Micro

by Michael Crichton

  “Me? None.”

  “Then who?”

  “Nobody at the moment,” Peter said, his voice sinking. Eric had always had lots of girls, but Peter’s love life was erratic and unsatisfactory. There had been a girl in anthropology; she worked down the street at the Peabody Museum, but that ended when she started going out with a visiting professor from London.

  “That Asian woman is cute,” Eric said.

  “Jenny? Yes, very cute. She plays on the other team.”

  “Ah, too bad.” Eric nodded “And the blonde?”

  “Erika Moll,” Peter said. “From Munich. Not interested in an exclusive relationship.”

  “Still—”

  “Forget it, Eric.”

  “But if you—”

  “I already did.”

  “Okay. Who’s the tall, dark-haired woman?”

  “That’s Karen King,” Peter said. “Arachnologist. Studying spider web formation. But she worked on the textbook Living Systems. Kind of won’t let anybody forget it.”

  “A little stuck-up?”

  “Just a little.”

  “She looks very buff,” Eric remarked, still staring at Karen King.

  “She’s a fitness nut. Martial arts, gym.”

  They were coming back to the group. Alyson waved to Eric. “You about ready, honey?”

  Eric said he was. He embraced Peter, shook his hand.

  “Where now, bro?” Peter said.

  “Down the road. We have an appointment at MIT. Then we’ll do BU later in the afternoon, and start driving.” He punched Peter on the shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger. Come and see me.”

  “I will,” Peter said.

  “And bring your group with you. I promise you—all of you—you won’t be disappointed.”

  Chapter 2

  Biosciences Building 18 October, 3:00 p.m.

  Returning to the lab, they experienced that familiar environment as suddenly mundane, old-fashioned. It felt crowded, too. The tensions in the lab had been simmering for a long time: Rick Hutter and Karen King had despised each other from the day they had arrived; Erika Moll had brought trouble to the group with her choice of lovers; and, like so many grad students everywhere, they were rivals. And they were tired of the work. It seemed they all felt that way, and there was a long silence as they each returned to their lab benches and resumed work in a desultory way. Peter took his milking beaker off the ice block, labeled it, and put it on his shelf of the refrigerator. He noticed something rattling around with the change in his pocket, and, idly, he took the object out. It was the little thing he’d found in his brother’s rented Ferrari. He flicked it across the bench surface. It spun.

  Amar Singh, the plant biologist, was watching. “What’s that?”

  “Oh. It broke off my brother’s car. Some part. I thought it would scratch the leather.”

  “Could I see—?”

  “Sure.” It was a little larger than his thumbnail. “Here,” Peter said, without looking at it closely.

  Amar put it in the flat palm of his hand, and squinted at it. “This doesn’t look like a car part to me.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’d say it’s an airplane.”

  Peter stared. It was so small he couldn’t really make out details, but now that he looked closely, it did indeed appear to be a tiny airplane. Like something from a model kit, the kind of kits he’d made as a boy. Maybe a fighter jet to glue onto an aircraft carrier. But if so, it was like no fighter jet he had ever seen. This one had a blunted nose, an open seat, no canopy, and a boxy rear with tiny stubby flanges: no real wings to speak of.

  “Do you mind…”

  Amar was already heading for the big magnifying glass by his workbench. He put the object under the glass, and turned it carefully. “This is quite fantastic,” he said.

  Peter pushed his head in to look. Under magnification, the airplane—or whatever it was—appeared exquisitely beautiful, rich with detail. The cockpit had amazingly intricate controls, so minute it was hard to imagine how they had been carved. Amar was thinking the same thing.

  “Perhaps laser lithography,” he said, “the same way they do computer chips.”

  “But is it an airplane?”

  “I doubt it. No method of propulsion. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just some kind of model.”

  “A model?” Peter said.

  “Perhaps you should ask your brother,” Amar said, drifting back to his workbench.

  Peter reached Eric on his cell phone. He heard loud voices in the background. “Where are you?” Peter said.

  “Memorial Drive. They love us at MIT. They understand what we’re talking about.”

  Peter described the small object he had found.

  “You really shouldn’t have that,” Eric said. “It’s proprietary.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Actually, it’s a test,” his brother said. “One of the first tests of our robotic technology. It’s a robot.”

  “It looks like it has a cockpit, with a little chair and instruments, like someone would sit there…”

  “No, no, what you’re seeing is the slot to hold the micro-power-pack and control package. So we can run it remotely. I’m telling you, Peter, it’s a bot. One of the first proofs of concept of our ability to miniaturize beyond anything previously known. I was going to show it to you if we had time, but—listen, I’d prefer you keep that little device to yourself, at least for now.”

  “Sure, okay.” No point in telling him about Amar.

  “Bring it with you when you come to visit us,” Eric said, “in Hawaii.”

  The head of the lab, Ray Hough, came in and spent the rest of the day in his office, reviewing papers. By general agreement it was considered poor form for the graduate students to discuss other jobs while Professor Hough was present. So around four o’clock they all met at Lucy’s Deli on Mass Ave. As they crowded around a couple of small tables, a lively discussion ensued. Rick Hutter continued to argue that the university was the only place where one could engage in ethical research. But nobody really listened to him; they were more concerned with the claims that Vin Drake had made. “He was good,” Jenny Linn said, “but it was a sales pitch.”

  “Yes,” Amar Singh said, “but at least one part of it was true. He’s right that discoveries do follow new tools. If those guys have the equivalent of a new kind of microscope, or a new PCR-type technique, then they’re going to make a lot of discoveries quickly.”

  “But could it really be the best research environment in the world?” Jenny Linn said.

  “We can see for ourselves,” Erika Moll said. “They said they’d pay airfare.”

  “How’s Hawaii this time of year?” Jenny said.

  “I can’t believe you guys are buying into this,” Rick said.

  “It’s always good,” Karen King said. “I did my tae kwon do training in Kona. Wonderful.” Karen was a martial arts devotee, and had already changed into a sweat suit for her evening workout.

  “I overheard the CFO say they’re hiring a hundred people before the end of the year,” Erika Moll said, trying to steer the conversation away from Karen and Rick.

  “Is that supposed to scare us or entice us?”

  “Or both?” Amar Singh said.

  “Do we have any idea what this new technology is they claim to have?” Erika said. “Do you know, Peter?”

  “From a career standpoint,” Rick Hutter said, “you’d be very foolish not to get your PhD first.”

  “I have no idea,” Peter said. He glanced at Amar, who said nothing, just nodded silently.

  “Frankly, I’m curious to see their facility,” Jenny said.

  “So am I,” Amar said.

  “I looked at their website,” Karen King said. “Nanigen MicroTech. It says they make specialized robots at the micro- and nano-scale. That’s millimeters down to thousandths of a millimeter. They have drawings of robots that look like they’re about four or five millimeters long—maybe a quarter
of an inch. And then some that are half that, maybe two millimeters. The robots seem very detailed. No explanation how they could be made.”

  Amar was staring at Peter. Peter said nothing.

  “Your brother hasn’t talked to you about this, Peter?” Jenny asked.

  “No, this has been his secret.”

  “Well,” Karen King continued, “I don’t know what they mean by nano-scale robots. That would be less than the thickness of a human hair. Nobody can fabricate at those dimensions. You’d have to be able to construct a robot atom by atom, and nobody can do that.”

  “But they say they can?” Rick said. “It’s corporate bullshit.”

  “Those cars aren’t bullshit.”

  “Those cars are rented.”

  “I have to get to class,” Karen King said, standing up from the table. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Nanigen has kept a very low profile, but there are a few brief references in some business sites, going back about a year. They got close to a billion dollars in funding from a consortium put together by Davros Venture Capital—”

  “A billion!”

  “Yeah. And that consortium is primarily composed of international drug companies.”

  “Drug companies?” Jenny Linn frowned. “Why would they be interested in micro-bots?”

  “The plot thickens,” Rick said. “Big Pharma behind the curtain.”

  “Maybe they expect new delivery systems?” Amar said.

  “Nah, they have that already, with nano-spheres. They don’t need to spend a billion dollars on that. They must be expecting new drugs.”

  “But how…” Erika shook her head, puzzled.

  “There’s more,” Karen King said, “from the business websites. Not long after they got the funding, Nanigen was challenged by another micro-robotic company in Palo Alto, saying Nanigen had made false representations to raise money and they didn’t really have the technology they said they did. This other company was also developing microscopic robots.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “What happened?”

  “The threatened lawsuit was withdrawn. The Palo Alto company declared bankruptcy. And that was the end, except the head of their company was quoted as saying Nanigen did have the technology, after all.”

  “So you think this is real?” Rick said.

  “I think I’m late for class,” Karen said.

  “I think it’s real,” Jenny Linn said. “And I’m going to Hawaii to see for myself.”

  “I am, too,” Amar said.

  “I don’t believe this,” Rick Hutter said.

  Peter walked down Mass Avenue with Karen King toward Central Square. It was late afternoon, but the sun still felt warm. Karen carried her gym bag in one hand, keeping the other hand free.

  “Rick gives me a pain,” she said. “He acts like he’s being ethical when he’s really just lazy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Staying in the university is safe,” Karen said. “A nice life, comfortable and safe. Except he won’t admit that. Do me a favor,” she added, “and walk on the other side of me, okay?”

  Peter moved to Karen’s left side. “Why?”

  “So my hand is free.”

  Peter looked at her right hand. She held her car keys in her fist, the key shaft protruding from between her knuckles like a knife blade. Hanging from the key chain was a canister of pepper spray, close to her wrist.

  Peter couldn’t help smiling. “You think we’re at risk here?”

  “The world is a dangerous place.”

  “Mass Ave? At five in the afternoon?” They were in the heart of Cambridge.

  “Colleges don’t report the actual number of rapes in their communities,” Karen said. “It’s bad publicity. Wealthy alumni won’t send their daughters.”

  He kept looking at her clenched fist, the key poking out. “What will you do with the keys you’re holding that way?”

  “Straight hit to the windpipe. Instant crippling pain, maybe puncture the trachea. If that doesn’t take him down, spray full in the face close-range. Kick down hard on the kneecap, break it if you can. By then he’s down, and he’s not going anywhere.”

  She was serious, almost grim. Peter suppressed an urge to laugh. The street before them was familiar, mundane. People were getting off work, heading home for dinner. They passed a harried-looking professor in a wrinkled corduroy jacket, clutching a stack of blue exam papers, followed by a little old lady with a walker. A group of joggers up ahead.

  Karen reached into her purse, pulled out a small folded knife, flipped open the thick serrated blade. “Got my Spyderco knife, I can gut a bastard if it comes to that.” She glanced up, saw his expression. “You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just—you’d really gut someone with a knife?”

  “Listen,” she said. “My half-sister is a lawyer in Baltimore. She’s walking to her car in the garage, two o’clock in the afternoon, and she’s attacked by some guy. Knocked down, hits the concrete, loses consciousness, beaten and raped. When she comes to, she has retrograde amnesia, she can’t remember anything about the attacker, how it happened, what he looks like. Nothing. One day in the hospital and they send her home.

  “So there’s a guy in the firm, a partner, he has scratches on his throat, and she thinks maybe it’s him. Some guy in her own firm, followed her out and raped her. But she doesn’t remember, she can’t be sure. And she’s just so uncomfortable. Eventually she leaves the firm, moves to DC, has to start again at a lower-paying job.” Karen held up her fist. “All because she didn’t carry her keys like this. She was too nice to protect herself. Bullshit.”

  Peter was trying to imagine whether Karen King would really stab someone with the key, or gut them with a knife. He had the uneasy feeling that she would. In a university setting, where so many people just talked, it seemed she was ready for action.

  They came to the storefront martial arts studio, the windows papered over. He could hear shouts in unison from inside. “Well, this is my class,” she said. “I’ll see you later. But listen: if you talk to your brother, ask him why drug companies put up so much money for micro-botics, okay? I’m curious.” And she went through the swinging door, into the class.

  Peter returned to the lab that evening. He had to feed the cobra every three days, and he usually did it at night, since cobras were by nature nocturnal. It was eight p.m., and the lab lights were low, when he lowered a squirming white rat into the cage and slid the glass shut. The rat scampered to the far side of the cage, and froze. Only its nose twitched. Slowly the snake turned, uncoiled, and faced the rat.

  “I hate to see that,” Rick Hutter said. He had come up behind Peter.

  “Why?”

  “So cruel.”

  “Everybody’s got to eat, Rick.”

  The cobra struck, burying its fangs deep in the rat’s body. The rat shivered, stayed on its feet, then collapsed. “That’s why I’m a vegetarian,” Rick said.

  “You don’t think plants have feelings?” Peter said.

  “Don’t start,” Rick said. “You and Jenny.” Jen’s research involved communication among plants and insects via pheromones, chemicals released by organisms to trigger responses. The field had made enormous advances over the last twenty years. Jenny insisted that plants had to be seen as active, intelligent creatures, little different from animals. And Jenny enjoyed annoying Rick. “It’s ridiculous,” Rick said to Peter. “Peas and beans don’t have feelings.”

  “Of course not,” Peter answered, with a smile. “It’s because you’ve already killed the plant—heartlessly dispatched it for your own selfish meal. You just pretend the plant didn’t scream in agony when you killed it, because you don’t want to face the consequences of your cold-blooded plant murder.”

  “Absurd.”

  “Speciesism,” Peter said. “And you know it.” He was smiling, but there was truth to what he was saying. Peter was surprised to see that Erika was in the lab,
and so was Jenny. Few of the graduate students worked at night. What was going on?

  Erika Moll stood at a dissecting board, carefully cutting open a black beetle. Erika was a coleopterist, meaning an entomologist with a special interest in beetles. As she said, that was a conversation-stopper at cocktail parties. (“What do you do?” “I study beetles.”) But, in fact, beetles were very important to the ecosystem. A quarter of all known species were beetles. Years ago, a reporter had asked the famed biologist J. B. S. Haldane what could be deduced about the Creator from the creation, and Haldane had answered, “He has an inordinate fondness for beetles.”

  “What have you got there?” Peter said to Erika.

  “This is a bombardier beetle,” she said. “One of the Australian Pheropsophus that sprays so effectively.”

  As she spoke, she returned to her dissection, shifting her body so she was touching his. It seemed to be an accidental contact; she gave no indication that she had even noticed. But she was a notorious flirt. “What’s special about this bombardier?” Peter said.

  Bombardier beetles got their name from their ability to fire a hot, noxious spray in any direction from a rotating turret at the tip of their abdomen. The spray was sufficiently unpleasant that it stopped toads and birds from eating them, and it was toxic enough to kill smaller insects immediately. How bombardier beetles accomplished this had been studied since the early 1900s, and by now the mechanism was well understood.

  “The beetles produce boiling-hot benzoquinone spray,” she explained, “which they make from precursors stored in the body. They have two sacs in the rear of the abdomen—I’m cutting them open now, there, you see them? The first sac contains the precursor hydroquinone along with the oxidant, hydrogen peroxide. The second sac is a rigid chamber, and contains enzymes, catalases, and peroxidases. When the beetle is attacked, it muscularly squeezes the contents of the first sac into the second, where all the ingredients combine to produce an explosive blast of benzoquinone spray.”

  “And this particular beetle?”

  “It adds something more to its armamentarium,” she said. “It also produces a ketone, 2-tridecanone. The ketone has repellent properties, but it also acts as a surfactant, a wetting agent that accelerates the spread of the benzoquinone. I want to know where the ketone is made.” She rested her hand lightly on his arm for a moment.