“Fencers ready?” said the director.
Robert and Vincent nodded.
“Fence!”
Robert made a feint to the wrist. Vincent, as expected, took the blade in sixth and executed an attack to the shoulder. Robert did a counter-sixth, seized Vincent's blade—but couldn't deflect it. Vincent won the touch—and the match. And that meant unless, by a miracle, he managed to beat his next opponent, Lars Nielson, he'd come in third behind Vincent and Lars. That would lower his national ranking, making his selection to the Olympic squad iffy at best. He tried not to think about it. Making the Olympic squad was a lifelong dream, and he couldn't bear the thought that it would remain a dream.
With a forced smile in answer to Vincent's smug grin, Robert stepped forward to shake hands.
Ten minutes later, Robert took his position on the strip for his bout with Lars, the last bout of the tournament. In less than a minute, Robert found himself losing by 4-2. One touch from defeat. Hopeless!
“Fencers ready? Fence!”
Robert hardly saw Lars move. The scoring machine buzzed, indicating a touch. Only that sound told Robert he'd been hit.
Robert bounded forward to shake hands, then, after Lars left the strip, Robert went to talk to the director. “About that last touch.”
The director stiffened.
Robert moved a hand to his chest. “Oh, I was hit"—the director relaxed—"but I really don't know how—or even exactly where. It seemed as if Lars attacked using a quadruple disengage on the extension. But nobody is that fast.”
“I've got to admit,” said the director, “that it was too fast for me to follow. Thank God for the scoring machine.” Robert walked with the director toward the bout committee. The director, in his fifties but still moving with the quickness of a fencer, shook his head. “It seems to get faster every year,” he said wearily. “No one can really watch the sport anymore. It's no wonder that fencing is in danger of losing its Olympic status.”
“Given the bulk of the work done in my lab,” said Robert, “performance-enhancing drugs come to mind—not for Lars, of course.”
“Your department does the testing for the Olympic squad, doesn't it?”
Robert nodded. “My own research is on biochem methods of life extension. But most of our funding does come from drug testing.”
“For some fencers, drugs might well be suspected.” The director threw a knowing glance across the gym where Vincent was packing his gear. “But I agree. Not for Lars. In his case, I think it's more a case of performance enhancing genes.”
Robert chuckled.
“I'm serious. Steroids can make you stronger and faster, but not that fast.” The director dropped the scoring sheets on the bout-committee table. “Fencing does run in families. I'm sure most of the reason is cultural. But I'd be willing to bet there's a genetic component—a selection for fast reflexes.” He glanced up, meeting Robert's eyes. “And you epee fencers are tall. Wouldn't be surprised if there was a gene for it.”
“There is, actually,” said Robert, in a distant voice. He'd never considered his height in that light. “A variant of the HMGA2 gene.”
“Well, there you go, then. It's not much different from performance-enhancing drugs.” The director paused. “Except that instead of the fencer choosing to take the drugs, his parents chose to impart the genes.”
After the awards ceremony, looking for an excuse to avoid the locker room and Vincent's gloating, Robert stayed to listen to Lars talking to the press.
Robert's stratagem failed; Vincent came up to him on the gym floor to expound on his victory—and to pontificate. The man was an instructor in philosophy at a local community college and seemed to like arguing for argument's sake.
Vincent allowed that Robert had fenced “not all that badly,” and then said, “Are you still working on increasing the time a person spends on Earth?”
Even though knowing the question was just an opening gambit for a disputation, Robert said, “Yes. Actually, I am.”
Vincent gave a harsh laugh. “How can you talk about living a longer time when you don't even know what time is?”
“Perhaps you're right,” said Robert, choosing not to engage.
“Scientists!” Vincent spoke the word as an expletive. “Study philosophy! Then your science might have some validity.”
Refusing to be baited, Robert nodded toward Lars. “Now there's a really good fencer.”
Vincent stared at the man. Robert couldn't tell if the look was one of contempt or envy.
“I wonder what class of steroids he's taking,” said Vincent.
“Lars Nielson taking steroids? Don't be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” said Vincent, looking haughtily down his nose. “Don't be naive.” He turned and strode toward the locker room.
Robert blew out a breath and turned his attention to Lars and the reporter. Robert had no hard feelings about losing to Lars. The guy was sure to make the Olympics. He was tall, easygoing, intelligent, had superb technique, and moved like a ferret.
“Why do you fence?” asked the reporter.
Lars uttered a good-natured laugh. “For love of the sport, and ... as a break from boredom.”
Robert gazed in surprise. He knew Lars was a theoretical physicist and that sounded far from boring. Only in fencing, Robert thought with a smile, could you find three academics with good shots at the Olympics. Robert pursed his lips. He might not be an academic much longer. His research group had run out of ideas and that meant that soon the group would run out of money.
Robert snapped alert when he heard the reporter ask Lars about drugs.
“No. Fencing is still pure,” Lars said firmly. “No money in it. Not a spectator sport. Too fast for that.” He balled a fist at his side. “Athletes taking drugs is disgusting.”
As this was familiar territory and his endorphin high had given way to exhaustion, Robert hefted his fencing bag to his shoulder and headed for the locker room.
A few minutes later, as he relaxed on a bench in front of his locker, Lars came in.
“Interesting interview,” said Robert as Lars opened the adjacent locker. “I wouldn't have thought physics to be boring.”
Lars paused. “I suppose that overall, it isn't. But moment by moment, it can be.”
“I still find it hard to believe.”
“It's not just physics.” Lars sighed. “It's life as a whole. Most people seem slow to me—not dumb or anything, but just slow-moving and slow to react.” He nodded. “It's me, of course. I can't even enjoy movies unless I run the DVDs on my computer at 1.2 times normal speed.”
“It sounds as if time moves more slowly for you than for most people.”
“Never quite thought of it that way,” said Lars. “But I should have.” He gave a good-natured laugh. “The speed of time. Very much in the spirit of relativity theory.” He looked away, a distant expression on his face. “It could be that time is just a parameter to sequence events. Yes. Time as a parameterization of the order and flow of events.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Woolgathering.” He seemed to refocus on the here and now. “By the way,” he said. “I'm sorry about your loss to Rapelli. He won by sheer force, not technique. Ugly fencing.”
“Thanks.” Robert tried to hide his disappointment at the loss. “I appreciate you saying that.”
“No, really. And you still have a really good shot at making the squad. There are two spots yet to be decided.” He headed toward the showers. “The Martini tournament is important, yes. But it'll really be decided at the Nationals.”
* * * *
Driving home, Robert pondered Lars's words. The National Championship competition in three months would be crucial. If he trained like a fiend, he might well be able to beat Vincent. But that would take a toll on his job—while he still had it. His thoughts turned toward trying to come up with the big idea—a life-extension concept that would assure his department's continued NIH funding.
Robert focused on the problem, dw
elling on it as he drove home. He carried his fencing gear into his apartment. Then, unpacking his soggy fencing whites, he noticed that the towel was not his. He'd probably switched towels with Lars in the locker room. Thoughts of his life-extension work blended with his recollection of Lars's comments, and Robert felt the germ of an idea. He dropped the still wet towel on a chair and turned his full attention to the nascent inspiration. Maybe instead of trying to enable people to live more calendar years, one could effectively increase lifespan by enabling people to live life faster, so that they could do more things per unit of clock-time—the way kids seem to do.
Gazing at the towel as one might a museum artifact, he wondered if fencers, as a group, actually do live faster than non-fencers. Does time run more slowly for them? Does the idea of a variable rate of time make sense? He thought of insects. Short-lived creatures, to be sure, but did their flitting and darting imply more events for them per unit of conventional time? Maybe the adage that children live life faster could be justified by biology. Robert recalled to mind the kids he knew. They all seemed bright and precocious. For that matter, so did Lars. Maybe quicker equates to smarter.
Robert contemplated human intelligence. What is an IQ test actually measuring? Maybe, at least partially, it's the bus-speed of people—how fast they live. Robert felt he now had enough of an idea to draft a grant proposal. Not lifespan. Lifespeed!
Gazing absently now at the towel, Robert had a dark thought: Vincent's assertion that Lars's performance was enhanced by drugs. Could it possibly be true? “Hey!” he said aloud, taken with a sudden idea: The towel was soggy with Lars's body chemistry. He'd have his department run a chemical analysis of the molecules trapped in the towel—a thorough analysis testing for the full gamut of forbidden drugs. He would prove to himself that Lars was clean.
Then he had another thought. A big-time spectrophotometry analysis might also find an indication of a genetic basis of faster reaction time—an indication of “lifespeed.” Robert smiled. He'd spend quite a lot of time with that towel. But he'd not tell his colleagues about his lifespeed idea until he had some evidence, hopefully garnered from Lars's sweat.
Robert woke to the sound of knocking at his office door. He'd fallen asleep at his desk. Having trained every day since the Martini tournament two weeks ago, the exertion was taking its toll. He sat upright in his seat and called out, “Come in!”
Paul Webster from the athletic testing group walked in and dropped a folder on the desk. “The results for your ‘Fencer X.'”
“Clean, I hope,” said Robert.
“No sign of illegal drugs,” said Paul with a smile. “You're as clean as a baby's mind.”
“No. It's not me,” said Robert. “And I can't name him for ethics reasons.”
“Then I won't ask.”
Robert responded with a chuckle, then said, “You're sure about the drugs?”
“Absolutely! The towel sweat was as good as any urine test.”
“Did you find any neurotransmitters?” Robert indicated a chair and Paul sat.
“Funny you should mention that.” Paul pointed to the folder. “Compared to the acetylcholine levels, the towel exhibits an enhanced concentration of norepinephrine, dopamine, and 5-hydoxytryptamine.”
“Interesting.” Robert picked up and opened the folder.
“That's not the half of it. Those three chemicals are enantiomers of the naturally occurring molecules.”
“What?” Robert dropped the folder. “Mirror images? Really?”
“Strange, isn't it?” said Paul. “And only those three neurotransmitters are enantiomeric.”
“I'm surprised the neurotransmitter receptors respond to them.”
“Surprised?” said Paul. “It's almost beyond belief! But some receptors must respond. Otherwise he'd be dead.” He took off his glasses, exposing the nibbled-on earpieces. “I wonder if it's naturally occurring, or is there a drug development we don't know about yet?”
“What do you think?” said Robert.
Paul toyed with his glasses for a few seconds. “I'm inclined to think it's natural. Drug news tends to travel fast.”
Robert leaned back and stared at the closed folder. “By chance,” he said after a few seconds, “could you synthesize those enantiomers?”
“I think so,” said Paul. “Why?”
“I have a notion they might explain X's fantastic reflexes—his reaction time, his genetics.”
“Really!” With a quick motion, Paul put on his glasses. He peered at Robert. “A gene for time?”
“Why not?”
After a pause, Paul said, “You want to try it on rats?”
“You bet!”
* * * *
“Look at ‘em move,” said Paul, peering into the cage. “They're more like fruit flies than rats.” He stepped back from the cage. “I'd be willing to bet that kids start life with a supply of these enantiomers—my kids, anyway.”
“Could be.” Robert switched his glance from the cage to the maze. “Especially now that we know rats have enantiomeric receptors.”
In the intervening month and a half, Paul had both synthesized the neurotransmitters and injected a colony of research rats with them.
Robert moved a rat from the maze back to the cage. “Well, here's another Einstein rodent. One point three times smarter than your average rat.”
“Is it that mechanical?” Paul opened the cage for the rat. “When we measure the intelligence of rats, or of humans for that matter, is it really just a measurement of speed?”
Robert smiled. “Until we can engage the rats in deep discussions of philosophy, speed of learning a task is the best measure we have—at least for rats.”
Paul glanced at his watch. “Well, I'm afraid I'm scheduled for a ... a deep discussion of philosophy with our department chairman about now.” He grabbed his laptop computer and headed for the door. “See you Monday. Have fun with the rodents.”
Alone in the lab—except for the rats—Robert stared at the cage. The creatures moved as if in fast-forward. But, in other respects, they displayed no unratlike behaviors. They'd been injected with the chemicals and the morning after, they simply became super-rats. His gaze shifted to the rack of hypodermic needles in the chemicals cabinet. The rats had been given very low doses—and only one dose apiece. And the effect had persisted. It's funny. The neurotransmitters seem to have no difficulty passing from the bloodstream through the brain barrier. But the barrier seems to prevent most of the chemicals from passing from the brain back into the bloodstream. He wondered just how long the effect would persist.
Robert was glad the rats only needed one injection. He hated needles. Robert walked to the chemicals cabinet. He withdrew a hypodermic and a membrane topped dose bottle. Then, grimacing, he rolled up his sleeve.
* * * *
Saturday morning, Robert woke feeling he'd already had a mammoth mug of strong coffee—maybe a half dozen mugs. And he woke ravenous. He devoured a large breakfast and since he was still hungry, tried to control his appetite by downing a couple of additional cups of coffee. Although he felt he was truly living life faster, he wasn't sure. It might just be wish fulfillment. He'd be able to tell later at fencing practice by calibrating his performance against the club's stronger fencers. But the club didn't open until one in the afternoon.
With a forefinger on his wrist and his eyes on the second hand of his watch, he took his pulse. Forty-eight: Resting-normal for him. Then he sprinted to a cupboard to fetch the blood-pressure meter he'd bought when he'd last experimented on himself. That had been a failed foray into the world of herbal extracts.
Reading the dial, he found that his blood pressure was normal, 124 over 82. Smiling, he removed the cuff. As he'd hoped, the effect of the enantiomeric neurotransmitters seemed restricted to brain chemistry. It seemed safe therefore, to assume he'd not increased his lifespeed at the expense of his life expectancy.
He looked again at his watch. He had hours to kill before one P.M. He swapped
his bathrobe for shorts and running shoes and did five high-speed miles on his treadmill. Following that, he did a half hour of stretching and isotonic exercises. He showered, read a few online newspapers and then went through the latest issue of Neuroscience. When he'd finished, he mentally kicked himself for not noting when he'd started. It would have been instructive to see if his reading speed had increased. But he had time. He laughed. Now he had plenty of time. He loaded his gear into his car and drove off to the fencing club. On the way, he was pulled over for speeding—his first moving violation.
At the club, he easily beat people who often gave him trouble. At the end of the day, there was no longer any doubt; his lifespeed was much faster than most. I wonder how much faster. He thought of his bouts. Relatively easy wins, but they gave him little satisfaction. They were hollow victories resulting from speed rather than improved technique. He had the distinct feeling he'd cheated and his mood soured.
In an attempt to cheer himself up, he went out to dinner—to an all-you-can-eat buffet. And it did improve his mood. There was much to be happy about; he'd effectively increased his lifespan, and he'd certainly gotten his money's worth at the buffet. Turning his thoughts toward the Nationals a mere month away, he had a happy vision of beating Vincent, and beating him badly. It was his sacred duty to beat Vincent.
At home that night, Robert felt worn, and he had a slight case of the sniffles. He realized that his neurobiology might well be faster, but the rest of his biology wasn't. Having forced himself to move faster, his body was telling him it needed recuperation time—probably even more time than usual since he'd worked it so hard.
Analog SFF, March 2009 Page 11