Just as Sean and Mark were saying goodbye for the evening, Samantha was leaving the office where she worked on the Upper East Side. The skyscrapers glittered overhead. The air was especially gusty. The rope on a flagpole knocked against the steel, like a clapper in a bell.

Samantha was a young businesswoman. She worked at an office in charge of fundraising for AIDS service groups and AIDS research projects. She had a secret rendezvous she needed to get to, so she rushed by the storefronts near where she worked. The picture windows gleamed like cut gems; manikins displayed gorgeous scintillating brocades and fiery silks. Oriental carpets spread their lush designs, which were as symmetrical as the wings of exotic butterflies.

Saturday nights could be menacing and lonely in New York City. Each corner Samantha turned on led her to smaller and less-traveled lanes. She finally arrived at Chez Locise, a seafood restaurant whose name was etched into the glass of the doorway. The exterior was oak. The low green and white awning and the saplings out front made the place seem removed from the brutal, towering city.

She entered. The fireplace crackled and soft music played.

"So, Edward, good to see you again!" She spoke in a New Zealand accent, which to Americans sounded British. "The shuttle from Washington didn't fail you, I see."

The maitre d' ushered her and her companion to a small table by the fireplace. The flower arrangements and the mood lighting made each table seem private. Edward was an older gentleman wearing an olive-green jacket, a sports shirt and tie, and coffee-brown pants. He was going bald, and had white fleecy hair at his temples. There was something youthful about his step and about his clear blue eyes.

After the waiter took their drink orders, Samantha lowered her bag onto the floor and said, "I know that you don't like talking about your business plans when you come to the Big Apple, but at least tell me about your recreational plans."

"Having dinner with you is like recreation," said Edward.

She laughed. "And I guess it's my cue to return the compliment, is that it?"

They looked over the menu. Swordfish. Roe. It was chilly in the restaurant, for some reason. Samantha dressed as she always did that season: Annie Hall-style clothing, with boots, a maxi-skirt, and what looked almost like a couple of different ladies' jackets. She was not a pretty woman, exactly, but she seemed to know how to pose in style. She wore no makeup. She did not believe in makeup. Her hair was medium length and jet-black. Her deep-set eyes, her gaunt cheeks and chiseled lips were so striking, her face didn't really need lipstick or mascara.

Edward said, "How's your employer these days?"

Samantha sighed and furrowed her brow. She was young, but sometimes seemed world-weary. Then she chuckled a mischievous chuckle.

"My employer is fine. My employer and his spouse are entertaining some of the richest Democrats in New York City at their town house."

"And you're not with them?"

"I'd rather be here. Rich Democrats I can see any week."

Samantha gave her friend a long look. "Edward," she said. "My employer is angry with those people in Maryland. Lost patience with them six or seven months ago, and is losing patience, again."

"I know," Edward said, breaking a bread stick.

"Fauci and the infectious disease people are destroying his faith. And mine. Killing the morale of our whole office with their stupid delays. Where ARE the protocols? Why aren't the components in place for these damn drug trials to begin? My boss can't do everything. Can't Fauci do some of the thinking for himself?"

"Fauci is an idiot."

"Can the White House bring pressure?"

"Well, there's a question."

Edward was a member of a think tank in Washington, D.C., and he was an insider both in that city and at a number of important campuses on the East Coast. It was politics that he studied. Not medicine. He admired the people working for Samantha's boss (Samantha, included), and liked letting Samantha in on things that came his way. He knew their group was an up-and-comer, not quite as large as AmFar or GMHC, but a promising group, nonetheless. Their drinks arrived.

"How is the fund-raising coming along?" he asked, sipping his vodka martini.

"Tiring," said Samantha. Her sigh proved it. "Every day, I feel like I'm on my last legs, but there's still so much to do. And we need to relocate. Charities in Manhattan sometimes have cushy offices. In our suite, if you open a file drawer, you're blocking an entire corridor. Bring three boxes of envelopes into a cubicle, and you've turned it into a fire hazard. There are benefits to the job. It's fun meeting the upper crust of Manhattan, but people are still so frightened of this disease, that some just won't give. And the literature we got from one of the gay organizations as an educational sample was of no help, I'm afraid. Brochures about safe sex with photos of men wanking is hardly what you can show Eastside heiresses in order to get contributions. But we're making it. This job is killing me, but we're making it." She didn't share with Edward one recent incident, for she felt it would be indiscreet, but the happy memory put a smile on her face. Her office had gotten a million-dollar check - a personal check - from the heirs of a big fast-food chain. The staff was so relieved and impressed, they passed it from hand to hand, just to make sure they weren't dreaming.

"Moving mountains isn't easy, is it?" said Edward, gently.

"What's that figure I read?" said Samantha, sipping her white wine. "One per cent of the nation's population owns thirty-eight per cent of the nation's wealth? How do we get that one per cent to cough up some cash in a crisis like this?"

Samantha looked at Edward. There was humor in his eyes; then he seemed serious. It dawned on her that he was withholding something.

They ordered their dinners, and went over some of the items that had been in the news lately; for example, Jesse Helms' maneuver to block funding in Congress for any kind of AIDS education that tolerated homosexuality. Samantha and Edward also discussed AL-721, both filling each other in on what they understood of the substance. They talked about the company trying to develop it, and about Bethesda's and Wall Street's responses. (Many in the AIDS community thought AL-721 held some promise as a substance against the disease. An experimental compound made from egg lipids, it was a food substance, actually, that seemed capable of decreasing cholesterol in cell walls. Researchers were viewing it as a possible treatment against senility, against alcohol and drug addiction as well as against immune deficiency. Some investigators even felt it had promise as an antiviral.)

Their soups arrived; their salads followed.

"One of my gay friends has told me some more," Samantha said, "about aerosolized pentamidine. Edward, this is something we can really pound the government over. The treatment really is looking good as a way of preventing the pneumonia, but the NIH isn't facing how important it is to PWAs. I mean, Lord, thousands - literally thousands of people's lives could be saved. If only Fauci took action now. Thousands will die if he doesn't. We may not have a cure for AIDS, itself, but if we could prevent that pneumonia, it would be a major break-through. Doesn't Fauci care?"

"Fauci is an idiot," Edward said, again, while calmly crunching into his salad.

They talked about Congressional action to wrestle more money out of the Reagan White House for AIDS research. They ate their main courses and ordered after dinner drinks. Samantha and Edward leaned back and smoked their cigarettes. Edward looked troubled.

"Is there something else on your mind?" she finally asked him.

"Yes," Edward said, sipping and clearing his throat. "Doctor Brandt had been afraid to ask for more money from Congress, these last couple of years, because the White House apparently did want him to underplay what his needs were for the AIDS budget."

"That's what we suspected, though, isn't it?"

"It gets worse. A rumor says that the President's office truly may have wanted to quarantine men and women with AIDS."

"You're joking."

"No."

"You must be. The White House isn't that stupid."

"I am not joking, and yes, they are that stupid."

"But that's not even feasible. How could they have wanted such a thing?" Edward's eyes simply stared back at Samantha. "Should this quarantine news be passed on to anyone with clout?" Samantha asked.

"No. And it's not news. It's a rumor that I'm trying to get to the bottom of," said Edward. "It's just that, here you are asking support from a White House that may have considered going to such extremes against the very population you're helping." Samantha shuddered. Edward continued, "Of course, with election year coming up, AIDS funding will get a boost. Mark my word."

She held a cup to her lips, then put it down without sipping. Now her very bones ached with fatigue.

"I've got to stay home tomorrow and relax," she finally said, her throat feeling as dry as if she had run five miles. "This week has been rough, and next week will be rougher. It's not getting better for any of us, is it, Edward?"

Edward shrugged. Samantha's thoughts drifted to those thousands of people in America who were sick and dying of the syndrome. To her, Fauci's inactivity seemed not just apathetic or smug, but criminal.