by C. P. James
The following day was busy for everyone. Geller ate breakfast with a long tableful of community leaders, then visited a few science classes, from a freshmen chemistry class to a senior seminar in holographic interferometry. In each instance, he spoke little and dove into whatever projects were underway. He easily summoned chemical and biological formulas and techniques he hadn’t personally used in 20 years.
The previous evening, Geller learned that a student with a similar academic pedigree to his was enrolled at Laird that year. Erik Heiser was a third-generation student at Laird and never really considered going anywhere else, though, like Geller, he could’ve gone anywhere. He was doing some surprisingly advanced work with tissue regeneration in cardiac muscle, and Robb arranged for Geller’s day to end with Heiser presenting some of his research 1:1 to Geller.
Robb suspected that Geller was hard to impress, and he was right about that, but Erik captivated him. After introducing his work and answering a few probing questions from Geller, he stepped up to a smartboard and started scrawling his latest growth-factor findings, unaided by notes. Robb watched, fascinated by both Erik’s erudition and Geller’s visible appreciation as he silently judged the kid’s methodology. They’d budgeted two hours for Geller to meet with Erik, shower and change before the gala, but in the end he had to cut them off just 20 minutes short of the opening remarks.
Geller Hall was a big coup for the institution, which hadn’t seen an all-new construction on its small campus since 1978. A centerpiece of its glass-and-metal design was a cavernous front lobby, featuring a 100-foot tall rotunda with a seamless glass hemisphere at the top. During the day, the photochromic glass ceiling acted like a sunglass lens to help regulate the temperature inside. At night, the same panels rendered the night sky over Laird in real time, clouds be damned, so students could relax or study in the atrium with a sense of awe and wonder. A circular infinity pool at the floor level perfectly reflected the image overhead, so someone leaning over the railing on one of the three classroom floors could still enjoy the view. For this occasion, most of Laird’s 2,000 students and half the community had crammed themselves into the atrium. Many—students, especially—were there just to catch a glimpse of their most famous alumnus.
The cornerstone had been laid nearly two years before, so the time capsule would be sealed inside a giant black monolith behind the reflecting pool that recognized the building’s major donors. The monolith was a nod to Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, which complemented the astronomy-heavy entrance. An assortment of students, faculty and staff members, community members and schoolchildren had been selected to contribute an item to the capsule, along with Geller and a few other major contributors. No one, including Robb, had any idea what Geller was going to put into it.
After the hors d’oeuvres and champagne, it was time for the remarks to begin. Humphries gave the opening welcome and invocation, then asked the newly appointed dean of faculty to introduce the time-capsule contributors. Each explained what science meant to them, then explained how their items related to science and the times. They included the remains of an incinerated model rocket, a compass, and a jar once used to catch fireflies before they went extinct. As the final speaker of the evening, Geller was met with a seemingly endless chorus of applause that filled the atrium like thunder. He carried a small plastic bag onto the dais and set it down behind the podium, and began:
“Thank you, President Humphries, Dean Whelden and distinguished guests. I know you all are anxious to take your first tour of this amazing building, and maybe to get some fresh air, so I’ll keep my remarks brief. Before I begin, however, I’d like to quickly address some of the rumors you may have heard about me.
“For those of you who don’t know who I am, I won a little science contest a few years ago.”
Appreciative, enthusiastic applause filled the atrium. Geller let it wash over him, then continued.
“Second of all, I don’t save jars of my own urine in a secret underground bunker.”
Polite laughter.
“The truth is, I prefer unbreakable plastic bottles, and I keep them in my living room for all to see.”
Raucous laughter. Robb glanced over at Erik, who was rapt.
“The third and most insidious rumor about me is that I haven’t been to the Laird campus since I graduated those many years ago. That’s not true. A few days after I won a billion dollars, President Jesseps kidnapped me and fed me the veggie burgers from Northrup Commons until I gave my address to the alumni office.”
Again, the audience was charmed by their mysterious benefactor, most of whom were in disbelief that he seemed like just a regular guy.
“In all seriousness, I see this beautiful new building as sort of a monument to higher thought, particularly in the area of science. Obviously, that’s very close to my heart. Please, indulge me a moment and look up at the canopy of stars overhead.”
The lights in the atrium faded. Overhead, the universe itself unfolded in all its brilliance. Geller gave them a moment to appreciate it, and continued in a softer tone befitting the darkness.
“The ocean of stars and distant galaxies you see lie in the vast, unknowable vacuum of space. An incomprehensible abyss without end. Every object you see is receding from us, and each other. Yet there they are, as real to us as anything or anyone.
“Science endeavors to know the unknowable. It stares into that abyss and sees only a question: Why? But it does not know the answer. It knows what it knows, and based on that, it guesses.
“Think about that for a moment. Science—the whole of human knowledge about the world in which we live, and nature, and matter, and everything since the dawn of time is at our fingertips, but the best we can ever do when contemplating the endless mysteries of life is to guess. We know what we know, but because of that, we also know what we don’t know, because sometimes we fail. Science, ladies and gentlemen, offers only this.
“But that is its beauty. We know what we don’t know, yet we move forward, feeling our way through the long, dark tunnel of discovery. Reaching out into that abyss—that’s courage. Science is courage. We don’t know what will happen, no matter how much confidence we project to the world.”
Geller paused for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he reached down and unwrapped the crinkled plastic bag as the lights came back up.
“I thought long and hard about what I was going to put into your time capsule. All they said was that it should be something meaningful and significant to me yet germane to the occasion. The stuff that’s gone in so far has been really clever and personal, and I feel like this doesn’t measure up, but anyway … Among other things, I’m a geneticist, and one thing we geneticists study are gene pairs. So, I thought it might be fitting to bring one of my own personal gene pairs.”
He reached into the bag and removed a faded pair of blue jeans with holes worn through. It took the audience a moment, but finally polite chuckles rippled through them and some soft applause. It wasn’t that they didn’t get the joke—it was surprise and perhaps a little disappointment that the most celebrated scientific mind of their time didn’t come up with something weightier than an old pair of jeans. Sensing this, Geller continued.
“Now hear me out. I bought these jeans my freshman year at Laird, and wore them basically every day. Dr. Robb probably remembers. Well, up until about two days ago they were in the same box I put them in when I moved out of my dorm. Every discovery I’ve made, every patent I hold, owes a debt to these old jeans. But that isn’t the point.
“The point is, these are who I am. I am not this sport coat, or this expensive building, or whatever notoriety I have. I’m a ridiculously comfortable pair of jeans, and a lab, and fluorescent lights, and Chinese takeout. We all have something like this in our life. Whatever it is, my advice is that you hold onto it. Don’t forget who you are, and never apologize for it. Thank you again for the honor of helping bring this amazing building to Laird, and thank you to all—well, most—of my
former professors, especially Professor Robb, for never asking me to be anything other than what I am.”
Geller received appreciative applause as he carefully rolled up the old jeans and placed them into the oblong concrete box. President Humphries invited everyone in attendance to check their tickets to see what tour group they were in, and pointed to student tour guides wearing color-coded vests. As they filtered out of the atrium, Robb inched his way toward the dais and found Geller chatting with a couple donors. They shook his hand and joined a tour group.
“Well?” Geller asked.
“You were … surprising,” Robb said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoyed holding court.”
“I rise to the occasion,” Geller said. He joined Robb on the floor and they fell in behind their own tour group.
“I haven’t gotten to talk to you. How goes it with the FDA?”
“We’re in Phase 2 trials. So far so good, but we won’t know anything definitive for years. Some of these diseases are rare enough that you could give placebo to the whole test group and still not have any symptoms show up, you know what I mean?”
“Listen, Brent, I need to ask you something …”
Robb pulled him out of the hallway and into a small study area, then checked around to make sure no one was in earshot.
“I’m going to be a grandfather.”
“That’s great, Jim.”
“The thing is, Hannah carries the gene for ALS.”
Geller understood now why they were having this conversation.
“You want to get her in the trial.”
“She’s not convinced, but if she agreed, could you get her in?”
“Maybe.”
“I believe in what you’re doing, and I trust you. I know her risk is low, but she’s having my grandchild. I want it to be zero.”
15
From The Perfect Generation: A Memoir
by Dr. Brent A. Geller
I owe a debt to Laird College, even though I’m persona non grata to them. It’s the kind of place you don’t appreciate or even understand until well after the fact, like grandma’s meatloaf or losing your virginity. Much has been made about my relationship with the college over the years, but when I was shopping for colleges at age 15, it wasn’t enough to have my ass kissed. Everyone was doing that. But when Jim Robb came to me with an actual, specific problem he thought I might be able to help solve, it intrigued me. I knew I was only going to be there for a couple years while I applied to graduate schools. Plus, they considered undergrad research to be a focus so once I visited and hit it off with Jim, that was that.
We studied frogs in Costa Rica for most of my first year, during which we became pretty close. Jim was working off grants from the Costa Rican government and some international wildlife concerns, and we flew down there often enough for us to figure out why their reproduction rates were dropping—a few weeks each semester. I had never been to Costa Rica and my Spanish was lousy but Jim was like a native. He taught me that science wasn’t about labs and white coats—it was about asking the right questions, obsessing about the answers, and getting your hands dirty. And boy, did they get dirty. Frogs, as you know, enjoy areas we consider swampy or mucky. I spent more time in chest waders during that year than I did until I started fly fishing about 40 years later. It was great fun.
In the spring of 2030, Ryan Humphries, president of Laird College, called me to talk about the science building, Erdmann Hall. I remembered it as one of many overbuilt, boxy classroom buildings, and it had been showing its age even when I was there. It was built in the late 1980s, and though it had been well-kept and scrupulously maintained, it had become an eyesore. He candidly admitted that my notoriety as an alumnus would help boost enrollment if they had a new building.
I listened to his pitch about naming opportunities in that kid-gloves way that fund raisers like to talk. I hate phone calls, so I asked him to prepare a proposal and send it to me. Long story short, a $20 million lead gift would get my name on it and they were pretty confident they could raise the other $40 million. Now, I know how this sounds, but at that point in my life I don’t know if I would’ve gotten out of bed for $20 million. I personally held about 60 lucrative patents by then, mostly techniques for protein synthesis that had agricultural and medical applications. The point is, I didn’t care if they named it after me or not. I really didn’t. In fact, I even asked Humphries if they could name it something awesome like Kickass Hall but he didn’t seem amused. I had my admin look over the proposal for anything weird and signed it without reading many of the details.
Laird’s campaign was successful and so they built Geller Hall. I kicked in a few million at the end to get some extra bells and whistles, like the cool star thingy in the main atrium, but I asked them not to publicize it. I thought it would be good for the college if it looked like they got a lot for their money.
The grand opening was in 2037. I carved out a couple days to return to Laird and help dedicate the building. It was nostalgic in a way, though I was only there a couple years and spent so much time out of the country that very few people even knew me. The morning of the dedication, Jim took me into the new building, which had been holding classes since the start of the term, and introduced me to a freshman named Erik Heiser. The kid was doing incredibly advanced work, pioneering a way to regrow cardiac muscle over a nanotube substrate. It was a mystery to me why he wasn’t at Hopkins or somewhere like that, but I could guess at his reasons, having followed a similar path.
Erik was hungry and smart. He asked good questions and knew what he didn’t know. We talked about his work, my work, stuff we were working on at GIG, and the Cure. He was curious about its development, its potential, and its potential complications. By the time Jim practically yanked me out of the lab, there was barely time to throw on a jacket and join the crowd gathered in the atrium.
Jim pulled me aside that night and told me his daughter, Hannah, was pregnant and interested in being part of the trial. I’d met her only once or twice, but she sounded like a pretty good fit. It was clear that Jim wanted this for her, but I never could figure if it was because of what the Cure offered her or because he trusted me. I wanted to think it was a little of both.
It was a classy affair by Laird standards, and the mood was high. It’s hard for a small college to start and build momentum compared to bigger institutions, so the whole thing had a great energy. We all said a few words, I cracked a couple jokes, and the honoraries put some knick-knacks in a time capsule. My contribution was a pair of jeans that I actually brought with me from Colorado. I’m not certain that I had them when I was at Laird, but I wore them almost exclusively while we were working on the Cure and never had the heart to get rid of them. What no one knew then, and didn’t know until I wrote this, is that the pockets weren’t entirely empty.
16
Baz and Lucia surprised their adopted son, Perfecto, on his 25th birthday with a 14-day cruise around the Mediterranean for him and his fiancé, Sophie. They not-secretly wanted to come along, but didn’t press the issue. He carried all their hopes for grandchildren, so he delighted in teasing them with scant or misleading information about their wedding date.
The Cure (formally the multivector in-vitro selective gene replacement battery) received FDA approval in 2032, 18 years before Perfecto and Sophie were clinking glasses off Malta. Nearly 22 million mothers would eventually received the in-vitro treatment by then which, true to Geller’s original plan, was completely free. It had attained nearly mythical status, perceived by many to be a bulwark against all disease, which wasn’t true. That didn’t stop the tidal wave of interest from expectant mothers, many of whom had been hearing about the Cure since their formative years.
By the time Phase 3 trials were completed, none of the 1,300 kids they’d treated had developed any of the 34 specific conditions it was designed to prevent. The numbers were pretty compelling, considering their risk factors. Some of Geller’s “desirable side effects” were
also evident: Clear skin, bright eyes, great teeth and above-average intelligence and physical stamina were pretty much the norm, so when a writer for The Atlantic dubbed them “The Perfect Generation,” it stuck.
GIG’s 13 regional facilities treated an uninterrupted stream of expectant mothers. By then, they had expanded the treatment window by 30 days, from 60–90 to 30–90. As a result, many women who thought they might be pregnant just went straight to a GIG center to be tested and, if the test was positive, received the treatment immediately.
The program had plenty of detractors. Scientists in the newly reconfigured Soviet Union routinely used genetic manipulation to “design” children for wealthy couples, a shady practice often conflated with the Cure. Religious groups continued to decry it as playing God, and the medical community was split on whether the benefits outweighed the risks. But it was hard for anyone to argue with the results. The Perfect Generation, by many objective measures, was.
Two days before Perfecto and Sophie were flying back to Denver, Baz received a panicked phone call from Sophie. She said Perfecto had taken suddenly and violently ill on their cruise, and that the ship made an unscheduled port stop in Barcelona to get him into an ICU.
Baz immediately arranged a flight to Barcelona, but on his way to the airport less than an hour later, Sophie called back to say he was dead.
The next day, Baz met with with Perfecto’s doctor, a thickly accented woman named Velasquez, at Hospital de Sant Pau in Barcelona. Between the long flight and the suddenness of what happened, none of it felt real. During the flight, Baz had time to contemplate the lie he told Lucia about the reason for his trip. Perfecto acquired some strange bug acquired during the cruise and was in the hospital, he’d said, but he couldn’t say the rest. Not until he knew what happened.
“What do you know?” he asked.