The scientist gazed over the heads of his listeners. “I am the only researcher in the field of genetics working in this forbidden area,” he said, biting out his words slowly. “My reasons for doing so are compelling ones, but I won’t bore you with them. Suffice it to say, I am now able to engineer a series of genetic alterations in the human embryo that will produce some very marked improvements.”
Goth picked up a sheet of paper from the desk, consulted it for a moment, and then put it back down.
“My procedure will essentially do three things,” he said. “First, it will raise the intelligence quotient by a factor of one. This means that a child destined by its genes to have an average IQ of one hundred will instead have an IQ of two hundred. That’s well into the highest range of genius. Obviously such a change will make a profound difference in any child’s prospects in life.”
The biologist had everyone’s full attention now.
“Second, the child will enjoy an exceptionally high level of health and physical fitness. Its muscle strength will be increased by a factor of between point two and point three. That doesn’t sound like much, but it would make a young girl as powerful, pound for pound, as a fully developed male athlete. It would put the average male into the championship weight-lifter class. Further, there’ll be no physical deformities, no inherited diseases. No insanity. The immune system will have the highest resistance to all forms of pollution and disease.
Health will be superb. This individual should seldom, if ever, fall ill throughout its entire life.
And that life expectancy, given our present diet and living conditions, will be one hundred and twenty years, conceivably more.”
Yamamoto let out a small gasp of astonishment. The baroness shook her head in disbelief. Stewart didn’t know what to think.
He doubted that what Goth was saying was possible.
“In the near future I expect to be able to bring many new areas under control. All those inherited genetic factors specific to the parents, for example—patterns of baldness, color blindness, height, weight, color of skin, eyes, and hair—shape of facial features, breast size, metabolism rate, and so on. Eventually, in fact, it will be possible to fine-tune the procedure so that parents will be able to choose all of a child’s attributes, from its physical appearance to its personality. I’ve already mastered the knowledge and techniques required for all these modifications, but they’re largely cosmetic.
They can wait.”
Goth paused. A pleased, triumphant grin lit his sallow face.
“One final thing my procedure will do,” he said. “It will enhance the child’s five senses—increase the range and acuity of its sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. You can well imagine how this will heighten its awareness and understanding of the world around it, and how much this will enrich its life.”
The doctor came around from behind his desk and stood directly in front of his five seated visitors. “The technical biological details for how these things are accomplished are naturally quite complex,” he said.
“Only another geneticist could understand them fully. I must emphatically state, however, that what I am describing to you is not science fiction. All the techniques I’ve developed and refined to accomplish the enhancements I’ve just mentioned are either already being employed in some other form somewhere else, or can be quickly learned by any competent biotechnician. For that reason, I have taken great precautions to keep my work secret.”
The doctor’s voice took on a harder edge. “But my work is not yet complete. As I’ve already explained to you, I need a considerable amount of money to complete this project. I estimate ten million dollars just to clear my outstanding debts and finance a year’s worth of additional research. More may be required beyond that. I can’t predict precisely what the final cost may be.
But I can predict one thing. There isn’t a potential parent on the face of the earth who wouldn’t do almost anything—pay almost anything—to get for their future offspring what I will soon be able to offer them.”
Finished with his pitch, the doctor leaned against the edge of his desk and looked expectantly at his guests: “Questions?”
The baroness immediately challenged him. “What you say you’ll soon have to offer is in fact illegal to sell.”
Goth nodded. “Of course it is. In Germany. In England. Japan.
The United States. In many countries. But not everywhere. Not here, for example. That’s why my lab is here. It’s an inconvenience, but not a serious one. As long as the research and the clinical procedures—gene alteration and implantation—are done here, there’s no roblem. It isn’t against the laws of any country for its citizens to travel here to have such things done.”
“What about your assistant?” the baroness asked. “How much does she know about your program?”
“Kirsten? She’s been with me for two and a half years. She’s well acquainted with it.”
“Can you trust her?”
Goth looked pained. “Of course I can trust her,” he snapped.
“How do you know?”
Goth considered the question impertinent. He ignored it and pointed his finger at Fairfield.
“What’s the drill, then?” the Englishman demanded. “What do we get back for our lolly? A happy glow? Believe me, mate, I don’t need any more charitable contributions for my tax returns.
Inland Revenue’s already got their fingers up my ass.”
The doctor gritted his teeth at the Englishman’s vulgarity.
“Those who finance me will share in the profit when the procedure is marketed. And I have no doubt those profits will be immense.”
“Do you expect us to form a consortium?” the baroness asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you expect us to invest in you as a group?”
Goth threw out his hands. “I suppose that’s up to you. I invited the five of you hoping that at least one of you would agree to underwrite my project. If more than one wishes to be involved, that’s fine. I must warn you, however, that if any of you contemplate sending down a fleet of lawyers to nitpick, then you can forget it. I’ve already drawn up a very simple contract form. It’s only a few hundred words long. I’ll give you each copies to study.
I’m amenable to reasonable changes, but I’m not amenable to letting any of you try to tie me up with yards of red tape and hundreds of pages of legal mumbo-jumbo. The intent of that tactic is obvious—to take advantage of the other party.”
“Lawyers are necessary to draw up the legal documents,” the baroness replied coolly.
Her command of English was excellent, Stewart thought—and embellished with a charmingly Germanic lisp, particularly when she pronounced her r’s. Their eyes met briefly.
Goth folded his arms across his chest. “I insist this be done on my terms.”
Yamamoto had the next question. “I can understand, Doctor, how you might have perfected your genetic techniques to enhance IQ, health, and longevity—and even physical strength. But your claim to be able to expand the ranges of the senses—how is that possible? I thought such capacities were very limited in the human genome. Where do you get your model for this?”
Goth nodded. “I’m not just repairing defective genes, or bringing ordinary ones up to the human optimum. In some cases I’m adding new ones.”
“How can you do that?”
“I’d prefer not to say anything more on the subject.”
Yamamoto shook his head in disbelief. He followed up with another question. “We all know that everyone’s genome is different. Everyone is a special case. How can you have devised a single formula that will achieve the same results with two very different embryos? ” “An intelligent question,” Goth admitted. “I have devised a software program—a very complex program that requires a very large operating environment. Once an embryo’s genome has been deciphered, this program scans the genome’s three billion base pairs and determines the genetic alterations necessary to ac
hieve those results you just mentioned—superior intelligence, health, physical strength, and sharper senses. The program can cope with the widest variations. It won’t convert them all to the same thing, but it can bring them up to within a narrow range. I might add that the active DNA in one human genome differs from another by only a minute fraction of one percent.
Most of the DNA in our chromosomes is, as you probably know, silent.
Long sequences may differ from individual to individual, but they don’t do anything. They don’t code for any proteins; they don’t control or regulate anything. They’re filler. Junk. Good only for purposes of genetic fingerprinting.”
“Does this program of yours have a name?” Yamamoto asked.
A sheepish grin transformed the doctor’s normally stern face.
“Yes. It’s called Jupiter—after the Roman god.”
“Does this . . . Jupiter program actually carry out the genetic alterations itself?” Yamamoto asked.
“No. It produces the blueprint—the final correct readout of base pairs. The actual reordering of the embryo’s DNA structure has to be done the old-fashioned way—in the lab. But of course most of this procedure is now computer-driven also. Like space flight, it wouldn’t be humanly possible otherwise.”
Dalton Stewart spoke up. “What we’ve heard is quite fascinating, Doctor, but a big problem still remains—at least for me.”
“And what is that?”
“So far you’ve shown us no evidence that Jupiter actually works. How do you know it does? Have you performed any trial runs? Do you have any test results of experiments done on real people? We can hardly accept your say-so on something as farfetched as what you’ve just outlined. We need to see convincing proof. Do you have any?”
There was an immediate buzz of agreement among the others.
“Excellent point,” Yamamoto murmured.
Goth didn’t reply immediately. He removed his glasses and held them toward the window, squinting at the thick lenses. Then he wiped them slowly with the bottom edge of his lab coat.
“Well?” Stewart demanded.
Goth hooked his glasses back around his ears. “I see the point, of course,” he admitted. “I confess I don’t know much about financial matters. The intricacies of business are as much a mystery to me as I assume the world of microbiology is to all of you. But this much I know. Even the most cautious venture capitalist realizes that there is no such thing as a risk-free investment. If I could show you proof—ideally in the form of a real child demonstrating the abilities my genetic program will make possible—then I would hardly need your money to complete my research. I could set up my clinic tomorrow and start making it myself. I could even franchise the procedure—set up a string of clinics around the world. I could set up my own biogenetics company and sell stock in it. Let’s face it, gentlemen. I could get rich overnight.”
“Suppose one of us was willing to put up the money,” Yamamoto said.
“What share of the eventual profits would you offer?”
“Half,” Goth replied. “Fifty percent, minus operating expenses, to be shared equally.”
“Not enough,” Baroness von Hauser interjected.
“Why not?” Goth shot back. He appeared stunned. Stewart smiled.
Goth obviously thought his fifty-percent offer was more than magnammous.
“You haven’t thought it through,” the baroness informed him.
“When you finish your research, the money isn’t just going to start rolling in. There’ll be substantial development costs. Setting up clinics, for example. Hiring qualified doctors and training biotechnicians. Who’s going to pay for all of that? Obviously it’ll have to be your backers.”
Goth frowned. “Well, what do you consider fair?”
The baroness scratched her bare knee as she thought about it.
Stewart watched the lazy movement of her red-painted fingernails along the tanned surface of flesh and felt a warm tingling sensation in his groin.
“Ninety percent,” she said.
Goth’s face turned from its pasty white to a mottled purple.
Stewart chuckled. The baroness was beginning to show a little of the steel under her luxurious exterior.
“I could never agree to anything like that,” Goth protested, when he had found his tongue again. “That’s not profit sharing —that’s exploitation.”
The baroness made no effort to defend her offer. She just shrugged and flicked her fingers in a gesture of dismissal.
The room grew very still. Stewart looked around. No one else had any questions. They all appeared ready to leave.
“I’m amenable to discuss percentages,” Goth said, attempting to resuscitate the discussion. “I’m not interested in personal enrichment. I just want to get on with my work. You must understand that. My work is everything to me. Please think about what I’ve said.
My discoveries are real. Jupiter is real. If any of you wish to pursue this further, you can find me in my lab.”
With a tight-lipped grimace of defeat Goth picked up the catalogue he had shown them earlier and prepared to depart. “If I don’t hear from any of you in a couple of days, I’ll seek help elsewhere.”
Harry Fairfield raised a hand. A mischievous grin lit his ruddy face.
“I have another question, Doctor.”
Goth glared at Fairfield with obvious distaste. “What is it?”
“Can this Jupiter program of yours do anything about cock size?”
Everyone laughed except Harold Goth. He jammed the catalogue under his arm and stormed out of the room, the veins in his forehead pulsing with fury.
Anne Stewart walked unsteadily across the mansion’s dimly lit entrance hall to the enormous winding staircase. She grabbed the banister railing as if it were a lifeline, and hauled herself up the interminably long flight of stairs, consciously placing each foot as she went.
How she hated this house—so large and cold and intimidating.
Nothing in it had anything to do with her. Not one piece of rare antique furniture, not one bit of hand-painted wallpaper or linen drapery. Not one painting or mirror or candlestick holder. Not even the piano. It had all been here when she arrived, and would probably all be here when she left. Most of the rooms never saw anyone for weeks at a time, save an occasional domestic with a vacuum cleaner and a dust rag. It didn’t feel like home at all. It felt like an institution. It reminded her of one of those mansions that had once belonged to some long-dead famous person and were now open for public tours. All it lacked were the brass stands with velvet-covered ropes and a few signs admonishing visitors not to touch anything. How was she ever going to go on living here?
She reached the safe harbor of her bedroom at the end of the second-story hallway. Once inside, she locked the door behind her and collapsed onto the bed.
The damned committee meeting. She had missed it. She considered calling Mrs. Talley to apologize and make some lame excuse, but she didn’t trust her tongue to get the words out.
51
Instead, she called down to the kitchen and mumbled something to Amelia, the cook, about not feeling well. She intended to retire early, without dinner.
As soon as she lay back against the pillow, the ceiling over her head began revolving slowly. She closed her eyes, and the bed began to roll. She opened her eyes. The ceiling was still spinning.
My God, she thought, five o’clock on a Monday afternoon and she was drunk. Oh, Lexy, why did you do this to me A tide of nausea surged toward her throat. Clutching the bedpost to steady herself, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Praying that the floor wouldn’t tilt beneath her, she got to her feet and lunged toward the bathroom, hands cupped over her mouth.
She reached the toilet on her knees, groped blindly for the sides, and retched noisily into it.
After a few minutes she felt marginally restored, but she was reluctant to move. The cold porcelain lip of the bowl felt good against her forehead. Without looking, sh
e reached up and tripped the flush mechanism.
She wished that she were back home in Vermont.
Home. Something she had never really known. The closest she had ever come was a rundown three-room rental in a destitute mill town out in a depopulated wilderness called the Northeast Kingdom. And she never really wanted to go back there.
Georges and MarieClaire Beauregard. French Catholic and poor. And both dead now. She had loved them, she supposed, even though they weren’t her real parents.
She didn’t know her real parents. The state’s Department of Social Welfare had taken her from them when she was three years old. Barely more than children themselves, they had neglected Anne so completely that the welfare officials feared she might starve to death. Or so Mama Marie had told her when she was growing up.
Nothing about her natural parents remained in Anne’s conscious memory.
Even their names were absent. Anne’s life did not really begin until the age of seven, when Georges and MarieClaire rescued her from a series of foster homes. A childless middle-aged couple from the province of Quebec, they adopted her, and she became Anne Marie Beauregard.
They did the best they could, but Anne’s life was bleak. Georges died when Anne was eleven, and MarieClaire, fragile and superstitious even when Georges was alive, simply couldn’t cope with his death. She stopped cooking, stopped cleaning, stopped getting dressed. She waited out the rest of her life in bed, in front of a TV set. Anne, not yet a teenager, was forced to take over the household herself. She did the shopping and the cleaning and the cooking. Georges had left no money.
They lived on welfare and a minuscule retirement pension from Georges’s years with the Canadian National Railways.
Anne rarely thought of those years—not because the memories were so painful but because there was so little worth remembering. They were a blur of fatigue and drudgery, a bleak gray existence in a world in which there was neither time nor money for dates or parties or even decent clothes.
Keeping house, taking care of MarieClaire, and going to school consumed her days. She came to hate that small TV set at the foot of Mama Marie’s bed. It stayed on around the clock, blotting out real life with an endless drone of soap operas, sitcoms, cop and detective dramas, quiz shows, talk shows, and commercials.
Tom Hyman Page 5