by Ben Bova
“Haven’t you got one?” I was surprised.
“Not yet.”
“Tell Accounting to open a charge for you first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll okay it.”
“Great.”
Darrell’s mind was on more esoteric matters. “Arthur, how in hell can you grow a new heart in a patient’s chest without squeezing the heart and lungs that’re already in there? There won’t be enough room for the new heart to grow.”
“I don’t know how elastic those organs are, do you? Maybe they can be squeezed to a certain extent, or pushed aside a little.”
“They put artificial hearts in peoples’ chests,” Andriotti pointed out.
“After they’ve removed the natural heart,” said Darrell.
“Not always. Sometimes they leave the natural ticker in there and use the artificial heart as a booster pump, to help the natural one ’cause it’s gotten too weak to pump blood all the way through the body.”
“It’s a point we’ll have to check out with Jesse,” I said.
“Is your brother going to be working with us on this?”
“Yes,” I said automatically. Then, remembering, I added, “Until he goes to Africa.”
“We’d better get a team of tame physicians, then,” said Darrell, “and bring them on board the program.”
“Surgeons?” Vince asked.
“No!” I snapped. “This work should not involve surgery. Never.”
“What about if we have to grow the organs in vitro and then implant them in the patient?”
“Well—maybe then, I suppose.”
Andriotti’s swarthy face went crafty. “So maybe we oughta have at least one little surgeon on the team? As a consultant, not regular staff.”
I conceded the point with a reluctant nod.
“What kind of experimental animals should we be thinking about?” Darrell mused.
“Pigs, minihogs,” said Andriotti. “Their cardiovascular systems are damned close to ours. Same blood clotting times, too, I think.”
“Macaques,” Darrell said. Most of our animal experiments were done on lab rats first and then the monkeys.
“Chimps, eventually,” I said.
Darrell pretended to be shocked. “Lord, don’t let Cassie hear you say that!”
“Where is she?” I asked. “She ought to be here; we could use her brains on this.”
“She’s prob’ly having dinner with Max,” Vince cracked.
I looked at my watch. It was well past the nominal quitting time. I got down from the stool and went to the phone on the wall by Darrell’s sofa.
“Page Cassie Ianetta for me, please,” I told the security guard at the switchboard.
“And Barry Logan,” Darrell suggested. “He’s good at this kind of brainstorming.”
Andriotti gave a grunt. “Zack O’Neill, too.”
That surprised me. O’Neill was a fairly recent addition to the research staff. “Why him?” I asked.
Vince’s face eased into a big smile full of white teeth. It made him look like a pirate or a Mafia hit man.
“Because,” he said with a great show of patience, “Zack is the kid who did his doctoral work on cell division suppression factors, remember? He gave us a talk on the subject when we interviewed him last year. That’s why we hired him, right?”
“Oh, yes. Right,” I said. I should have remembered that. The truth is, Zack O’Neill wore an earring and kept his brick-red hair chopped so short it looked like a patch of rusty spikes. And he dressed like a punk rocker, almost: leather jackets and T-shirts with outrageous pictures and slogans. But despite his appearance he was one of the brightest youngsters we had found in several years. I realized, to my surprise, that the inspiration for my idea about paraplegics probably came from my half memory of Zack’s presentation, more than a year ago.
So I had O’Neill paged, along with the rest of them. Within a quarter hour Darrell’s cluttered office was ringing with opinions and arguments as the six of us batted around ideas, suggestions, plans about experiments that would lead to the ability to regenerate organs. I kept my eyes on Cassie. Was she in remission or had she really licked the cancer? She seemed strong enough, completely at home in this kind of atmosphere, no longer the sad-eyed little waif but an energetic, animated thinker who could hold her own in the fast-moving free-for-all debate.
“I don’t care what kind of experimental results you get,” Andriotti was saying stubbornly, “sooner or later you’re gonna hafta use chimps. That’s all there is to it.”
Cassie gave him a hard stare.
“That’s not necessary at all,” said Zack O’Neill. He still wore the earring but at least he had bought some decent shirts instead of the sloppy tees he used to wear. He was one of those types who would look youthful even in his seventies. Strong jaw, clear light eyes, bright personality. Either he was going to a better barber or I was getting accustomed to his haircut.
“Scientifically it may not be necessary,” I explained to him. “But before we can go to human trials we’re going to need to do some chimp experiments.”
“To impress the politicians,” Darrell added.
O’Neill frowned at us.
“But I thought that pigs have the cardiovascular system closest to our own,” Barry Logan countered.
“They do,” answered Darrell, “but we’re talking about a lot more than hearts here. Chimps have a similar body size to humans, same organs.”
Cassie asked, “When we do animal experiments, we’ll have to induce trauma or debilitation, won’t we?”
“Not at first,” I said.
“We’ll want the animals to be as healthy as possible, in fact,” Darrell said.
“Yes, but eventually we’ll need to cause cardiac insufficiency or kidney failure, stuff like that,” Cassie insisted. “To make certain that the regeneration brings the animal back to full normal function.”
“Amputate limbs?” O’Neill asked.
Andriotti grunted. “Gonna have a lot of pissed-off chimps on our hands.”
“Is it legal?” Cassie asked. “Won’t the animal rights people go through the ceiling?”
I sighed. “I’ll get our legal department to look into it. Either way, it’s certainly not something we’ll want to tell the news media about.”
“Oh, boy, I can see the stories on TV,” Darrell moaned. “Evil scientists chopping up cute little chimps.”
“Anybody who thinks chimps are cute has never worked with them,” Logan grumbled.
Cassie said, “The public always thinks of baby chimps. They seldom see adults.”
“They never have to dodge the shit they throw when they’re pissed with you.”
“We’re drifting into scatology,” said Darrell, still stretched out on his sofa. “Let’s get back to the problem at hand. Where do we start this program? What do we do first?”
I smiled inwardly. Darrell Walters looked and often behaved like the least practical person on the staff. Yet he was the rock on which the rest of the scientific staff depended. The kids looked up to him, and he guided them with firm patience.
Which leaves me free to do the things that need to be done in order to keep the staff’s freedom to conduct their research.
I got down from the barstool. “I’ve got to make a few phone calls,” I told them. “I’d like the five of you to get together in my office tomorrow morning, first thing. Come for breakfast—eight o’clock a hardship for any of you?”
“Long as you don’t mind my sweats,” Andriotti said. “I jog in to work, y’know.”
“If you smell too bad we’ll throw you into the shower,” I said as I headed for the door.
By the time I reached my own office, though, my grin had faded away. Brainstorming was fun, but I had other things to do and if I didn’t do them right, my staff wouldn’t get to do the science they were brainstorming about.
Phyllis was working away at her computer.
“You still here?” I realized the inanity of the questi
on as soon as I said it.
“Helping to type up this report that’s due Monday,” she said.
“Can you set up coffee and buns for tomorrow at eight?”
Without looking up from her screen, Phyllis asked, “How many people?”
“Six, including me.”
She nodded.
“Maybe a couple extra,” I added as I headed into my inner office. “Just in case.”
“Will anybody want tea?”
“Cassie might, come to think of it.”
I closed the office door. No sense disturbing Phyllis with my phone calls. I booted up my desktop computer and put the address file on-screen. Scrolling down to the name I wanted, I highlighted the phone number and tapped the ENTER key. The computer automatically dialed the number.
A recorded male voice told me that I had reached the number and, if I left a message, my call would be returned as soon as possible.
“Nancy, it’s Arthur Marshak,” I said. “I was wondering if you’d be free for dinner some evening this week.”
I heard a click, then Nancy Dubois’ slightly suspicious voice said, “Arthur, is it really you?”
“Yes, of course. Why not?”
“It’s been such a long time since you last called. I thought you had forgotten all about me.”
Nancy was one of Sid Lowenstein’s assistants. She was young, attractive in a stylish trendy way. She had not yet made up her mind between career or marriage or both. I had turned to her on the rebound from Julia, and during the brief time that we were going together she had made it clear that she thought I was much too old for a potential husband, but as long as she was shopping around she didn’t mind the difference in our ages. I had stopped calling her after a few weeks. I dated other women, but none seriously.
My thoughts had returned to Nancy, though, because she was in Sid’s office and she was also clever enough to know what was going on inside the executive committee. At least, I hoped so. It was time to renew my acquaintance with her.
I bantered lightly with her, then returned to my invitation to dinner.
“Not this week,” she said. “I’m busy. How about Monday?”
“Can you come up to Connecticut?” I asked. “Meet me at my fencing class and we’ll go out to dinner afterward.”
“Fencing? You mean, with swords and all?”
“Yes. I go two or three times a week. It’s great exercise and a great sport.”
“That’s how you stay so slim!”
“It helps.”
“Sounds very sexy.”
“If you’d like to try it, I’m sure the maestro can work in a beginner’s lesson for you.” I made a mental note to phone the coach and make certain he would give a newcomer a half hour of his time. Not give, I reminded myself. Sell.
“Will I need any special clothes or equipment?”
“Just a regular gym outfit will do. One of the other women will lend you a jacket, I’m certain.”
“It sounds like fun.”
“Whatever turns you on,” I said. A corny lie, but it was all I could think of at the moment.
We set the time and place. I hung up, then called one of the quiet little restaurants in the area to set up dinner for Monday. Nancy was smart enough to know I’d be probing for information about the executive committee, I felt certain of that. The question was, did she still like me enough to let me know what was going on?
My next call was to Jesse. I had seen my brother exactly once since our dinner in Manhattan. The planned visit to Momma had never come off. I had visited her alone; Jesse couldn’t get free from the hospital. Or so he said.
Julia’s voice said, “Hello?”
I realized that I had dialed their home number, even though I knew that Jesse was hardly ever at home this early in the evening.
“It’s me, Julia,” I said.
“Hello, Arthur. Jesse’s not back from the hospital yet.”
“I need to talk to him as soon as he gets a minute free. We’re going to be starting work on this regeneration business—”
Julia laughed gently. “Arthur, darling, if you wait for Jess to have a free moment you’ll have a long gray beard down your shirt.”
“That bad?”
“Even worse than usual. We’re preparing for this African jaunt. I’m in the midst of packing and setting up inoculations. Dreadful things, needles.”
“You don’t have to go,” I blurted.
“Ah, but I do.”
“Julia, it isn’t right for Jess to drag you off to these places. They’re dangerous!”
Very patiently, Julia replied, “As I’ve told you before, Arthur, dear, he’s not dragging me anywhere. I want to go. I want to be able to help him, to help those poor miserable people. I couldn’t remain here while he’s off in the bush somewhere risking his life.”
“So you’ve got to risk yours?”
“Oh, I was only being dramatic. There’s very little risk, actually.”
“Stay here where it’s safe,” I said, meaning, Stay with me.
“No,” Julia said, as if she knew precisely what I meant. “No, I really can’t, Arthur. My place is beside Jess, wherever he goes, whatever he does.”
Trying to keep the anger out of my voice, I said, “Well, I hope you’re both very happy.”
And I slammed the phone back into its cradle.
THE TRIAL:
DAY ONE, MORNING
The “judges’ chambers” was actually a stuffy little anteroom off the main hearing room. It held a single small desk, a few wooden chairs, and a heavy plush maroon sofa that looked ludicrously out of place.
Milton Graves sat wearily in the desk chair. The other two judges—the Caltech professor of biochemistry and the Yale professor of jurisprudence—took the wooden chairs that flanked the desk. That left Arthur and Rosen to sit side by side on the sofa.
Graves was a slight, slim man, almost frail-looking. Arthur saw beads of perspiration on his balding dome as he nervously polished his bifocals with a tissue.
“Now, look,” he said, putting the glasses on again, “I will not have any grandstand plays out there. Is that understood?”
“There won’t be any grandstand plays as long as we stick to the science of this issue,” Arthur said.
“Why are you dragging in all these extraneous matters?” Graves asked Rosen.
“I wouldn’t call wrongful death an extraneous matter,” Rosen replied.
“Well, I do,” Graves snapped. “At least for now. This is a court of science, not a homicide investigation. We’re not the criminal justice system.”
Arthur’s guts clutched inside him. Homicide. Criminal justice. He realized that if this science trial went the wrong way he might face criminal charges.
The examiner seemed completely calm, totally at ease in the tension of the room. “It is important to establish the background in which the scientific work was done.”
“Bullshit!” Arthur snapped.
“Now, wait—” said the law professor.
“We’re going to have half a dozen scientific witnesses,” Rosen said, his strong baritone voice cutting the Yale professor to silence. “That’s in addition to the tons of written reports and papers that the jury has already reviewed. The scientific evidence will be laid out very clearly before we’re finished.”
“So why all these questions about funding and priority? Why keep harping on that unfortunate woman’s death?” Graves demanded. His voice was scratchy, testy, a voice that had frightened an entire generation of biology students.
“I need to show the background of the work. This research wasn’t done in a vacuum. Dr. Marshak had a purpose in mind when he started the work. He directed the program toward certain goals. That had a powerful influence on how the work was done, how quickly it advanced, and what kind of results they got. It had a very powerful effect on the woman who died.”
“Those are not scientific questions,” Arthur insisted.
“Yes, they are,” Rosen shot b
ack. “You want to limit this trial strictly to the results that came out of your lab. We could read your research reports for that.”
“That’s what this court is all about,” Arthur said. “Examine the research results and make a public declaration of whether or not it’s possible to regenerate human organs and limbs.”
“And forget about the human consequences?” Rosen asked stubbornly.
Graves said, “The human consequences will be examined elsewhere.”
Slowly, with great dignity, Rosen got to his feet. “The purpose of this court”—he began to pace the tiny room as he spoke—“is to make a public recommendation on the efficacy of human organ regeneration.”
“A scientific recommendation,” Arthur reminded.
“A recommendation on which public policy will hinge,” Rosen said. “No matter how you look at it, once this court says yes or no about organ regeneration, the political debate is a foregone conclusion.”
The Yale professor said, “I’m not so certain that’s valid. There are ethical issues here. Stem cells. Cloning.”
“That’s not our problem,” Graves snapped. “We are supposed to be debating the scientific possibilities, not ethics or politics.”
Rosen gave them the ghost of a smile. “Think of the debate in Congress over whether or not to fund organ regeneration. If this court says it is scientifically possible, what congressman could vote against it? His constituents would tear him apart!”
“Then he’d need regeneration,” quipped the Caltech biochemist. Graves glared at him.
“And consider the opposite situation,” Rosen went on. “If this court says regeneration is scientifically impossible, no politician in his right mind would ever put up a penny for further research.”
Arthur shook his head vehemently. “No, it’s not supposed to work that way. This court decides only the scientific validity of the concept. Others debate the political, financial, social aspects.”
Rosen gave him a pitying look. “Dr. Marshak, you just don’t understand the way things work. Once this court makes a decision, all the other debates will be foregone. What we decide here will decide everything. Including whether or not you are responsible for your researcher’s death.”