The Immortality Factor

by Ben Bova

  DAY FIVE, MORNING

  Like an addict, Arthur turned on the morning news shows while he shaved, watching the little TV set sitting next to the bathroom sink with morbid fascination as its screen showed the same clips and footage as the late-night broadcasts had: Cassie branding Arthur as a murderer.

  Both Good Morning America and The Today Show featured guest experts discussing not the possibilities of organ regeneration, but the ethics of using animals as experimental subjects. Two philosophers, a Jesuit priest, and a rabbi. Not a biologist in sight. In disgust, Arthur flicked to CBS Morning News.

  A woman was being interviewed by a woman reporter. It took a few moments for Arthur to realize that the guest was an animal rights activist.

  “And how did you feel when you saw the videos of Max, the chimpanzee who was used in those experiments?” the interviewer asked in a low, funereal tone.

  The woman blinked back tears. “Actually, I almost felt relieved when the poor creature died. He had escaped. He’s free now. They can’t hurt him anymore.”

  Arthur wanted to ram his fist through the tube.

  “Do you think he was in a lot of pain?”

  Goddamned vampire, Arthur thought.

  “Obviously,” came the answer.

  The interviewer shook her head sadly as she looked straight into the camera and said, “I’m afraid we’ve run out of time. Now this.”

  A commercial for a denture cleaner showed a frowning white-haired woman holding up a fizzing glass of water with her choppers in it.

  Professor Potter, please.”

  He came shuffling up to the witness table, his sparse fringe of dead-white hair catching the light like a filmy halo. He walked alone, leaning heavily on his cane. If his assistants were still in the chamber, Arthur did not see them.

  There were even more reporters on hand than the previous afternoon, and five TV cameras now obstructed the side aisles of the hearing chamber. Reporters had clustered around Arthur when he arrived at the hearing room, their clamoring questions little short of accusations. Arthur had steadfastly refused to say anything except, “I’ll make my statements on the floor of the hearing.”

  As Potter sat himself facing the judges, Arthur got up and walked toward the witness table. He took in his audience at a glance: Jesse’s seat was still empty; Senator Kindelberger was up front with the judges, looking serious and concerned; Pat had moved to the media table, squeezing herself in among the reporters and photographers. He turned toward the jurors, sitting against the side wall: six men and six women, all of them from either academic or government laboratories. Political correctness went only so far, Arthur knew. No scientist from an industrial lab was asked to be on the jury; no one connected with a profit-making organization.

  “Good morning, Professor,” Arthur said, trying to make it sound friendly.

  Potter said, “Morning, Arthur.”

  His stroke had pulled the left half of his face down into a grimace, his left eye almost completely closed. It made his habitual little smile into an ironic rictus, one corner of his mouth turned up, the other curled down.

  “This is just a formality,” Arthur said, “but I must remind you that you are still under oath.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “I read the paper you presented to the jury.”

  “You’d better have.”

  Several of the jurors looked openly skeptical at the mention of Potter’s paper. Arthur thought that was a good sign.

  “Where was it published?”

  Potter’s right cheek ticked. “That information was in the reprint.”

  “For the record, where was your paper published?”

  His eyes narrowed. “In Counterpoint.”

  “That’s a British magazine, isn’t it?” Arthur asked.

  “British, yes. But it’s not a magazine. It’s a reputable scientific journal that publishes papers that the prevailing scientific establishment won’t touch.”

  “Controversial papers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you consider your paper to be controversial?”

  “No,” Potter said firmly. “My paper is self-evidently correct. You can’t argue with mathematics.”

  “And yet you sent it to a journal that specializes in controversial papers. Why?”

  “Because I knew the scientific establishment wouldn’t publish it.”

  “Did you try to have it published in a more reputable journal?”

  “There’s nothing disreputable about Counterpoint!”

  “Excuse me,” Arthur said. Several of the jury members were grinning. “A more orthodox journal. Is that better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you try to get your paper published in a more orthodox journal? Science, for example. Or Nature. Or one of the refereed journals that specialize in the various branches of molecular biology.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Arthur knew the answer to his question. Papers submitted to scientific journals are reviewed by a panel of referees who read each paper, scientific peers who judge the merit of each paper submitted on its scientific quality. Counterpoint was a sensationalist magazine, nothing more.

  “They wouldn’t touch it.”

  “No refereed journal would publish it?”

  Potter fidgeted in his chair. “It was too unconventional for them.”

  “Isn’t it true,” Arthur asked, “that you presented the basic material of your paper at the annual molecular biology conference in San Francisco more than six years ago?”

  Frowning, Potter muttered, “I might have. I think so.”

  “I recall hearing your presentation,” said Arthur. “As I remember it, the questions and comments from the floor afterward were less than flattering.”

  Potter said nothing; he just scowled at Arthur.

  “Do you recall the comments?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say that your paper was well received?”

  Again the little twitching, squirming. “The general tone of the comments was negative. It often is when a new concept is broached for the first time. I was years ahead of them. Years ahead! Still am!”

  “Did any of your questioners characterize your paper as ‘numerology’?”

  Potter bristled. “It’s not numerology! It’s mathematical fact!”

  “What experimental corroboration do you have?” Arthur snapped.

  Potter glared at him.

  “You’ve written a paper that is entirely hypothetical. Have you tried to match your mathematical speculations with experiments?”

  “They’re not speculations!”

  “They are until you get some experimental evidence to test them. What experiments have you done?”

  “I—I’m not an experimenter.” Potter turned slightly toward the jury. “Not anymore.”

  “Has anyone corroborated your ideas with experimental evidence?” Arthur demanded.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Not that you know of.” Despite himself, Arthur could feel the heat rising within him. This doddering old fool thinks he can knock me down with a few pages of numbers, does he?

  “Can you tell me why no one has tried to do experiments based on your work?”

  “It’s too far ahead of them!” Potter said. “They’re not smart enough to understand what I’ve accomplished! None of them are.”

  Careful! Arthur warned himself. Don’t appear to be bullying the old fart.

  “Professor Potter,” he said gently, “when Einstein published his theories of relativity, those papers were pretty much ahead of the rest of the field, wouldn’t you say?”

  Suspiciously, Potter said, “I suppose so. I’m a biologist, not a physicist.”

  “And yet, within a few years experiments were done that proved Einstein’s theories were correct. Isn’t that true?”

  “I suppose so.” Grudgingly.

  “Y
et six years have gone by since you first announced your ideas and no one has even tried to do an experiment to see if your mathematics correctly predict the real world?”

  “I told you, no one has tried.”

  “Not one researcher has even tried to conduct an experiment based on your work?”

  Rosen spoke up. “I think we’ve established that fact clearly enough, Dr. Marshak.”

  “I agree,” said Graves.

  Turning to the row of desks at the front of the chamber, Arthur said, “I merely want to show the jury that Professor Potter’s mathematical treatment is not regarded as significant within the biological research community.”

  “But it is significant!” Potter screeched. “It’s a fundamental concept, as fundamental as Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle!”

  Arthur almost laughed. From claiming he was no physicist, Potter was now equating himself with the heart of quantum physics.

  “Is it truly?” he asked mildly.

  “I have proved, mathematically, that it is impossible to alter the activity of the DNA in the cells of a functioning organism without incurring chaotic and unpredictable side effects.”

  “Which means, if you’re correct, that any attempts at regenerating organs within the body of a living organism are doomed to failure.”

  “Certainly right.”

  Arthur stroked his chin, as if thinking. “According to your paper, any attempt to alter the activity of the DNA is foolhardy?”

  “Any,” said Potter firmly.

  “Then gene therapy is a waste of time?”

  “You mean inserting foreign genes into an organism? No, that’s permissible.”

  “But gene therapy changes the activity of the organism’s original DNA,” Arthur said.

  Potter began to shake his head.

  “You’re saying that gene therapy for treating, say, cystic fibrosis—such gene therapy will cause chaotic and unpredictable side effects?”

  “If it alters the functioning DNA, yes.”

  “What side effects have been caused in cystic fibrosis patients?” Arthur asked.

  “How should I know? I’m not involved in that research.”

  Arthur looked at the jury. Some of them were involved in gene therapy tests, he knew. “I searched the literature late last night,” he said. “I could not find any cases of chaotic and unpredictable side effects.”

  “It’s probably too early for them to manifest themselves,” Potter said.

  “It’s been more than five years since the first tests on cystic fibrosis patients were started. How long should it take?”

  Potter hesitated. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “If I read your paper correctly, the side effects should be immediately apparent.”

  “Well . . . perhaps not.”

  One of the women jurors was working on gene surgery, Arthur knew; replacing defective elements in a patient’s gene so that it would function correctly.

  “Are you aware, Professor Potter, of the work being done in the area of Tay-Sachs disease?”

  “No.” Grudgingly.

  Of course not, Arthur thought. That’s the last area you’d be interested in, you anti-Semitic piece of shit.

  He turned from the jury to stand squarely facing Potter, ready to destroy this doddering old fool, the man who had hounded him out of academia, the nasty backbiting Jew-hating bastard who had tried to ruin his life. Now you get what you deserve, Arthur thought. Now I’m going to destroy you just as you tried to destroy me.

  But what Arthur saw was the shattered shell of the man he hated. Potter sat at the witness table, shriveled, half dead, yet still glaring defiantly. And out of the corner of his eye Arthur saw Graves leaning forward, hands clasped on the desktop, staring at Potter the way a doctor might gaze at a patient who is beyond all help.

  Arthur’s anger evaporated. Briefly he tried to summon it up again, to fuel his moment of vengeance. But blasting Potter would be like kicking a cripple. He couldn’t do it.

  “Professor Potter,” he asked softly. “Would you like to regain the use of the left side of your body?”

  “Eh?” The question caught the old man completely off guard.

  “If it was possible to repair the damage caused by your stroke, would you undergo such treatment?”

  Now Potter glared pure hatred. “No,” he snapped. “Never!”

  Arthur shook his head sadly. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

  JULIA

  It took all my strength to send Jesse back to Washington. More than almost anything I wanted him with me, I wanted him to hold me, I wanted us to face this terrible ordeal together.

  But I couldn’t let him avoid facing Arthur. He would never be able to stand himself if he backed out of their confrontation at the trial. He would always wonder if he’d been cowardly. Or, worse, if I thought that he wasn’t strong enough to face Arthur.

  And above all I didn’t want Jesse to think that I harbored some wild hope in my heart that Arthur could save our baby. It’s strange, the twists that our emotions lead us into. In a way, I was almost making a choice between Jesse and the baby, sending him out to do battle against his brother so that Arthur would have no chance of helping our baby, ever. The realization was crushing. Jesse or the baby. Already the baby was threatening to come between us.

  So I gathered what little courage I could muster and sent Jesse off to Washington. He could fly there in an hour or so and be in time for the trial’s afternoon session. He was reluctant, almost afraid, at first. But I insisted and soon enough he agreed that it would be best.

  I watched from our apartment window as he trotted out to the taxi we had summoned. From my perch he looked almost like a schoolboy grudgingly heading off for his classes.

  Jesse opened the taxi door, then looked up toward me. He waved, as he always did. But the expression on his face was absolutely grim.

  I waved back and watched the taxi disappear around the corner. Then I sat in our living room, alone.

  No, I’m not alone, I realized. The baby is with me. He’ll always be with me, all the days of his life.

  JESSE

  I never felt so mixed up in my life.

  Just before I ducked into the taxi I looked up at our window and waved to Julia. Her face was so damned pale, white as a ghost. Even her answering wave was weak, faltering.

  I should have stayed with her and to hell with the trial and Arby and everything else. But to tell the truth, I was glad of the chance to get away, even if it was just for the few hours of the afternoon. I’d be back in time for supper. I needed a few hours of fresh air, some time to think this thing out.

  There’s no way that Arby’s work would ever be able to help our kid. It’d take years and years of experiments and human trials before there’d be any chance of reversing the damage done in a spina bifida case. I knew that. No sense fooling myself, no sense getting up false hopes.

  Unless—unless our boy became one of Arby’s test subjects. Assuming the trial recommends going on to human tests, and the FDA and all those other government agencies don’t slow things down to a crawl.

  No, I couldn’t do that. Use our kid as an experimental subject? Like that chimp? Julia would die first.

  But what other chance did we have? We’re going to be tied to a helpless, hopeless lump of protoplasm for years and years and then he’ll die and Julia’s heart will break, if it isn’t broken already.

  She’s hoping Arby will be able to save the kid; I know she is. Maybe she doesn’t even know it, but that’s what she’s hoping. It’s the only hope we’ve got.

  And it’ll look great, won’t it? Humanitarian of the Year elbows out everybody else to put his own son first in line for this experimental treatment developed by his brother. Million-dollar treatment saves doctor’s son while poor people wait in vain. Great story. The media’ll love it.

  And so will Arby. Soon as he knows about the spina bifida he’s going to come at me all sincere and helpful and
show me that he knows what to do, even if I don’t.

  By the time my plane landed at Reagan National I was so confused and shook up that I almost stayed aboard for the ride back to New York.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.:

  NOON

  Arthur felt strangely let down after the morning’s session was gaveled to a close. He had finished with Potter and chosen not to recall Zapapas. Graves looked somewhat surprised.

  “The next witness scheduled is Dr. Jesse Marshak,” said Graves. “But he is not present.”

  A clerk came up behind the chief judge and handed him a slip of paper. Graves adjusted his bifocals and scanned it swiftly.

  “Dr. Marshak has sent a message stating that he will be present for the afternoon session,” he announced. With a glance at the clock, he said, “We will break for lunch and resume at one-thirty.”

  Pat made her way through the departing crowd to Arthur. “Where’s your brother?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Arthur said. “Probably preparing for the cross-examination somewhere.”

  “With Simmonds’s people?”

  Arthur scowled. “Most likely.”

  Senator Kindelberger was a few feet away, chatting amiably with some of the reporters. He broke away from them and caught up with Arthur and Pat as they headed for the door. Arthur braced himself for a confrontation.

  But the senator said, “Hope your brother can make it here for the afternoon session. Surely wouldn’t like to stretch this hearing into next week.”

  “Do you know where he is?” Arthur asked.

  “He was back in New York last night,” Kindelberger said, his leathery face looking slightly concerned. “Some problem with his wife’s health, from what little he told my aide.”

  Arthur felt a flash of electricity surge through him. Julia! He reached for his cell phone as he said to Pat, “You go ahead to the restaurant and I’ll catch up with you there.”

  Pat saw the stricken look on his face. “All right,” she said, trying to hide the resentment that unexpectedly welled up inside her.

  Arthur pulled up Jesse’s number from the cell phone’s data bank. Julia answered.