Before visiting Texas' only maximum-containment biosafety level 4 "hot lab"—one of four places in the nation where the most-lethal and most-incorrigible microbes are cultured and studied—I had a single question for the lab's chief keeper, Jean Patterson, the head of virology and immunology at the Southwest Foundation for Biomedical Research in San Antonio, where the lab is located. Sure, the lab was "down" and had been thoroughly decontaminated for a round of cleaning and repair. This was, in fact, the only reason I was being allowed anywhere near it. But how could I be certain that there wasn't a single errant arenavirus or herpes B bug in there just waiting to crawl up a nostril and kill me? Patterson flashed a surprisingly beatific smile, considering her line of work, and replied, "Well, you can't."
That was either more than I wanted to know or less. Not that I really needed to worry about stray bugs. The most sophisticated microbe lab in Texas is also the most paranoid. Just to get near it, we had to pass through an endless series of doors of varying sizes and securities—bug-containment technology that made up the better part of the cost of the $12 million building. And though the lab itself is a modest 1,200 square feet, it is backed up by two other rooms of air- and water-filtration systems; huge drums of Lysol—yes, Lysol—concentrate, which is used to decontaminate everything, including the scientists before and after they enter the lab; and enough high-tech emergency bells and whistles to shame the folks at NORAD. When the nasty microbes are in residence, the atmosphere in the lab is pressure negative, meaning that the higher air pressure outside the room keeps the bugs from escaping; so if someone spills a beaker of hantavirus—a feisty little creature that causes fever, vomiting, and shortness of breath in one strain of the virus, and kidney infection and internal bleeding in another—the chances of it destroying the population of Central Texas are greatly reduced. Before entering the lab, Patterson and her colleagues must don robin's egg-blue polyurethane vinyl jumpsuits with attached helmets that are wired for two-way communication—like the ones astronauts use.
"Constant contact is important in case someone, you know, has a heart attack or something in there," said Patterson. "We also have an alarm for that. We have an alarm for everything."
Visit any other sort of biomedical institution these days—say, a gene therapy lab at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center—and you'll leave with the unmistakable impression that man is winning the war against disease and infirmity. But visit a maximum-containment lab like this one and you'll draw a different conclusion. This lab wouldn't have been built at all if we weren't losing the war with microbes, which in some ways pose as big a threat to us now as they did a millennium or two ago. When the apocalypse finally arrives, it won't be because of a nuclear accident. It will be ushered in by some new bug that causes "flulike symptoms" and can't be bluffed by echinacea.
We were fairly certain that we had won the war on infectious disease as early as the fifties and sixties, when there was the feeling that we had virtually eliminated notorious killers like smallpox, polio, tuberculosis, and typhoid fever with a series of vaccines and antibiotics. So we got cocky for a couple of decades and directed our scientists to work on chronic diseases like cancer and heart disease. Then AIDS slithered out of the jungle in the early eighties, rudely reminding us that the bugs still rule.
Here in post-AIDS America, bug busting has become big business. The Southwest Foundation, a murky, quirky, and always successful private concern founded sixty years ago by eccentric San Antonio oilman-adventurer-inventor Tom Slick, is riding that wave. The foundation has long been known in scientific circles as home to the largest baboon colony in the world (about 3,600 of them, plus a couple hundred chimpanzees; as a child growing up in San Antonio, I knew it as "the monkey farm"), and it has published an estimable body of solid research in the basic sciences. But the hot lab has provided it with a ticket to the Big Show of international research science. The Southwest Foundation harvested $31 million in new grants and contracts last year, many of them to study the genetics of and antidotes for various exotic viruses with names like Venezuelan equine encephalitis and "breakbone" fever. And given that this lab is the first of its kind built west of the Mississippi, you can safely wager that they'll be hauling in more grants in the future, not only for basic research, but for more exotic assignments—like anti-bioterrorism.
"If someone receives a mysterious envelope and he needs the white powder inside tested to see if it's an unknown substance used in bioterrorism, now he calls us," said the foundation's president, former Army surgeon general Frank Ledford, Jr.
In it's present state, empty, quiet, and disheveled from its cleanup, the hot lab did not resemble anything like what I saw in the movie Outbreak; indeed, it looked a bit like my college biology lab. And in fact, much of what Patterson and others do here is the grunt work of virological research: growing microbes like the deadly arenaviruses, which cause hemorrhagic fevers, and herpes B, which can cause paralysis, and deactivating them. The crippled nucleic acid is then passed down to less-secure labs to be examined for clues to disrupt the virus' ability to replicate itself.
The deadly viruses that scientists handle here are not new, said Rebeca Rico-Hesse, a scientist at the foundation who specializes in emerging diseases, particularly in Texas. Indeed, most have been around as long as the flu. They are "emerging" now because somehow the microbial and human worlds have collided. Either we've invaded their huge, parallel universe with housing developments, golf courses, and dams, or they've acquired access to more of ours because of changes in