by Ben Bova
“Jesse seemed terrifically excited about the idea.”
“Sure he is. Why not? He’s like a kid with a new toy,” I grumbled. But then I had to admit, “It really is an exciting idea.”
She laughed. “You seem to be containing your excitement pretty well, though.”
I looked at her. In the shadowy interior of the limo her face was dimly lit by the passing streetlamps, like a speeded-up version of the moon’s monthly cycle, waxing, waning, waxing again.
“It’s always been that way,” I said. “I’m the practical brother; Jesse’s the romantic.”
And that’s when the limousine stopped and the chauffeur hustled around to open the door next to Pat.
“This is it, I guess,” she said.
Without thinking, I slid across the seat after her and got out of the limo. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of a modern glass-and-steel high-rise. Through the glass double doors I could see a concierge sitting at an ornate little desk. A uniformed doorman was hurrying across the lobby to open the front door for us.
“The condo ought to have a toothbrush and whatever else you need,” I said. “If there are any problems, the concierge will take care of them.”
“My car?”
“Tell the concierge when you want it. The garage will have somebody drive it up here for you.”
Pat nodded. “You’ve taken care of everything, I guess.”
“I think so,” I said. My mind was still on Julia and Jesse. I understood that what really bothered me was not Africa and the danger that they might be heading into. It was the fact that Julia would follow Jesse off the edge of a cliff, that she wanted to be with Jesse, go where he went, be a part of his life, merge her being completely with his.
Not with me, I told myself. She doesn’t want to be with me.
“Well, thanks for a fascinating evening.”
It took an effort to focus my attention on Pat. The expression on her face was strange, part expectation, part puzzlement. With hindsight, I guess she was expecting me to suggest that I come up to her suite with her. But my mind was thousands of miles away.
“No,” I said. “I thank you. I couldn’t have made it through dinner without you.”
And before she could say anything more I turned and went back to the limo, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with the doorman expectantly holding the door open for her and the concierge staring at our little tableau from behind his precious desk.
Jesse’s the romantic brother; I’m the practical one. I certainly wasn’t romantic that night with Pat Hayward. Not very practical, either.
W. CHRISTIAN JOHNSTON
My workday didn’t end at five o’clock. Never does. It didn’t even end after I had ushered out the last of my dinner guests from my home in Larchmont. While the caterer’s people cleaned up the kitchen and my wife headed upstairs for bed and her latest romance novel, I went to my study, checked the nautical clock on my desk, and phoned Tokyo.
I had to go through several secretaries and underlings, of course. They all seemed shocked that the CEO of Omnitech Corporation was putting through this call himself, with no flunkies doing the up-front work for him. What the hell? I didn’t want anybody listening in to this conversation; nobody on my side, leastways. So I sat on the edge of my desk and waited with the cordless phone clamped to my ear. Looking out through the den’s windows at the darkened water of Long Island Sound, I wondered when the hell I would ever get the chance to sail the ketch before I had to pull the boat out of the water for the winter. Two million bucks for that beauty and she sits at the end of the pier like a goddamned monument.
Finally a man’s voice said, “Mr. Nakata will speak to you now, sir.” Perfect English, no accent at all.
“Mr. Johnston, what a pleasure to have you call.” Ichiro Nakata’s voice sounded crisp and friendly.
“It’s good of you to take the time to speak with me,” I said, feeling relieved that he actually accepted my call. I went around my desk and dropped into my big leather swivel chair.
“It must be close to midnight in New York,” said Nakata.
“No rest for the wicked.”
Nakata laughed.
“I see that Kyushu Industries is doing very well,” I said. “Your stock continues to climb.” The compulsory flattery bit.
There was a barely noticeable delay as our words were relayed to a communications satellite and back again. “We have been very fortunate,” Nakata said. “Our people work very hard to make us successful.”
A dig at American workers. I let it pass. “Success begins with good leadership. You are to be congratulated.” There! I can sling the shit with any of these oh-so-polite slopes.
“I understand that Omnitech is also quite successful,” Nakata replied.
“We’re keeping our heads above the water.”
Again the annoying little delay. Then Nakata said, “I remember with great fondness your visit to Japan last year. Perhaps I will visit America this winter.”
“Great! I’d like to show you some of our facilities and return the wonderful hospitality you showed me.” But I was thinking, Fucking Nip wants to steal whatever he can grab from us.
“That would be most enjoyable.”
“You know,” I said, easing into the reason why I had made the call, “Omnitech is doing so well that we’ve become attractive to other corporations.”
The delay was longer than normal this time. Finally Nakata said, “I have heard rumors that a European consortium is interested in buying your company.”
“Our board is not interested in selling.”
“Oh so? Do you expect a hostile takeover attempt?”
This time I hesitated just a little bit before answering. “Could be.”
“That could drive up the price of your stock. You could make a considerable fortune.”
“A wise investor might buy a block of our stock now,” I told him, “and do very well for himself over the next few months.”
Nakata said, “That would remove a block of stock from the Europeans’ grasp.”
“Yes, it would.”
“From my slight understanding of your company’s position, you seem to be somewhat vulnerable to a takeover.”
“Somewhat,” I admitted.
Nakata said nothing. I waited as long as I could, but the Jap kept silent.
Finally, I said, “It would help if we were in a better financial position. I’m thinking of getting rid of some of our less profitable divisions, consolidate, tighten the ship all the way up and down the line.”
“Always a wise strategy.”
“If I can sell off a couple of our divisions it’ll improve our cash flow, as well.”
“Yes, of course.”
The bastard’s going to make me ask him, I fumed to myself. “I thought I would give you the first opportunity to consider buying one of our divisions.”
The delay, then, “I see. But there is a difficulty. Why would someone wish to buy a division that is not profitable?”
He’s interested! I bounced so hard in my chair I made it creak. “Well, some of our divisions are heavily engaged in research, you know. They don’t make a profit, but they produce the new product lines that make profits for our other divisions.”
“Ahhh. And which divisions might those be?”
“Well, there’s our Tulsa Aerospace Division. They’ve been involved in developing new lightweight materials for airplanes and rockets . . .” I went on and mentioned three other Omnitech divisions.
Before I could finish, though, Nakata broke in, “And what of your Grenford Laboratory? Are you considering selling it?”
I acted surprised. “Grenford? No. We couldn’t sell Grenford Lab. Why, it’s the future of our corporation.”
“It is very good to see an American executive who thinks about the future. You are not afflicted with the notorious ninety-day syndrome.”
“I learned a lot from my visit to Japan,” I replied. I knew how to butter up people,
too. “We have five-, ten-, and twenty-year plans now, just as you do.” But they’re not worth the paper they’re written on unless we show a profit every goddamned quarter, I thought.
“It might be possible,” Nakata said slowly, cautiously, “for us to acquire Grenford Laboratory and then license all the discoveries they make to Omnitech for a nominal fee.”
“License their discoveries to us?”
“You could have license to market their products in North America. We would have what remains of the global market.”
“I don’t think my board would go for that.”
“Perhaps not. It was merely a thought.”
“Although,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “if the price for Grenford was right, it sure would help our cash position.”
“And help you to stave off the greedy Europeans.”
“Tell you what,” I said briskly. “I’ll bounce the idea off a few of my board members. Privately, of course. Get their reaction. Then I’ll get back to you.”
“Very good. In the meantime, I will ask my financial people to make an assessment of Grenford’s worth.”
“Fine. I’ll call you in a few days.”
“I will anticipate your call with great pleasure.”
I’ll bet you will, I thought as I put the phone down. I heaved a big sigh. Well, it’s done. Nakata’s hot to trot, that comes through clear enough. Hate to sell Grenford to him, but that’s better than having those fucking Krauts and Frenchmen take over the whole corporation.
Then I thought of Arthur Marshak. Arthur. He comes up with brilliant ideas, but we can’t afford ’em right now. He won’t mind working for the Japs. As long as he can do his research he really doesn’t mind who the hell is paying his salary.
That’s what I told myself.
THE TRIAL:
DAY ONE, MORNING
Ididn’t tell corporate management that we were aiming at regenerating limbs and organs,” said Arthur.
“You didn’t? Why not?”
“Because I didn’t know it myself. Not at first.”
“Are you trying to tell me—”
“The first time I mentioned the regeneration work to the CEO, my brother and I had just had one luncheon conversation about the idea and we were still thinking in terms of paraplegics.”
“And you immediately informed Omnitech’s corporate management?”
“I mentioned it to the CEO, yes.”
“Why did you do that if you could fund this low-level effort out of your own discretionary monies?”
Arthur made a little shrug. “He asked me.”
“He knew about it?”
“He did after I told him.”
Rosen looked puzzled briefly. But he regrouped and asked, “What effect did this have on the price of Omnitech stock?”
“None whatsoever.”
“None? It had no effect at all? No effect on the European bid to take over Omnitech Corporation?”
Arthur looked up at the judges. “Are we going to get into international business deals now? What’s this got to do with the scientific issue?”
Graves knitted his brows and said, “Mr. Rosen, you really are wandering rather far afield.”
Rosen stared at the chief judge for a long moment, then turned back toward Arthur. “Did you use any government funding on this work?”
“The paraplegic work?”
“The entire program, including organ regeneration.”
“No.”
“None whatsoever?”
“Not one penny.”
“Any government facilities? Instruments or equipment that your laboratory had purchased on government money?”
Arthur hesitated long enough to let him think he was searching his memory. “No, not to the best of my recollection.”
Rosen smiled at him. “That’s a lawyer’s phrase, Dr. Marshak. Have you been briefed by a lawyer?”
Arthur smiled back at the examiner. “Omnitech’s legal department is very interested in this hearing, naturally. But, no, I have not been coached in any way.”
Rosen’s expression showed clear disbelief.
“Then, to the best of your recollection,” said the judge on Arthur’s left, “no federal funds were used in your experiments on tissue regeneration.”
“That is correct,” Arthur said, glancing at the jury. Several of them were scribbling notes. “And we didn’t use stem cells, either. Neither fetal cells nor adult.”
“Really?” Rosen blurted.
“Really,” said Arthur. “Check the reports.”
Rosen paced before him a few steps, hands pressed together before his lips as if in prayer, framing his next question. The TV cameras focused on him. The audience waited in silence.
“Dr. Marshak,” he said, turning back toward Arthur, “just who actually was the first to hit upon the concept of regenerating organs and limbs? Was it you or your brother, Dr. Jesse Marshak?”
“We did it together.”
“Did you?”
Arthur thought a moment, then replied, “If I remember correctly, I first got the idea for regenerating spinal neurons and Jesse amplified it to consider other kinds of tissue.”
“Organs?”
“Yes.”
“Limbs?”
Feeling nettled by Rosen’s seeming obtuseness, Arthur said, “Yes, and toes and fingers, too.”
No one laughed.
“Then it was Dr. Jesse Marshak who originated the concept of regenerating limbs and organs, not you.”
“What difference does it make?” Arthur shot back. “We’re not here to decide who gets a patent on the idea. I thought the purpose of this court was to decide on the scientific validity of the concept. Can we regenerate human organs? Can we regrow a lost arm or leg? I say the answer is yes, we can.”
“That is for this court to decide,” Rosen snapped.
“Well, then let’s get into the scientific evidence on the subject and stop talking about personalities and funding and corporate takeovers.”
Rosen looked at the judges. None of them had a word to say. Turning back to Arthur, he smiled tightly. “We will get into the scientific evidence soon enough. First it is necessary for us to establish the background under which the work was done.”
“I don’t agree,” said Arthur.
“I’m sure you don’t, but there are other scientists who do. Very prominent scientists, in fact.” Rosen went back to his end of the table and riffled through some papers there. “The late Dr. Stephen Jay Gould, of Harvard University, for example. Would you say he was a prominent biologist?”
Arthur answered through clenched teeth, “A paleontologist, I would say.”
Rosen gave his wintry smile, then read from the sheet of paper in his hand, “Dr. Stephen Jay Gould of Harvard University had this to say about the human background behind scientific research: ‘The myth of a separate mode based on rigorous objectivity and arcane, largely mathematical knowledge, vouchsafed only to the initiated, may provide some immediate benefits in bamboozling a public to regard us as a new priesthood, but must ultimately prove harmful in erecting barriers to truly friendly understanding and in falsely persuading so many students that science lies beyond their capabilities.’ ”
“That’s got nothing to do with the matter at hand!” Arthur protested.
“I’m sure you think so,” said Rosen, “but still the fact remains that in your rush to prove your idea a young woman was killed.”
Arthur shot to his feet. The audience stirred and all the TV cameras swung to him. “Listen,” he said hotly. “I agreed to participate in this hearing because I want the scientific facts laid out clearly and distinctly so that the scientific community—and the general public—can decide on the scientific issue of whether or not we can regenerate human organs and limbs. You can debate the social or moral or financial or political sides of the matter somewhere else. This is supposed to be a court of science and you’re trying to turn it into a political football game. I will not pa
rticipate in this farce!”
He picked up his leather-bound PowerBook computer from the desktop.
“Dr. Marshak!” called the chief judge, up at the front table. “Arthur—please!”
The hearing chamber was alive with voices now. News reporters whispered hurriedly into their voice recorders. The audience was abuzz. Rosen stood glaring at Arthur while Graves rapped his gavel uselessly.
Over the babel of voices Graves shouted, “Court is recessed for fifteen minutes. Dr. Marshak, Dr. Rosen—I want to see you in the judges’ chambers. Now!”
ARTHUR
Actually, the first time I popped the idea of organ regeneration to Omnitech’s management was at the board meeting when Johnston tried to sandbag me. It was probably a mistake for me to mention the work so early, but I was trying to fight my way out of a trap.
Omnitech’s quarterly meeting of the board of directors took place that summer, as usual, at the corporate headquarters in downtown Manhattan. Over the past two years the meetings had become progressively more tense, as the corporation’s sales staggered through a global recession and then slowly recovered. Profits suffered, too, but Johnston and his administrative people managed to keep the net from sinking too far by cutting costs ruthlessly. Which meant laying off workers.
Grenford Lab hadn’t been touched by the layoffs. I wouldn’t stand for that. Besides, the lab was too small a division for its personnel costs to have any real impact on the corporate financial picture. But more than once I had been forced to fight off moves to cut entire research programs in the name of economy and that most sacred of all cows, the bottom line.
I had a favorite riposte I used on the board whenever they started talking about cutbacks at the lab. “I own a few shares of stock in this corporation, too,” I would tell them, “and if you want our stock to be worth anything five years from now, you’d better keep your hands off our research efforts.”
At that particular quarterly meeting, though, you could feel a special tension in the air. While the board automatically approved the minutes of our last meeting and then the treasurer’s report, I wondered what was making everyone so uptight. Sales had improved; only slightly, but at least the trend was upward. And although Johnston and the other officers were worried about the possibilities of a hostile takeover bid, the European consortium would not be trying to grab the corporation if Omnitech wasn’t a valuable asset.