

“You came to us from where again?”

“Wisconsin.”

“And before that?”

“Boston. Harvard.”

“And before that?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to answer the—”

“Ithaca, wasn’t it? And Durham. I’ve got a good memory, Bob.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Impressive. I mean that. Another thing I remember from your file is you had a tenured position. People work hard for that, don’t they?”

“I suppose they do, yes.”

“And you gave it all up for us.”

“I did, yes.”

“That’s remarkable, Bob. Makes a man in my position feel good.”

Strickland snaps the paper he holds. Hoffstetler jumps in his seat.

“I guess that’s why this caught me by surprise,” Strickland says. “All those honors you gave up just to join our little project. And now you’re leaving?”

The red phone stops ringing. The bell’s vibration continues for twelve more seconds. Strickland counts them off while watching Hoffstetler’s reaction. The scientist does look sick. But so does everyone at Occam these days. He’s got to have better proof. If he pins shit this serious on their star scientist and he’s wrong, that red phone will only ring louder. He breathes through his nose, feels it scorch with Sertão heat. Energized, he studies Hoffstetler’s eyes. Dodgy, but they’ve always been dodgy. Sweaty, too, but half of these eggheads faint at the sight of an MP.

“I do wish to return to my studies.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?”

“I haven’t decided. There is always more to learn. I suppose I’ve been thinking about multicellularity in the taxonomic tree. I might also follow my interest in random and volitional nondeterministic happenings. And I don’t believe I’ll ever tire of astrobiology.”

“Big words, Bob. Hey, how about you teach me something? That last one. Astro-whatchamacallit.”

“Well … what would you like to know?”

“You’re the professor. First day of class, they’re all staring at you. What do you tell them?”

“I … used to teach them a song. If you want to know the truth.”

“I do. I do want to know the truth. I never took you for a crooner, Bob.”

“It’s just a little—it’s a children’s song—”

“If you think I’m letting you out of here without singing this little ditty, you’re crazy.”

Now Hoffstetler is really sweating. And Strickland is really grinning. He places a hand over his mouth to ensure that delirious monkey screams don’t begin hooting up from his throat. Hoffstetler tries to laugh it off, but Strickland won’t budge. Hoffstetler winces, stares at his hands in his lap. The seconds ticking by only make it more painful. They both know it. Hoffstetler clears his throat and, to Strickland’s joy, begins to sing.

“The color of a star, you can be sure, is mostly due to its temp-era-ture.”

It’s an off-key warble that betrays, more than is typical, the man’s Russian accent. Hoffstetler knows it, too, sure as shit, and he swallows hard. Strickland claps his hands, his dead fingers flopping like plastic.

“Beautiful, Bob. If you don’t mind me asking, though, what’s the point of it?”

Hoffstetler lurches forward, quick enough to kill. Strickland startles, rocks back in his chair, grabs for the machete, if that’s what it is, stashed under his desk. He curses himself. Never, ever underestimate cornered prey. The weapon, though, isn’t needed. Not yet. Hoffstetler perches on the edge of his chair, but not beyond it. His voice still shakes, but not from fear. Humiliation has produced anger, and it’s as sharp as cliff-side rocks.

“The point is that it’s true,” Hoffstetler snaps. “We’re all made of stardust, Mr. Strickland. Oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, and calcium. If some of us get our way and our countries fire off their warheads, then we shall return to stardust. All of us. And what color will our stars be then? That is the question. A question you might ask yourself.”

Friendly palaver is over. The two men glare.

“Your last week,” Strickland says slowly. “Gonna miss you, Bob.”

Hoffstetler stands. His knees are knocking. At least there’s that.

“Should there be a development, of course, I’ll return right away.”

“You figure there will be? A development?”

“I am sure I don’t know. You said you had a lead.”

Strickland smiles. “I do.”

Hoffstetler’s not even out of sight when the red phone starts ringing again. Monkey screams, accusatory this time. Strickland slams his right fist to his desk hard enough to make the receiver tremble. It hurts. But it’s also satisfying, like squashing longhorn beetles, bullet ants, tarantulas, all those Amazon pests. When he does it again he chooses the left fist. Fewer fingers to hurt over there. Hardly feels it at all. He slams, and slams, and slams, and believes he feels a pop in one of the fingers, another of the black stitches ripping free. Like the sutures in Deus Brânquia. Who is falling apart faster? Who will outlast the other?

He picks up the phone, not the red one, and dials Fleming’s extension. Fleming might be General Hoyt’s errand boy, but he’s under Strickland’s command, too. He picks up on the first ring. Strickland hears the clatter of a dropped clipboard.

“When Dr. Hoffstetler leaves today,” Strickland says, “I want you to follow him.”