by Peter James
She set the machine down again. ‘OK, my first question, Dr Klaesson, is what were the influences that made you decide to become a research scientist?’
‘I thought you wanted to talk about my department and the work we’re doing, rather than individuals?’
‘I’d just like a little background.’
‘Sure.’
Giving him an encouraging smile, she said, ‘Are either of your parents scientists?’
‘No, we don’t have any other scientists in our family. My father was a salesman.’
‘Did he have any interest in science?’
John shook his head. ‘Not remotely. Fishing and gambling were his things – he was a walking encyclopedia of rods, lines, weights, lures, floats, bait, poker odds and race-horse form. He could tell you where the fish hung out at what time of day in every stretch of water within thirty miles of our home, and what horse was running in any race just about anywhere in the world.’ He smiled. ‘I guess he was into the science of fishing and betting.’
‘Do you think there’s some analogy between fishing and the methodology of scientific research?’ she asked.
John was torn between trying to keep the reporter happy and trying to steer her on to what he really wanted to talk about. ‘I think my mother was a much bigger influence,’ he said. ‘She used to be a mathematics teacher – and she’s always taken a great interest in everything. And she’s a hugely practical woman. She could take an electric motor to pieces to show me how it worked one day, and another day sit me down and discuss the religious writings of Emanuel Swedenborg. I think she gave me my curiosity.’
‘Sounds like you have more of her genes than your father’s.’
The remark brought his thoughts abruptly back to Dettore. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, distractedly.
How the hell could Dettore have got it wrong? How? How?
‘OK, Dr Klaesson, I wonder now if you could describe in – like – a couple of sentences, the broad beats of your research team’s work?’
‘Sure, absolutely.’ He thought for some moments. ‘How much do you know about the construction of the human brain?’
Her expression hardened, just a fraction, just enough for him to receive the message loud and clear. Don’t patronize me.
‘I did my PhD on “The Nature Of Consciousness”,’ she said.
That whacked him. ‘You did? Where?’
‘At Tulane.’
‘I’m impressed.’ He was surprised, too. He had not been expecting her to have anything beyond a working knowledge of science.
‘I just didn’t want you thinking you were talking to a no-brainer.’
‘Not for one moment did I—’
She leaned back with a big smile, her face all warmth again. ‘You did! I could see it!’
He raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, give me a break! I’ve had a hard day – I don’t need you beating up on me at the end of it!’
His beer arrived. He took it from the waitress’s hand before she’d had a chance to set it down and drank a deep gulp. ‘Right. Your question. We’re examining human organs, and in particular the human brain, trying to understand better their pathways of evolution to our present state, and how much further evolution will change them in the future.’
’And you are hoping one of the results will be to lead you to understand what human consciousness is?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Is Neural Darwinism a way to describe your simulation programs?’
‘That’s Edelman’s phrase.’ He drank some more beer. ‘No, there’s quite a difference.’ A smear on the right lens of his glasses was irritating him. He took them off and wiped them with his handkerchief. ‘You must have covered this field at Tulane. Neural Darwinism relates to when you build a robot that doesn’t actually have a program – it has to learn from its experiences, the way human beings do. That’s taking steps towards building thinking machines by copying some of the ways human brains work. We’re not doing that – our field is different.’
He held his glasses up to the light and still wasn’t satisfied. Wiping them some more, he said, ‘Our methodology is to simulate millions of years of evolution in our computers, making virtual replicas of primitive brains and seeing if, by replicating natural selection, we can arrive at far more complex models that are closer to our own brains. At the same time we make virtual models of current human brains and let them keep evolving way into the future.’
‘I’m puzzled by something there, Dr Klaesson.’
‘Call me John.’
‘John, OK, thanks. You say you make virtual replicas of primitive brains?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘How primitive, John? How far are you going back? Palaeolithic? Jurassic? Cambrian?’
‘Before then, even. Right back to Archaean.’
The third beer was kicking in now. He noticed to his surprise he had drunk nearly two thirds of it. He knew he had to slow down, but it was really making him feel good.
‘And when you do finally understand how the human brain was formed, then you’ll understand consciousness?’
‘Not necessarily – you’re making a big leap there.’
‘Oh, right.’ She was grinning and her voice was cynical. ‘You’re going to switch off your computer one day and say, Hey, I just finally figured out how the human brain was formed. Now I’m going to go home and feed the cat. Is that it?’
John smiled back.
‘From the way you work, for you to have figured out how the brain was formed, you’d have a virtual model of it in your computer. Then the next step is going to be improving it, right? What will you do – add on more memory? Some kind of interface with humans?’
‘Whoa! You’re going too fast.’
‘I’m not, Dr Kl— John, I’m just quoting from a paper you published three years ago.’
He nodded, remembering now. ‘Ah yes, OK.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve done your homework – but that wasn’t the theme of the paper – I was hypothesizing.’ He was getting concerned suddenly that this interview was heading the wrong way. He needed to get a grip and steer it. ‘Listen, this speculation about the future – I’m happy to talk about it, but could we keep that whole area off the record?’
‘Hi, how you folks doing? Get you some more drinks?’ The waitress had suddenly materialized and was standing beside him.
John saw that the reporter’s glass was almost empty. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sally – another one?’
She hesitated a moment. ‘How’s your time? I’m not keeping you too long?’
He glanced at his watch. Half seven. Naomi wouldn’t be home until after nine, she’d told him. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.
‘OK, I’ll have another Chardonnay.’
John considered his empty glass for a moment. As a student in Sweden he could easily manage upwards of half a dozen of these – and stronger beer too. ‘Same again – I’ll live dangerously!’
Sally reached forward and pressed the stop button on the tape machine. ‘Off the record for a few minutes – tell me what you feel about the future – I’m really fascinated.’
He would never know why he said it – whether it was the alcohol that had lowered his guard, or whether it was the thought that if he opened up to her a little, he might get a better piece from her – or whether it was just the natural action of a man to show off to a woman who seemed genuinely interested. Or whether it was simply the release of stuff bottled up in him for too long. In any event, he felt comfortable; she was a friend of Naomi’s. He could trust her.
‘Designer babies are the future,’ he said.
‘Like – cloning?’
‘No, not cloning. I mean selecting the genes that your child will have.’
‘To what end?’
‘To enable man to take control from Mother Nature – to be in a position so we can steer our future evolution to our needs. So that we can be looking at a human lifespan of hundreds of years, if not thousands, rather than a meagr
e three score years and ten.’
‘I’m very uncomfortable with that whole notion of designer babies,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s going to happen but I find it scary. How many years do you reckon before it starts happening – I mean, like, before it’s possible. Ten?’
‘It’s possible now.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. ‘Not from what I’ve heard. Not from anyone I’ve talked to.’
The alcohol was kicking in now and he felt good in the company of this increasingly attractive woman, and he really felt relaxed, perhaps too relaxed. All this secrecy had been hard; surely it wouldn’t hurt talking to Naomi’s friend? He glanced at the tape recorder. The tell-tale red light was not showing. ‘We’re off the record? Strictly off the record, right?’
‘Totally.’
With a smile he said, ‘You’re not talking to the right people.’
‘So who should I be talking to?’
He tapped his chest. ‘Me.’
18
The building was moving. Definitely. For a moment, as the floor rose up beneath him, John thought he was back on the Serendipity Rose. Then the wall came in towards him, clouting him on the shoulder, sending scalding black coffee slopping out of the cup he was holding and onto his hand, his clothes and the floor.
He staggered sideways, everything in front of him blurry. He had to sober up, somehow. He’d been all right in the bar, he’d been fine there, no problem, it was the walk in the cold fresh air outside that had done it.
A chunk of time was missing. There was a blank from when he went into the bar to now, walking down the corridor towards his office. He couldn’t remember saying goodbye to the reporter. When had she gone?
How much did I drink?
It hadn’t been that much, surely? Just a few beers – then he’d moved on to whisky on the rocks. Just a couple of whiskies, just enough to relax him, that was all. Christ. Empty stomach, that was the problem, he realized. Skipped lunch after seeing Dr Rosengarten. It was now – he looked at his watch – ohmygod – almost a quarter after ten. He’d been with the reporter for over three hours. Not like I was having an affair or anything. I was only talking to the woman. Trying to get her to write a good piece, one that would help me get funding – that’s all I was doing.
Except. Something dark inside his head was stalking him, something elusive was shadow-boxing him, taunting him. It was the sense that something was wrong, that he had made a terrible error. He hadn’t made a pass at her, nothing as crass as that – although he had some memory of escorting her to the car park and some clumsy clashing of their lips when she’d suddenly darted her head forward to kiss his cheek, he had thought.
But that wasn’t what was worrying him.
He unlocked his door, switched the light on and put the cup, which was now less than half full, on his desk, and sat down more heavily than he had intended, sending his chair trundling back on its castors.
He checked his voice mail, and there was a message from Dr Rosengarten, received at ten to seven, the curt nasal voice of the obstetrician informing him he was returning his call, and was about to leave his office for the day.
John felt cheered up by the fact that he had at least bothered to return the call – and had done so personally. He would try him again in the morning. He ran through the rest of his messages; there were a couple from earlier in the day that he hadn’t yet listened to, both from Sweden. One from a friend from Uppsala University, who was coming over to Los Angeles this fall, and another from his mother, chiding him for not calling her to tell her how the visit to the obstetrician went today. It was now early morning in Sweden; too early to call either of them.
He hung up and checked his email. Over a dozen new ones since he had gone out to the bar, but nothing that looked important. Nothing from Dettore.
Bastard.
Suddenly he looked around, puzzled, aware that the room did not feel right. There seemed to be something missing, but he couldn’t figure what. Or maybe it was just that the photographer had messed some things around.
His cellphone rang, startling him. It was Naomi. She sounded so scared, so vulnerable. ‘Where are you?’
‘Offish. In the offish. Jush leaving.’ I got you into this, he thought. Anything that happens is my fault. ‘I’m sorry – been tied up – I had to do shish interview – she knows you – still feel like going out? A Mescixian – ah – Mexican? Or some shush – sushi—?’
He was aware he was slurring his words but there was nothing he could do about it.
‘John, are you all right?’
‘Sure – I – I sh – shhhure—’
‘Are you drunk? John – you sound drunk.’
He stared at the receiver, helplessly, as if waiting for some guidance to come out of the ether. ‘No – I—’
‘Have you spoken to Dr Dettore?’
Very slowly, taking great care over each word at a time, John said, ‘No. He – heesh – I’ll try in – in – morning.’
Oh Christ. John closed his eyes. She was crying. ‘I’m coming darling – I’m – on way home now.’
‘Don’t drive, John. I’ll come and collect you.’
‘I could – cab – call cab.’
After a few moments, her voice sounding more composed, she said, ‘I’ll collect you. We don’t have money to burn on cabs. We can pick up a takeaway. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’ Then she hung up.
John sat very still. He had a bad feeling; that shadow in his mind was growing. There definitely was something missing in this room. What the hell was it?
But that wasn’t the source of the bad feeling. Nor at this moment was it Dr Rosengarten’s diagnosis, nor the fact that Dettore was unavailable. He was fretting about what he had said to the journalist. Trying to remember exactly what he had said. She was a nice lady, kind, sympathetic, fun to be with. He sensed he’d been a bit indiscreet, said a bit too much, more than he had intended.
But it was off the record, wasn’t it?
19
Naomi’s Diary
I can’t sleep. John is snoring like a hog. I haven’t seen him drunk like this in a long time. Why did he get so smashed? Sure, we’re both upset by Dr Rosengarten, but getting drunk like this doesn’t solve anything.
And he had lipstick on his face.
I spoke to my mother and to Harriet. Both of them rang, wanting to know how it went today. I told them that the obstetrician was happy, that everything was fine. Harriet lent us her entire savings – what could I say to her? That everything is fine except – oh, yes – one small detail – it’s not a boy, it’s a girl?
Surely the gender genes are the easiest of all the genes to manipulate? As I understand it, females have two X chromosomes, males an X and a Y. Separation of these is being done around the world in the most primitive of labs. If Dr Dettore can’t get even this simplest element right, what assurances do we have about everything else we’ve discussed with him?
And, just supposing that everything else is fine, what problems would a girl have with the genes we’ve selected? We asked for our child to be six foot tall because we had a male in mind. We chose height and physical build for a male.
It’s all wrong.
John is pretty certain Dr Rosengarten has made a mistake. It’s possible – I didn’t like the man and he wasn’t interested in us. As John said, we’re just little people to him, we don’t matter.
God, I hope he has made a mistake.
And there’s something else that’s on my mind. Sally Kimberly. He says she told him we were friends. That’s rubbish. It’s true that we worked together, and normally I get along with most people. But she was a bitch. Hard as nails. We disliked each other intensely and made no bones about it.
In fact, there are very few people I’ve ever disliked quite so much as Sally Kimberly.
And now her lipstick is on John’s face.
20
Naomi was awake; John could hear the faint crushing sound of her eyelashes as s
he blinked. The light from his alarm radio seemed intense, bathing the room with a spectral blue glow that was irking him. Outside in the distance a siren skirled, a familiar mournful solo, the discordant music of a Los Angeles night.
His head was pounding. He needed water, tablets, sleep. Desperately needed sleep. He swung his legs out of the bed, carried his empty glass to the bathroom, ran the cold tap, swallowed two Tylenol and padded back into the room.
‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Naomi said suddenly as he got back into bed.
John felt for her hand, found it, squeezed it, but there was no pressure back. ‘Perhaps we should think about termination – an abortion?’
‘It never mattered to me, John, whether it was a boy or a girl. All I wanted was for our child to be healthy – I would have been perfectly happy not knowing the sex, like a lot of other people, just knowing that he or she is normal. I don’t want an abortion, that would be ridiculous – you can’t make a decision to abort your baby because you wanted a boy and you are getting a girl.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. The issue was far deeper than that and they both knew it.
‘Ships have communication problems sometimes,’ he said. ‘They rely on satellites and can’t always get a link – I’ll try again in the morning.’
There was another siren out there now, and the bass horn blasts of a fire truck.
‘I don’t want you to have an abortion,’ he said. ‘Not unless it’s—’
She waited some moments and then she prompted, ‘Unless it’s what?’
‘There are some tests that can be done now in labs here in the States – they can pick up all kinds of stuff about the foetus.’
She snapped the bedside light on and sat up, angrily. ‘This isn’t some disposable product, John. This isn’t some lab experiment in a Petri dish or a bell jar – some – some fruit fly or something.’ She pulled the duvet up and crossed her arms protectively over her belly. ‘This is my child – our child – that’s growing inside me. I’m going to love her, or him, no matter how he – it – turns out. I’m going to love this creature whether she grows to four feet tall or seven feet. I’m going to love her whether she’s a genius or retarded.’