Tom noticed several strands of gray in Bert’s wavy hair. In ten or twenty years it would become the great white mop known the world over.
“How about you, Tom? Do you feel any different? Since finding out?”
Tom was about to answer no, but he realized that wasn’t the case. Though he still felt like himself, he was experiencing something akin to performance anxiety. He’d been struggling with it since last night, after Harold had asked when he was going to go into politics.
There was a whole big world out there. Shouldn’t he be doing something more than just police work? Tom had always thought he was a good cop, good at his job, but now it didn’t seem like it was enough.
“I don’t feel like a different person, but I think I do feel a little inadequate.”
“That will pass. Soon you’ll feel completely worthless.”
Bert went back to his magazine. Tom opened the little nozzle over his head, bathing his face with the germ cannon’s cool, stale air. He smoothed out the wrinkles in the tan pants Roy had lent him. They were a little big in the waist, but otherwise fit fine. The loaned shirt was another story. Tom was swimming in it, and since putting it on he felt the urge to hit the gym and work on his pecs.
Bert hummed as he read. Something vaguely familiar. When Tom realized it was Britney Spears he shook his head. As far as nature vs. nurture went, Bert was a damn fine argument for nurture.
“What’s 55 x 26?” Tom asked.
“Hell if I know.”
“I thought you were a stock market wizard.”
Bert looked up at him.
“How did… that doctor told you, didn’t he? You said he kept tabs on us.” Bert shrugged. “I did some trading. Made some fortunes. Lost some fortunes. That’s behind me now.”
“But you were good at it? Without dealing with numbers?”
“I didn’t deal in numbers. I dealt in shares and dollars.”
“Same thing.”
“Not for me.”
“Okay—if I had 85,552 dollars and wanted to buy some shares of stock that sold at 2 ¼, how many shares could I buy?”
Bert didn’t hesitate. “You could buy 38,023 shares and have 11 cents left over.” When the realization of what he just said hit him, he broke into a wide grin. “Hey! Do another one.”
Surprised, Tom continued. “A guy wants to buy 351 shares of a stock that’s at 6 7/8s.”
“He needs 2413 dollars and 12 and a half cents.” Bert beamed. “Wow! I’m pretty amazing!”
“What’s 18 x 45?”
Bert’s smile faltered. “I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Bert.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense. But I just don’t know.”
“Okay, what if I wanted to buy 45 shares of stock at 18 dollars a share?”
“Eight hundred and ten dollars. This is weird, Tom. How come I can do it if it’s a stock question but not when it’s just simple multiplication?”
Tom recalled an old story he’d heard about Albert Einstein.
“Do you care about multiplication?”
“Hell no.”
“Did you care about the stock market?”
“I lived and breathed to trade.”
“There’s your answer. Maybe you’re a genius at what you care about. Einstein failed math in school. He just had no interest in it.”
“You think that’s it?”
“Could be.”
Bert scrunched up his face. Tom could see he was puzzling it out.
“So now all I need to do is force myself to care about quantum mechanics.”
“That’s possible.”
“But I don’t care about quantum mechanics. It bores the crap out of me. Do you care about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”
“As much as the next guy. I don’t dwell on it.”
“How are your writing skills? Essays and reports and things?”
“Well, I won that Pulitzer a few years back.”
“So, in other words, I probably have Einstein’s intellect locked up in my head somewhere. But you got buttkiss from Jefferson.”
Bert delved into the magazine again, leaving Tom to dwell on that. The feeling was akin to being ten feet tall, but still unable to dunk a basketball.
As the plane emptied, Tom was reluctant to leave his seat. His self-esteem was at an all time low, and being told he was conceived in a lab under a microscope couldn’t possibly help.
“Are you guys coming?” Bert already had his carryon in hand and his sunglasses perched on the end of his long nose.
“We here?” Roy yawned and stretched. “Did I miss breakfast?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”
Roy attempted to stand up, forcing his partner to move out of his way. Tom gripped the armrests and pried himself out of his chair.
“Don’t forget your donut.” Bert pointed to the inflatable ring on Roy’s chair. The cop turned and picked it up, his face sour.
They were the last ones out of the plane; Tom and Roy had been required to fly with their guns locked up in the cockpit per FTA rules. The moment Tom stepped onto the runway he had to squint against the glare. He’d never been to New Mexico before, but it was exactly like he’d anticipated. Hot, dry, sunny, with mountains in the distance. The authentic West. The trio walked to the terminal, which was minuscule by Chicago standards. A sign welcomed them to the ABQ Sunport, and the air conditioning embraced them like a close family when they entered.
Tom asked for directions to the front entrance, receiving them in a pronounced drawl from a steward. He didn’t have a cowboy hat to tip, but thanked the man just the same. The airport was quiet, serene, no large crowds or rushing people. It was unnatural. Perhaps there was some kind of sedative in the water.
“Hello!”
Dr. Harold Harper was stooped with age, tanned the color of mahogany, sporting faded jeans and a plaid shirt. He had a fringe of white hair encircling a bald dome speckled with liver spots. Tom knew his age to be seventy-two, but the doctor rushed to greet them like someone half that.
“Wonderful to see you! Let me look.” He grasped Tom’s shoulders and gave him the once-over. “My, it’s simply amazing. You could have just stepped off a two dollar bill. And Albert—” Bert got similar treatment. “The mustache and everything. Did you have the mustache before, or grow it once you found out? And who’s this?”
“This is Detective Roy Lewis. My partner.”
“Hello, Roy, nice to meet you.” He shook Roy’s hand. “Actually, I suppose this is our first official meeting as well.” He shook Bert’s hand, then Tom’s. “Harold Harper. Welcome to New Mexico. Do you have suitcases?”
“I do.” Bert raised his hand.
“The luggage return is this way.”
The elderly man took off at a quick clip, pointing out which airlines occupied which terminals, and where the restrooms and restaurants were, as if he were giving a tour of the Louvre. Bert’s bags were the first off the carousel, but he insisted on opening them and inspecting the contents before they could move ahead.
“How could anything get damaged in those things?” Roy was referring to Bert’s Samsonite suitcases. “Bet they’re heavy as hell.”
“These are classics. I don’t even know if they make them anymore with a hard shell like this. They’re waterproof, shockproof, and smashproof. Remember the commercial with the gorilla jumping on them?”
Outdoors again, the heat was like a hair dryer. Harold had parked close to the building, in a handicapped spot. He had a wheelchair sticker hanging from his rearview, but Tom couldn’t guess what his ailment might be. The man had more energy than a two-year-old on crack.
The good doctor drove an old Jeep Wrangler with no roof or doors, just a roll bar to protect them from the elements. It was what could charitably be called a four-seater, though the rear two seemed built for embryos. Tom attempted to climb in back but Harold stopped him.
“Please. Do me the honor of sitting
up front with me, if you would.”
Roy shot him a look that would fry burgers, but Tom sat up front anyway. Bert played around with a bungee cord for several minutes, strapping in his luggage to the rear rack, while Roy placed his carryon between his feet and carefully positioned his donut. Harold took off before either had a chance to fully settle in. The doctor drove with the same sense of urgency he displayed while on foot. Traffic signals didn’t appear to be applicable to him, and twice he had to swerve to avoid collisions. Tom liked him immediately.
“The ranch is about ten miles out of Albuquerque. Used to be twenty miles out, but the town is growing pretty fast. It’ll reach three quarters of a million within the next few years, at the current rate.”
Tom noted that as America aged, it tended to homogenize. Albuquerque could have been a suburb of Chicago—complete with strip malls, super markets, chain stores, and apartment buildings. The only difference was that every other vehicle was a 4 x 4. Tom checked the rearview, paranoid about being tailed. Rather than black sedans, he saw Bert sock Roy in the shoulder.
Bert grinned. “Slug bug green, no hit backs.”
“Why did you just hit me, fool?”
“Volkswagen bug, right there. Don’t you play the slug bug game? Every time you see a VW Beetle, you hit the guy next to you and say the color.”
“You do that again, we play the physics game. I toss you out of the speeding Jeep and see how many times you bounce.”
Bert folded his arms, glaring. “What is your problem? Why can’t you have fun?”
“I have lots of fun.”
“You act like you have a saggy diaper that leaks.”
“Maybe you need to take your Shut-The-Hell-Up pill.”
“I dare you to stop being a grump ass.” Bert challenged.
“Fine—punch Bronco black.”
Roy slugged Bert in the shoulder. Bert’s eyes got wide. “What the hell was that?”
“I saw a black Ford Bronco, so I punched you.”
“That’s not the game. It’s Volkswagen bugs.”
“Now who’s the one that isn’t fun?”
Bert hit him back. “There. You didn’t call no hit-backs.”
“Fine.” Roy scanned for a car, then he smacked Bert in the back of the head.
“Head whack Cadillac yellow, no hit backs.
Bert elbowed Roy in the ribs. “Rib jab Buick Allegra red, no hit backs.”
“Soon as I see a Toyota, I’m gonna break your jaw.”
Harold leaned over and spoke to Tom out of the side of his mouth. “Are they always like this?”
“Neither of them plays well with others.”
Luckily for all involved, Harold pulled onto a dirt road and they didn’t see another vehicle until they reached the ranch. And a ranch it was. Tom, being Midwestern, assumed the term was used to describe any single floor house. But Dr. Harper owned actual acres of fenced-in property, complete with grazing livestock.
“What in the hell is that thing?” Roy pointed.
“That’s Emma. She’s an Israeli Black Ostrich.”
Bert whacked him. “Israeli black ostrich, no hit-backs.”
Roy hit him back anyway.
“You raise ostriches?” Tom regretted the stupid question as it left his mouth. They passed a dozen more birds before coming to a stop at the house.
“Largest of the ratites. Their meat is red, 80% leaner than beef. One egg is the same volume as two dozen chicken eggs. Shells and feathers fetch top dollar, and the leather is softer than lamb. Plus, they’re a hoot to have around.”
One of the birds walked up to the truck and stared at Roy, its head only a foot away from his face. Roy recoiled.
“No need to be afraid,” Harold said. “She just wants her head scratched.”
The bird’s head bobbed up and down, seemingly in agreement.
“I don’t like it. Make it go away.”
Bert reached over and patted the ostrich.
“See? Very docile animal. You can even ride some of the larger ones. Perhaps you’d like to try it later.”
The bird cocked its head and chirped. Then pecked Roy in the nose.
“Docile my ass.”
Roy took out his gun. The ostrich screamed, then turned its tail and ran off.
“Oh, they hate guns.” Harold got out of the Jeep. “We had some poachers here, years ago, killed four of the birds. Whenever they see a gun or hear a bang, they head for the barn.”
There were two structures on the property, the house and the stable. Both had a rough hewn, rustic quality to their design, with unfinished log trim and cedar shingles. Bert unstrapped his luggage and Harold led them into the larger of the buildings.
Tom frowned when he wasn’t met with air conditioning. Two fans spun lazily in the high, vaulted ceiling, pushing around the heat. In keeping with the log cabin concept, various pine support beams made crisscross patterns throughout the great room. There was a large chandelier, made from several dozen antlers, hanging between the two fans, and a bearskin rug, complete with head, on the floor.
“Welcome to the Harper Ranch. Anyone for coffee? Nothing beats the heat like a hot beverage.”
There were no takers.
“I’ll just be a moment. Old man, need the caffeine.” Harold left for the kitchen and Tom gave his partner a nod. Roy removed the Foxhound from his pocket and turned it on.
“What is…?”
Tom slapped a hand over Bert’s mouth and put a finger to his lips. Roy worked the room, waving the Foxhound’s antenna this way and that. He was quick but thorough.
“Clean.” He put the bug detector away just as Harold came back.
The doctor was holding an oversized mug of steaming coffee. He took a sip and set it on the table. Tom caught the aroma and had to admit it smelled pretty damn good.
“Fine, then let’s sit down, shall we? Plenty to discuss, that’s for sure.”
Harold ushered them onto two sofas. Tom sat and stared at the ceiling-high stone fireplace. Why the house needed it was beyond his reasoning. Harold took the floor before them.
“The easiest way to do this, I think, is to start from the beginning. Forty years ago. I was one of only a handful of scientists trying to attempt in vitro fertilization—fertilizing an egg outside of the womb. My team worked with gametes from mice, then cows, and then finally with human sperm and ova.”
Harold paused to sip some coffee.
“The work was funded in secret, done privately. We did it in Mexico. Not that we were breaking any US laws, per se, but pure science is always easier without regulation, and we had a doozy of a problem to solve. My first success took place right before we landed on the moon—this was almost ten years before Louise Brown, the first official test tube baby, was born.”
“Who was funding you?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. But imagine, if you will, how excited we were that we’d created a person in a lab. And yet we couldn’t publish, we couldn’t go public. It was all very hush-hush. I found out why later. Our benefactor, it seems, was looking for more than reproductive technology. After proving that sexual reproduction was possible in vitro, he next wanted us to prove that asexual reproduction was possible in humans.”
“Cloning?”
“Sort of. Asexual reproduction is having offspring with only one parent. This usually results in an exact genetic copy. Many things reproduce in this way—protozoan, fungi, seaweed, coral, insects, fish, lizards, even some birds under artificial conditions. The word clone comes from the Greek word for twig. Cut off a twig, plant it, grow a new tree. In theory, anyway.”
The doctor was pacing before them, gesturing with his hands. He was talking at a terrific clip, the words coming out so fast they ran together. Tom thought of a champagne bottle, finally uncorked after decades in a cellar.
“It was hard work. How can you create life without a sperm and egg? We knew about chromosomes. Humans have forty-six, getting half from the mother and half from the father
. But what if there was no father? Could we fool an egg into thinking it was a zygote, that it had been fertilized, using only the chromosomes of one parent?”
Harold shook his head sadly.
“Set backs. Years of setbacks. We were trying to implant a karyoplast into the cytoplasm of a zygote. Nuclear transfer. Forcing a morula or blastocyst without two haploids.”
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