“So that’s Nye,” Carson said. “What’s his story? I mean, he looks a little strange out here, with that suit-and-pith-helmet getup.”
“Strange isn’t the word. I think he looks ridiculous. But I advise you not to tangle with him.” Singer drew up a seat next to Carson and sat down. “He used to work at the Windermere Nuclear Complex, in the UK. Remember that accident? There was talk of employee sabotage, and somehow Nye, as security director, became the scapegoat. Nobody wanted to touch him after that, and he had to find work in the Middle East somewhere. But Brent has peculiar ideas about people. He figured that the man, always a stickler, would be extra careful after what happened, so he hired him for GeneDyne UK. He proved to be such a fanatic about security that Scopes brought him over here at start-up. Been here ever since. Never leaves. Well, that’s not true, exactly. On the weekends, he often disappears for long rides into the desert. Sometimes he even stays out overnight, a real no-no around here. Scopes knows, of course, but he doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Maybe he likes the scenery,” said Carson.
“Frankly, he gives me the willies. During the week, all the security personnel live in fear of him. Except Mike Marr, his assistant. They seem to be friends. But I suppose a facility such as ours needs a Captain Bligh for a security director.”
He looked at Carson for a moment. “I guess you riled up Rosalind Brandon-Smith pretty good.”
Carson glanced at Singer. The director was smiling again and there was a gleam of good humor in his eye.
“I pushed the wrong button on my intercom,” said Carson.
“So I gather. She filed a complaint.”
Carson sat up. “A complaint?”
“Don’t worry,” Singer said, lowering his voice, “you’ve just joined a club that includes me and practically everyone else here. But formality requires that we discuss it. This is my version of calling you on the carpet. Another drink?” He winked. “I should mention, though, that Brent places a high value on team harmony. You might want to apologize.”
“Me?” Carson felt his temper rising. “I’m the one that should be filing a complaint.”
Singer laughed and held up a hand. “Prove yourself first, then you can file all the complaints you want.” He got up and walked to the balcony railing. “I suppose you’ve looked through Burt’s lab journal by now.”
“Yesterday morning,” said Carson. “It was quite a read.”
“Yes, it was,” said Singer. “A read with a tragic end. But I hope it gave you a sense of what kind of man he was. We were close. I read through those notes after he left, trying to figure out what happened.” Carson could hear a real sadness in his voice.
Singer sipped his coffee, looked out over the expanse of desert. “This is not a normal place, we’re not normal people, and this is not a normal project. You’ve got world-class geneticists, working on a project of incalculable scientific value. You’d think people would only be concerned with lofty things. Not so. You wouldn’t believe the kind of sheer pettiness that can go on here. Burt was able to rise above it. I hope you will, too.”
“I’ll do my best.” Carson thought about his temper; he’d have to control it if he was going to survive at Mount Dragon. Already he’d made two enemies without even trying.
“Have you heard from Brent?” Singer asked, almost casually.
Carson hesitated, wondering if Singer had seen the e-mail message sent to him.
“Yes,” he said.
“What did he say?”
“He gave me a few encouraging words, warned me against being cocky.”
“Sounds like Brent. He’s a hands-on CEO, and X-FLU is his pet project. I hope you like working in a glass house.” He took another sip of coffee. “And the problem with the protein coat?”
“I think I’m just about there.”
Singer turned, gave him a searching glance. “What do you mean?”
Carson stood up and joined the director at the railing. “Well, I spent yesterday afternoon making my own extrapolations from Dr. Burt’s notes. It was much easier to see the patterns of success and failure once I’d separated them from the rest of his writings. Before he lost hope and began simply going through the motions, Dr. Burt was very close. He found the active receptors on the X-FLU virus that make it deadly, and he also found the gene combination that codes for the polypeptides causing the overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid. All the hard work was done. There’s a recombinant-DNA technique I developed for my dissertation that uses a certain wavelength of far-ultraviolet light. All we have to do is clip off the deadly gene sequences with a special enzyme that’s activated by the ultraviolet light, recombine the DNA and it’s done. All succeeding generations of the virus will be harmless.”
“But it’s not done yet,” said Singer.
“I’ve done it a hundred times at least. Not on this virus, of course, but on others. Dr. Burt didn’t have access to this technique. He was using an earlier gene-splicing method that was a little crude by comparison.”
“Who knows about this?” Singer asked.
“Nobody. I’ve only roughed out the protocol, I haven’t actually tested it yet. But I can’t think of a reason why it wouldn’t work.”
The director was staring at him, motionless. Then he suddenly came forward, taking Carson’s right hand in both of his own and crushing it in an enthusiastic handshake. “This is fantastic!” he said excitedly. “Congratulations.”
Carson took a step backward and leaned against the railing, a little embarrassed. “It’s still too early for that,” he said. He was beginning to wonder whether he should have mentioned his optimism to Singer quite so soon.
But Singer wasn’t listening. “I’ll have to e-mail Brent right away, give him the news,” he said.
Carson opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, just that afternoon, Scopes had warned him against being cocky. But he knew instinctively that his procedure would work. His dissertation research had proved it countless times. And Singer’s enthusiasm was a welcome change from Brandon-Smith’s sarcasm and de Vaca’s brusque professionalism. Carson found himself liking Singer, this balding, fat, good-humored professor from California. He was so unbureaucratic, so refreshingly frank. He took another swig of the bourbon and glanced around the balcony, his eye lighting on Singer’s old Martin guitar. “You play?” he asked.
“I try,” said Singer. “Bluegrass, mostly.”
“So that’s why you asked about my banjo,” Carson said. “I got hooked listening to performances in Cambridge coffeehouses. I’m pretty awful, but I enjoy mangling the sacred works of Scruggs, Reno, Keith, the other banjo gods.”
“I’ll be damned!” said Singer, breaking into a smile. “I’m working through the early Flatt and Scruggs stuff myself. You know, ‘Shuckin’ the Corn,’ ‘Foggy Mountain Special,’ that kind of thing. We’ll have to massacre a few of them together. Sometimes I sit out here while the sun sets and just pick away. Much to everyone’s dismay, of course. That’s one reason the canteen is so deserted this time of the evening.”
The two men stood up. The night had deepened and a chill had crept into the air. Beyond the balcony railing, Carson could hear sounds from the direction of the residency compound: footsteps, scattered snatches of conversation, an occasional laugh.
They stepped into the canteen, a cocoon of light and warmth in the vast desert night.
Charles Levine pulled up in front of the Ritz Carlton, his 1980 Ford Festiva backfiring as he downshifted beside the wide hotel steps. The doorman approached with insolent slowness, making no secret of the fact that he found the car— and whoever was inside it—distasteful.
Unheeding, Charles Levine stepped out, pausing on the red-carpeted steps to pick a generous coating of dog hairs off his tuxedo jacket. The dog had died two months ago, but his hairs were still everywhere in the car.
Levine ascended the steps. Another doorman opened the gilt glass doors, and the sounds of a string quartet came floating graciously o
ut to meet him. Entering, Levine stood for a moment in the bright lights of the hotel lobby, blinking. Then, suddenly, a group of reporters was crowding around him, a barrage of flashbulbs exploding from all sides.
“What’s this?” Levine asked.
Spotting him, Toni Wheeler, the media consultant for Levine’s foundation, bustled over. Elbowing a reporter aside, she took Levine’s arm. Wheeler had severely coiffed brown hair and a sharply tailored suit, and she looked every inch the public-relations professional: poised, gracious, ruthless.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” she said quickly, “I wanted to tell you but we couldn’t find you anywhere. There’s some extremely important news. GeneDyne—”
Levine spotted a reporter he recognized, and his face broke into a big smile. “Evening, Artie!” he cried, shrugging away from Wheeler and holding up his hands. “Glad to see the Fourth Estate so active. One at a time, please! And Toni, tell them to cut the music for a moment.”
“Charles,” Wheeler said urgently, “please listen. I’ve just learned that—”
She was drowned out by the reporters’ questions.
“Professor Levine!” one person began. “Is it true—”
“I will choose the questioners,” Levine broke in. “Now, all of you be quiet. You,” he said, pointing to a woman in front. “You start.”
“Professor Levine,” the reporter called out, “could you elaborate on the accusations about GeneDyne made in the last issue of Genetic Policy? It’s being said that you have a personal vendetta against Brentwood Scopes—”
Wheeler suddenly spoke up, her voice cutting through the air like ice. “One moment,” she said crisply. “This press conference is about the Holocaust Memorial award Professor Levine is about to receive, not about the GeneDyne controversy.”
“Professor, please!” cried a reporter, unheeding.
Levine pointed at someone else. “You, Stephen, you shaved off that magnificent mustache. An aesthetic miscalculation on your part.”
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd.
“Wife didn’t like it, Professor. It tickled the—”
“I’ve heard enough, thank you.” There was more laughter. Levine held up his hand.
“Your question?”
“Scopes has called you—and I quote—‘a dangerous fanatic, a one-man inquisition against the medical miracle of genetic engineering.’ Do you have any comment?”
Levine smiled. “Yes. Mr. Scopes has always had a way with words. But that’s all it is. Words, full of sound and fury ... You all know how that line ends.”
“He also said that you are trying to deprive countless people of the medical benefits of this new science. Like a cure for Tay-Sachs disease, for example.”
Levine held up his hand again. “That is a more serious charge. I’m not necessarily against genetic engineering. What I am against is germ-cell therapy. You know the body has two kinds of cells, somatic cells and germ cells. Somatic cells die with the body. Germ cells—the reproductive cells—live forever.”
“I’m not sure I understand—”
“Let me finish. With genetic engineering, if you alter the DNA of a person’s somatic cells, the change dies with the body. But if you alter the DNA of someone’s germ cells—in other words, the egg or sperm cells—the change will be inherited by that person’s children. You’ve altered the DNA of the human race forever. Do you understand what that means? Germ-cell changes are passed along to future generations. This is an attempt to alter what it is that makes us human. And there are reports that this is what GeneDyne is doing at their Mount Dragon facility.”
“Professor, I’m still not sure I understand why that would be so bad—”
Levine threw up his hands, throwing his bow tie seriously askew. “It’s Hitler’s eugenics all over again! Tonight, I’m going to receive an award for the work I’ve done to keep the memory of the Holocaust alive. I was born in a concentration camp. My father died a victim to the cruel experiments of Mengele. I know firsthand the evils of bad science. I’m trying to prevent all of you from learning it firsthand, as well. Look, it’s one thing to find a cure for Tay-Sachs or hemophilia. But GeneDyne is going further. They’re out to ‘improve’ the human race. They’re going to find ways to make us smarter, taller, better-looking. Can’t you see the evil in this? This is treading where mankind was never meant to tread. It is profoundly wrong.”
“But Professor!”
Levine chuckled and pointed. “Fred, I’d better let you ask a question before you pull a muscle in your armpit.”
“Dr. Levine, you keep saying there is insufficient government regulation of the genetic-engineering field. But what about the FDA?”
Levine scowled impatiently, shook his head. “The FDA doesn’t even require approval of most genetically engineered products. On your grocery-store shelves, there are tomatoes, milk, strawberries and, of course, X-RUST corn—all genetically engineered. Just how carefully do you suppose they’ve been tested? It’s not much better in medical research. Companies like GeneDyne can practically do as they please. These genetic-engineering firms are putting human genes into pigs and rats and even bacteria! They’re mixing DNA from plants and animals, creating monstrous new forms of life. At any moment they could accidentally—or deliberately—create a new pathogen capable of eradicating the human race. Genetic engineering is far and away the most dangerous thing mankind has ever done. This is infinitely more dangerous than nuclear weapons. And nobody is paying attention.”
The shouts began again, and Levine pointed at a reporter near the front of the crowd. “One more question. You, Murray, I loved your article on NASA in last week’s Globe.”
“I have a question that I’m sure we’re all waiting to hear the answer to. How does it feel?”
“How does what feel?”
“To have GeneDyne suing you and Harvard for two hundred million dollars and demanding the revocation of your foundation’s charter.”
There was a short, sudden silence. Levine blinked twice, and it dawned on everyone that Levine had not known about this development. “Two hundred million?” he asked, a little weakly.
Toni Wheeler came forward. “Dr. Levine,” she whispered, “that’s what I was—”
Levine looked at her briefly and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it’s time that everything came out, after all,” he said quietly. Then he turned back to the crowd. “Let me tell you a few things you don’t know about Brent Scopes and GeneDyne. You probably all know the story about how Mr. Scopes built his pharmaceutical empire. He and I were undergraduates together at U.C. Irvine. We were ...” He paused. “Close friends. One spring break he took a solo hike through Canyonlands National Monument. He returned to school with a handful of corn kernels he’d found in an Anasazi ruin. He succeeded in germinating them. Then he made the discovery that these prehistoric kernels were immune to the devastating disease known as corn rust. He succeeded in isolating the immunity gene and splicing it into the modern corn he labeled X-RUST. It’s a legendary story; I’m sure you can read all about it in Forbes.
“But that story isn’t quite accurate. You see, Brent Scopes didn’t do it alone. We did it together. I helped him isolate the gene, splice it into a modern hybrid. It was our joint accomplishment, and we submitted the patent together.
“But then we had a falling-out. Brent Scopes wanted to exploit the patent, make money from it. I, on the other hand, wanted to give it to the world for free. We—well, let’s just say that Scopes prevailed.”
“How?” a voice urged.
“That’s not important,” Levine said very brusquely. “The point is that Scopes dropped out of college, and used the royalty income to found GeneDyne. I refused to have anything to do with it—with the money, the company, anything. To me, it’s always seemed like the worst kind of exploitation.
“But in less than three months, the X-RUST hybrid patent will expire. In order for GeneDyne to renew it, the patent renewal must be signed b
y two people: myself, and Mr. Scopes. I will not sign that patent renewal. No amount of bribes or threats will change my mind. When it expires, the rust-resistant corn will fall into the public domain. It will become the property of the world. The massive royalties GeneDyne receives every year will cease. Mr. Scopes knows this, but I am not sure the financial markets know it. Perhaps it is time analysts took another look at the high P/E ratio of GeneDyne stock. In any case, I believe this lawsuit isn’t really about my recent article on GeneDyne in Genetic Policy. It’s Brent’s way of trying to pressure me to sign that patent renewal.”
There was a brief silence, and a sudden hubbub of voices.
“But Dr. Levine!” one voice sounded over the crowd. “You still haven’t said what you plan to do about the suit.”
For a moment, Levine said nothing. Then he opened his mouth and began to laugh; a rich, full laugh that reached to the back of the lobby. Finally, he shook his head in disbelief, took out a handkerchief, and blew his nose.
“Your response, Professor?” the reporter urged.
“I just gave you my response,” said Levine, stowing the handkerchief. “And now I believe I have an award to receive.” He waved to the reporters with a final smile, took Toni Wheeler’s arm, and headed across the lobby toward the open doors of the banquet hall.
Carson stood before a bioprophylaxis table in Lab C. The lab was narrow and cluttered, the lighting almost painfully bright. He was rapidly learning the countless nuisances, minor and major, of working in a biohazard environment: the rashes that developed where the inside of the suit rubbed against bare skin; the inability to sit down comfortably; the muscular tension that came with hours of slow, careful movement.
Worst of all was Carson’s growing feeling of claustrophobia. He had always had a touch of it—he assumed it was growing up in the open desert spaces that made him susceptible—and this was just the kind of constricted environment he couldn’t stand. As he worked, the memory of his first terrified elevator ride in a Sacramento hospital kept surfacing, along with the three hours he had once spent in a subway train disabled beneath Boylston Street. The Fever Tank emergency-procedure drills were a regular reminder of the dangerous surroundings, as were the frequent mutterings about a “terminal fumble”: the dreaded accident that might someday contaminate the lab and all who worked in it. At least, Carson thought, he wouldn’t be confined to the Fever Tank much longer. Provided, of course, that the gene splicing worked.
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