Mutant

by Peter Clement

  The tall man who strode into the room wore an immaculate dark suit with a gray shirt and charcoal tie. He also looked fit and lean. Even with frizzy blond hair retreating to the sides of his bare scalp, he appeared younger than Steele, though the two were approximately the same age. His friend, as usual, had the appearance of a vain man, thought Steele, feeling particularly mean-spirited.

  Steele had always found him a bit fanatical about looking good. When they’d first met in medical school, Greg had been an avid swimmer, not so much to keep in shape or to win races, but to have a six-pack of muscles on his stomach when he took off his shirt. He became even more obsessed about training when he prematurely lost his hair. “Hey, possession of a flat tummy is the only way I can keep my youthful looks,” he often joked.

  “That and great sex,” his wife, Cindy, usually chimed in.

  He’d added the high-priced suits to his routine after he’d become dean.

  Steele, getting to his feet, absently patted the beginnings of the paunch he’d acquired since leaving work and smoothed his rumpled jersey. “You’re looking great and dressed to the nines, like always, Greg. Even seeing you makes me feel dissolute.”

  “Hi, Richard,” his friend greeted warmly. “Is that why you stopped answering my messages? I promise to get fat, if it will do any good.”

  Steele winced at the barb. It jolted him into admitting he’d been deliberately thinking the worst of the guy, all part of his ongoing campaign to hold anyone who made him remember happier times when Luana was still alive at arm’s length. Greg Stanton he’d worked particularly hard to avoid.

  The man had tried more than anyone to be there for him when she died. That hadn’t surprised Steele. As far back as when they were students together he’d been quick to offer moral support, his acerbic wit and love of excellence a perfect tonic against the discouragement all doctors in training fight off from time to time. Nor was it just as classmates they’d been close. After Steele’s marriage to Luana, Greg and Cindy, both outgoing, quickly made her one of their friends, which led to the four of them spending joyous times together. Following the arrival of children on the scene, Greg’s two daughters, several years younger than Chet, became like sisters to the boy, and he adored playing older brother to them. Devastated as they all were by Luana’s death, Greg and Cindy rallied around Steele and Chet, doing their best to comfort them. But Steele, hell-bent on shutting out all memories of what he’d lost, declined their many efforts to be with him, first rebuffing their overtures with repeated pleas of being too busy—then not returning their calls at all. Eventually Cindy, then Greg, stopped phoning.

  “Why don’t you call them?” Martha had suggested exasperatedly.

  Because they finally got the message to leave me alone, he’d thought to himself, immersed in one of his better wallows.

  Yes, Greg Stanton was a vain man, but he’d also been the best buddy Steele ever had. “Sorry, Greg. I’ve been an ass,” he replied, snapping himself out of such painful recollections. “I simply felt too embarrassed, still being so screwed up, especially after all you and Cindy did for me—”

  “Hey, I didn’t come over to help you feel guilty,” he interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “That you can do well enough on your own time. The fact is, I’m here in a professional capacity as your dean. I need a favor, for the faculty. I want you to take on a special assignment.”

  His abruptness threw Steele off guard. Having been expecting, and dreading, the man’s sympathy, he found his phrase special assignment intriguing, doubly so since Greg, Dean of Medicine, spoke as his ultimate boss. All resentment at being ambushed in his own home quickly changed to curiosity. “Oh?” he replied. “Have a seat, and how about a drink?”

  Greg nudged his brow up a notch, eyeing the oversized concoction in Steele’s hand. “I’m not that thirsty, thanks,” he said, and then perched on the edge of an easy chair, quickly coming to the point of his visit. “The UN is hosting an international conference about three and a half months from now, in early May, on the risks to human health of genetically modified food. I’ve been asked to designate a physician to accompany the American contingent. I’d like you for the job.”

  Steele’s initial tingle of excitement vanished. “That stuff’s all about plants for Christ’s sake,” he protested, dismayed that Greg had even approached him with the offer. “It’s for horticulturists or botanists, not doctors!”

  “It’s about food, Richard! Food that we all eat, including our kids.”

  “So get a dietitian,” he retorted, increasingly certain he caught a whiff of charity behind the proposal.

  Leaning forward, Greg nailed Steele with a hard blue stare. “Don’t be so dismissive. The trouble with the delegation is that it’s already top-heavy with plant experts, bench scientists, and food specialists.” He paused, pursing his lips, as if unsure of what to say next. “I can’t make any public pronouncements because I’ve no hard evidence,” he continued, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence, “but this stuff scares me. Hell, I think it should scare all physicians. Now, don’t think that I expect you to simply take my word for it. Look up what’s on the Internet about genetically modified organisms, and educate yourself. If by tomorrow you aren’t as alarmed as I am, then I’ll send someone else. One way or another, I’m going to have a top clinician at the conference, and you can rest assured that’s why I came to you—not because you’re sidelined or I took pity on your sorry ass.”

  Steele started, taken off guard by Greg’s mind reading.

  “Face it, Richard!” his friend went on, sounding impatient. “Despite the hole you’ve dug for yourself and your cutting off from everyone, there are some of us who still think you could be mighty useful to your profession. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day, and I’ve got to get home to Cindy and the girls.” He got to his feet, and before Steele could utter a word, added, “By the way, if you can stand more bad news, they’d still really like to see you, and, of course, Chet. They feel you’ve abandoned them, and frankly, I’m tired of making excuses for you.” Without waiting for a reply, he pivoted and strode out the door.

  Steele sat staring at the piano for a long time, hardly touching his drink and feeling as if Greg had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. “Guess I’m out of danger for being pitied,” he muttered, finally getting up off the couch and heading for the den, where he and Chet shared a computer. Laying aside his scotch and pulling up a chair, he logged on to the Internet, entering genetically modified organisms into the search engine. The screen informed him that there were over five thousand entries on the topic. Better narrow it down, he thought, adding the proviso danger to human health. That gave him only half as many items to choose from.

  He immediately saw that a lot of these were declarations from environmental groups involving catchy headlines and little science. Frankenstein Foods, Deadly Digestions, The New Killer Tomatoes—the Web page titles made him chuckle. Some had clever artwork, mimicking horror movies from the fifties. Others mocked the advertising of brand-name food products, showing such icons as a familiar but sickly cartoon lion offering some dubious green-looking cereal, the contents of the box reading like a chemistry set.

  At the opposite end of the spectrum he found impossibly mundane articles documenting how plants, immunized with genes from such esoteric organisms as the cowpea chlorotic mottle virus, could pass the new genetic material on to any other microbe that happened to be living in their stems or leaves. Who cares, thought Steele, until he clicked on a link to horizontal gene transfer. The article that popped up drove home why so many scientists were focused on the process.

  If we modify the genes of a plant or animal, there is abundant evidence that the altered genetic material will also pass to potential human viruses, bacteria, parasites, or insect tick vectors living on that host. There are also studies which suggest that ordinary animals ingesting such genetically altered plants might acquire these same man-made strands of DNA thro
ugh the gut into their bloodstream. This is particularly worrisome, since it evokes a scenario where a so-called normal animal could introduce genetic vectors into any microorganisms residing in its gut or circulating throughout its body.

  Steele immediately thought of animal species known to be reservoirs of human pathogens, such as cattle with TB, rodents with hantavirus, or deer carrying ticks loaded with the spirochete that causes Lyme disease. The idea of these lethal organisms having a DNA makeover gave him the creeps.

  He scrolled further, skimming through the summaries of other scientific papers that supported these claims.

  Ingested foreign DNA survives transiently in the gastrointestinal tract and enters the bloodstream; DNA ingested by mice reaches peripheral leukocytes, spleen, liver, and gonads via intestinal wall mucosa; we become what we eat.

  Wait a minute, he thought. The implication here is that the DNA in what we ingest could end up as part of our own genetic structure. But if so, it’s been happening since the dawn of time. Why the fuss now? Reflexively, he began critiquing the article the way he would his own medical journals. Then he read the author’s real concern—how the vectors themselves could be changing an ancient phenomenon for the worse.

  Until now, evolution and time have screened the DNA we’ve been exposed to. Genetically altered foods, on the other hand, subject our systems to man-made strands of nucleic acids that have never existed in nature, that are designed to jump species barriers, and that may have totally unknown long-term effects. In fact, these artificial vectors, meant to overrule existing natural barriers to horizontal gene transfer, may be sidestepping a system of checks and balances that has regulated such “jumps” in our favor for millions of years.

  Totally absorbed now, he started poring over more recent publications, growing ever more uneasy. He first read that a group of scientists in Norway fed laboratory rats potatoes that had been genetically modified to produce lectin, a substance intended to increase the plant’s resistance to worms and insects. The rats lost weight, the lectin bound itself to their white cells, and their T-cell counts went up, a reaction suggesting some sort of immune response. The authors blamed it on the genetically modified food. Critics of the study claimed the rats might have lost weight and shown an immune response because they were malnourished, there having been no protein added to an exclusively starch diet. Both sides, however, suggested that further studies be done with better controls on all the variables before the product be released into the food chain.

  What utterly flabbergasted Steele were the follow-up stories. The scientists who’d released the initial data lost their jobs, no one attempted to repeat the study, and the editor of the journal that had published the work became the target of heavy criticism by prominent spokespersons in the bioengineering industry. To her credit, she subsequently issued an eloquent rebuttal defending her decision “to favor debate over the suppression of information.”

  Right on, thought Steele, cheering the beleaguered woman for sticking to her guns.

  Continuing to punch up articles, he soon found himself veering more and more into the political landscape of the issue. A broad trend in North America quickly became clear to him—the voice of commerce and industry had seized control of the debate. “There is no established proof that genetically modified foods are harmful to human health,” he saw quoted over and over by various experts with economic interests in the business. “So there is absolutely no justification for controls that might restrict our right to trade in the product.”

  Just like the tobacco industry used to say, thought Steele.

  Some scientists, clearly a minority voice in this corner of the globe, gave the obvious reply, “There hasn’t been time yet to see what the side effects may be,” but few public figures seemed to pay heed. One suggestion he found particularly ingenious appeared on the Environment Watch Web page for public radio.

  Prominent geneticist and media personality Dr. Kathleen Sullivan suggests using polymerase chain reaction techniques, or PCR, to check the plant life around any lab using genetic vectors, to see if any contamination of the local environment has occurred.

  Sounds like a good idea to me, he agreed.

  Next, flashing ahead through a series of newspaper articles, he learned that both the Republicans and Democrats favored the economic prospects of bioengineering— each side wanted to develop the technology at home as well as export it around the planet—and that hundreds of billions of dollars were at stake. He also saw, not surprisingly, that the two parties received hefty contributions from all the players in the industry, the biggest names coughing up equal amounts to each side of the political equation. Skimming further, he began to realize that one company’s name dominated all the rest— Biofeed International.

  Shoving back his chair and stretching the fatigue out of his back, he grabbed a pad and pencil to make notes as he thought over all that he’d read. He soon came to three conclusions. First, the United States appeared to be fighting tooth and nail to avoid tighter controls on the business of genetically modifying organisms and the commercialization of making genes jump the species barrier. Second, given the many examples he’d just seen of possible unintended consequences from the technology, the prospects for a significant mistake harmful to humans were staggering. Third, if a serious error ever did occur, there would be no undoing it or recalling the mistake, the way a company pulls a defective product or the Food and Drug Administration bans medication that turns out to have unexpected and dangerous side effects. Instead, the fault would be indelibly incorporated into the victim’s genome. Nor would it end with him or her, if reproductive tissues—ova and spermatocytes—were involved, and if the host lived long enough to reproduce offspring.

  “Holy shit!” Steele uttered under his breath, incredulous that such a potential catastrophe for humankind had been unfolding in his own country and that he could, along with most everyone else it seemed, be completely oblivious to it. “You weren’t kidding, Greg. This stuff is scary.”

  He glanced at the time indicated on the corner of the computer screen and was surprised to see that it was nearly two A.M. Four hours had slipped by without his noticing. Even his drink sat untouched where he’d left it. He hadn’t become so absorbed in anything since Luana died.

  He picked up the brochure for the conference that Greg had left him. He immediately recognized the moderator’s name, Dr. Kathleen Sullivan, from the Environment Watch page he’d read earlier. He also recalled having seen the woman’s TV program a few years ago and being suitably impressed by her imaginative thinking. I’ll look forward to talking with her, he thought, already having decided to attend. Only then did he notice the locale of the meeting—Hawaii.

  He was about to switch off the computer when another title caught his attention: Identification of a Brazil-Nut Allergen in Transgenic Soybeans.

  The next time he looked up from his reading it was dawn.

  “Dad?”

  “Morning, Chet,” Steele greeted across the top of a steaming mug of coffee. Rather than go to bed, he’d showered, dressed, and, after solving the idiosyncrasies of Martha’s percolator, made enough brew to supply an ER shift. Seated at the kitchen table, waiting for his son to get up, he’d already sipped his way through a third of the pot.

  The boy glanced at his watch and declared, “You’re awake early.” It sounded like an accusation.

  Steele experienced the same giddy hesitation he often felt at the start of a resuscitation when, standing poised over the near-dead patient, he sized up what had to be done and readied himself for the feat to come. Except in ER he had a practiced technique to call upon, and in that shining instant he could always replace doubt with a plan before plunging into action. Facing his son in an attempt to reanimate their moribund relationship, he had only his instincts to fall back on, and they were rusted with disuse. “Actually I’ve been up all night,” he began. “Please sit down. I want to talk.”

  Chet immediately furrowed his young brow. “W
hy? What’s the matter?” he demanded, continuing to stand.

  Steele pursed his lips a few times, as if his mouth needed warming up to form the words he wanted to say. “ ‘What’s the matter’ is that I made you a promise in the hospital, and I’ve been slow to keep it. I want to apologize.”

  The teenager deepened his frown, but remained silent. Oh, boy, thought Steele, wishing Martha would appear and coach him about how to do this. After all, wasn’t it her idea? “If you’ll let me, I really do want to be your daddy again.”

  Chet recoiled from his side of the table, twisting up his face as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Da-ad!” he protested, managing to give the word two syllables. He shifted his weight restlessly from one leg to the other.

  “It’s okay, son. I won’t embarrass you anymore. Just know that I love you, and I’ll try not to be such a jerk around here. If I am, give me a quick kick in the ass, will you?”

  The strain in Chet’s features slowly dissolved into a look of disbelief. “Have you spent all night thinking up this corny, sugar-coated crap? Jesus!”

  Ouch, thought Steele, feeling his frustration mount. “Come on, sit down,” he persisted, hoping to exert the same calming influence on his son that he could routinely cast over an entire ER in the worst of crises. “I admit I’m awkward at this. Maybe one reason it sounds so strange is that we haven’t really talked in a long time—”

  “And who’s fault is that?” Chet snapped.

  “Mine,” replied Steele softly, his gaze never wavering from his son.

  The admission seemed to leave the boy at a loss for words. He flushed and then swallowed repeatedly, as if something got stuck in his throat.

  “Your mother could put feelings into words,” continued Steele. “I suck at it, I admit. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try, even if we are hokey and clumsy at it. After all, you and I—we’re the only family each of us has—”