Lemuria

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Lemuria Page 12

by Burt Clinchandhill


  Jennifer nodded.

  “It looks like they are filling up again with new matter. Also, your EEG showed no abnormalities in the past five days or so. In the first days after your treatment, there was some, what you might call epileptic activity, but now....”

  Sylvia took Jennifer’s hand, and while the two laughed, she squeezed it tight.

  “Ouch,” Jennifer said, though she still smiled at Sylvia.

  “Oh, sorry, honey,” Sylvia apologized.

  Jennifer’s smile never left her face. “So, what now, doctor?”

  “Now, we let nature run its course. I’m only an advisor in this, but what I see on this”—he looked at this tablet—“I think you might be ready to leave in a day or two.”

  “That’s great,” Sylvia said. “I can take you with me, and you can stay at the house while regaining your strength.”

  “That’s great, Mom, thanks.” Jennifer raised her head, smelling the air. “Something smells good.”

  Both Sylvia and Dr. Elder sniffed the air.

  “I don’t smell anything,” Sylvia replied.

  “Nothing,” the doctor confirmed.

  “Smells like soup—chicken soup.” Jennifer licked her lips.

  The doctor looked at his watch. “Could be,” he corroborated. “The cafeteria is two floors down from here, and I presume they’re preparing the afternoon snack around this time.”

  “Maybe the treatment also elevated your sense of smell,” Sylvia joked.

  “Who knows?” Jennifer looked at the doctor, grinning.

  “I don’t think so,” the doctor replied. “The sense of smell in the brain is located in the central, lower front of the brain. Here....” On his tablet, he pointed to a small lump at the front of the picture of Jennifer’s brain. “You see here, this tiny lump? That’s the olfactory lump. Together with the pyriform cortex”—he pointed a bit further into the brain—“it relates to the sensation of smell. Now, your therapy was aimed at the top of the frontal lobe, where motor control resides. But, who knows, maybe you’ll get a super smell in the process, and you can become some kind of superhero.”

  They all laughed.

  “But is there anything I need to take into consideration when I leave the hospital? Medication, perhaps?”

  “Well, you’ve been lying in a hospital bed for almost a month now, so your body needs time to recuperate for a while. And there’s a diet I would like you to follow.”

  “A diet for my brain?” Jennifer asked.

  “I call it the Neurogenesis diet,” the doctor answered, grinning.

  “Is that an actual medical thing, doctor?” Sylvia asked.

  “I’m serious. You know the brain has the least regenerative properties in the adult human body. Up until a few years ago, we thought it didn’t have any regenerative properties at all. Now studies show that in adult humans, around seven hundred new neurons are generated from stem cells in the hippocampus every day. There’s also evidence that when adult humans receive certain cancer drugs, they can block the generation of new neurons, which links to memory formation and mood regulation. Subjects remember less and get more depressed.”

  “And a diet helps?” Jennifer frowned.

  “Yes. Not only a diet but also behavior can influence neurogenesis. Dr. Sandrine Thuret, who leads the Adult Neurogenesis & Mental Health Laboratory at King’s College in London found that things like stress and sleep deprivation can have a negative influence. On the other hand, learning and running have a positive influence. You should look her up on YouTube.”

  “Later, at my place,” Sylvia joked. “But, you’ll go to bed early and get enough sleep first.”

  “Sure, Ma.” Jennifer fanned her face. “And what about that diet?”

  “Well, I’ll get it to you on paper before you leave, but foods with Omega 3 fatty acids, calorie restriction, flavonoids, which are present in dark chocolate and blueberries and folic acid have a positive influence. Certain vitamin deficiencies and alcohol will decrease the production of new nerve cells. On the other hand, resveratrol has a positive effect, so if you want to drink alcohol, you best drink red wine. That contains resveratrol, so I figure it’s kind of a neutral drink. I’ll send everything to your email address.”

  “So, one or two days, doctor?” Jennifer sat up straight in the bed, slapping both arms on the covers.

  “I’ll advise it.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” both women replied simultaneously.

  “Not a problem,” Dr. Elder replied as he turned and walked out the door.

  “That’s nice, honey.” Sylvia took her daughter's hand. “Two days and you’re out of—”

  “Actually, I’m sorry,” the doctor said, suddenly returning to the room. “There’s one more thing I almost forgot, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure,” Jennifer replied. “What is it?”

  “As you probably know, hospitals like these are often supported by sponsors.” Jennifer and Sylvia both nodded. “Well, one of our biggest sponsors who coincidentally heard of your case—of course without knowing who you are—took a special interest in it. Now, we’re not in the habit of pairing sponsors and patients, but just this morning, I ran into him again in the hallway. He asked me again and would very much like to speak with you and, as far as I understand it, you might have something in common. I think he might have an interesting proposal for you.” Dr. Elder paused for a long moment while Sylvia and Jennifer looked at each other. “So, what do you think?”

  “It can’t hurt to meet.” Jennifer looked at her mother.

  “I know you’re just as curious as your father was, so I think you better meet the man, or you’ll be thinking about it for a long time.” Sylvia smiled brightly while Jennifer laughed.

  “No problem,” she said, nodding. “Send him by.”

  “Great, I’ll call him as soon as I’m out of here, and I’m sure he’ll drop by shortly.” Dr. Elder left the room again.

  “I wonder,” Sylvia hinted, “if this is the man you’ve been waiting for your entire life.”

  “Mom!”

  “I’m just saying, honey. So, what do you think this benefactor wants?”

  “I have no idea,” Jennifer replied, while sliding a finger over her cellphone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for a list of corporate sponsors on the hospital’s website. Here it is.”

  “And?” Sylvia asked curiously.

  “From John Hancock to Ronald McDonald to Copart automobiles and another dozen or so contributors. Could be any of these.”

  “We’ll just have to wait,” Sylvia said as they heard a knock at the door.

  “Hello,” a loud voice sounded from the door.

  Jennifer and Sylvia looked at each other with tilted heads. “Hello, please come in,” Jennifer called out.

  A dark blond man, dressed in light blue jeans and dark blue plaid sports blazer, walked into the room.

  “Hi,” the man spoke in a croaky voice. “I’m sorry to barge in, but I believe David Elder announced me?”

  “That’s quick,” Jennifer answered. “He didn’t say who was coming. He just said someone was interested, so....”

  “Oh, yes, sure, sorry again. I just ran into the good doctor in the hallway, so I thought I’d swing by first. I have a meeting in a few minutes, so let me first introduce myself. My name is Eldin Mulder from the Logynous company.”

  “Nice to meet—” Jennifer was cut off by another knock on the door, followed by the sound of a cart rolling into the room.

  A woman dressed in a white coat with a big kettle on a cart appeared.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said. “Can I interest you in a bowl of soup?”

  “What kind of soup is it?” Jennifer asked.

  “Chicken soup,” the woman replied.

  Chapter 13 – B&N’s Hideaway

  Mount Graham, AZ, The Present

  After an hour’s drive downhill through the Sonoran Desert, De Cremonese and Gavin
o drove Route 366, passing the Vatt base camp directly opposite of the Federal Correctional Institution. After sixty minutes of sand and shrubs, the scenery showed signs of human life. Within minutes, they passed the Mount Graham Market, the only supermarket for miles.

  “Almost there.” Gavino pointed right as they neared the crossing with U.S. Highway 191. Just before the intersection, Gavino steered the car to the right onto the curb and parked in front of a small building—beaten by the seasons—with a sign that read, “B&N’s Hideaway Bar and Grill.”

  “Nothing around here ever changes,” De Cremonese determined as they got out of the car and walked to the entrance. As they opened the door, a loud bell sounded through the room. The place was empty except for a man sitting at the end of the long bar. On three sides of the room, empty rows of tables topped with bottles of ketchup and plastic chairs flanked the pool table in the center. Neon lit Budweiser signs decorated the walls, alternated by army section flags and mirrors with beer labels printed on them. Behind the bar and along the walls, as many as eight televisions aired sports and news programs. “Every game, every Sunday, right here,” a sign read.

  “Good day, fathers.” A tall blonde woman emerged from behind the bar. “I’m Meredith. You want a table?”

  “Yes, please,” De Cremonese replied.

  “Just pick the one you like.” She waved her arm across the room. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “A beer, please,” De Cremonese answered.

  “What kind? We have Bud draught—”

  “That’s fine,” De Cremonese interrupted her.

  “Me too,” Gavino replied, and she quickly took off. “I always wonder how people know we’re in the service of the Lord when we dress in plain clothes.”

  “People have an instinct for that.” De Cremonese grinned. “Especially in these neighborhoods. And besides that, out here people know people. Only a few hundred people live on the two-hundred-mile stretch.”

  They found a table in the corner of the cafe. Gavino sat below a television tuned to CNN. Next to him hung a remote from a rope on the wall, and while De Cremonese faced the TV, Gavino turned down the volume.

  “Oh, sorry,” he excused himself when he noticed De Cremonese was watching the screen.

  “No, of course, no problem. I don’t watch much television myself, and I guess this is the problem with them. Once you have one, you’ll watch it,” he smiled. “You can turn it off.”

  “If only.” Gavino looked at the remote with the missing power button.

  “Here you go.” Meredith placed two beers on the table. “You also want something to eat?”

  “Yes, please,” De Cremonese said, and she quickly took two pieces of old printed paper from her apron, and put them on the table, ironing them flat with her hand.

  “I’ll come back in a few minutes.” And she was gone again.

  “Put that back up again, please?” De Cremonese asked.

  “What?” Gavino replied.

  “The volume on the television. Please turn it up again, quickly.”

  Gavino grabbed the remote, turned and pointed it, pushing the volume up button. The sound of the female reporter grew louder.

  “...So, the otherwise always cheerful and positive tech billionaire, Eldin Mulder, for the first time, clearly appeared emotional and even angry....” On the screen, the portrait in the upper right corner turned full screen when the image zoomed out to Eldin Mulder holding a press conference.

  “So, what exactly happened?” a reporter asked off-screen. “Are the police still investigating?” Another one called out, “What can you tell us about the blood?”

  Mulder looked pale, his white-knuckled fists stiff, and lips closed tight. It looked as if he would either refuse to answer and furiously walk away or burst into flames. He waited until the room became completely silent.

  “I want to read a brief statement,” Mulder said. “And I won’t be answering any questions.” He took a piece of paper from his jeans and put on his reading glasses.

  “That’s a first,” De Cremonese remarked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I never saw him read anything from paper. And I always figured he was too vain to put on glasses.”

  “Ah, so you know him?”

  Mulder started reading. “Later,” De Cremonese told Gavino. “If you don’t mind. I’d like to listen for a moment,” De Cremonese asked, and Gavino nodded.

  “Two nights ago,” Mulder began, “in our Park Road location in Granite Bay, my assistant and close friend, Amie Coleman, was abducted from the site. Around midnight, I was called by security agents who told me we had a break-in at the location. Doors were broken open, and the alarm system had been disabled. Local management was quickly onsite, and the first thought was that the burglars had probably been interrupted, since it looked like nothing was taken.

  Our access management system, however, reported that Ms. Coleman was onsite at the time of the break-in. When Ms. Coleman wasn’t found, an extensive search led to blood found near Ms. Coleman’s workspace. This blood was identified as Ms. Coleman’s.” Mulder spoke slowly and took a deep breath before taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him. “This morning, I received a letter confirming the abduction of Ms. Coleman. In the letter, the kidnappers demanded that I, and the Logynous corporation, stop playing God and cease all of our activities in the fields of artificial intelligence and gene-based therapies. They also demanded the payment of one hundred million American dollars. The sender threatened the life of Ms. Coleman should I not comply within one week. The letter was signed by the Young Earth Movement, Y.E.M.”

  Mulder tightly squeezed his watery eyes for a moment before wiping them with a tissue. “I would now like to address the Young Earth Movement.

  “There is no way I will be extorted into giving up anything I’m working on. There is no way I will pay a cent to anyone who threatens a loved one. What I do promise”—he banged his clenched fists on the table in front of him—“is that if anything should happen to Ms. Coleman, I will put all my resources into finding you, and I will destroy you.

  “And....” He paused for a long moment. “I have a counter demand. If you release Ms. Coleman unharmed within forty-eight hours, I will forget everything, and that will be the end of it. I expect to hear from you soon. You know how to find me.”

  As Mulder disappeared from the screen, journalists shouted questions that he ignored, and the host returned to the screen.

  “That’s enough,” De Cremonese said, and Gavino turned the volume back down.

  “Creationists?” Gavino thought out loud.

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh, uh, the Young Earth. I’ve heard of them. They are a European group of extreme creationists, Catholics in origin, I believe. So, do you know him?”

  “Hmm?” De Cremonese seemed zoned out.

  “Him? Do you know Eldin Mulder?”

  “Oh, yes, him and her. Not very well, but still. I met him once a few months ago.” He fell silent again for a long moment, staring straight through Gavino. “Let’s focus on the task at hand,” he came back. “So, did you think about the question?”

  “Um, I did indeed,” Gavino spoke slow.

  “But you didn’t come up with anything?” De Cremonese took a quick look at the menu.

  “That’s not it, Father,” Gavino responded quickly. “I have a theory but no proof and uh... well, I guess it’s kind of out there if you know what I mean.”

  “Son,” De Cremonese said, shifting to the front of his chair, “scientists are often described as seekers for evidence. But the truth is that we first need a theory before we can confirm anything, so please, no matter how far out there you think your theory is, please, let me hear it.”

  “All right.” Gavino leaned back into his chair. “Two rockets on their way to Mars, or its surroundings.”

  De Cremonese nodded.

  “Now, what do we know about Mars?”

  “Actually,” De Cremon
ese said, also leaning back into his chair, “we know quite a lot. And with all that, the question about Mars has shifted to how we can use that knowledge for the next step.”

  “Being?” Gavino spread both hands over the table.

  “How to get there, how to stay there for a while and, if possible, how to stay there permanently?”

  “Exactly.” Gavino sat back upright in his chair. “That is exactly what I thought. So, with no known space agency having any concrete plans at the moment, I wondered what the purpose could be of the two rockets, sent in secret, to the next habitable planet in the solar system. So, what are the biggest problems we face with living on Mars?”

  “First, we need to get there.”

  “True,” Gavino stated, “but that problem is being worked on all over the world. In the U.S. alone, there are almost a dozen agencies, private and government, working on that problem. So, I figured that’s not what these two rockets are for, but why do it in secret? No, I think this mystery has to do with actually living on the red planet.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re right. What then?”

  “All right, it’s like I said. What are the biggest problems with living on Mars?”

  “Well, I guess there are the five most significant problems, and many smaller ones.”

  “Indeed,” Gavino confirmed, tapping both hands on the table.

  “Can I take your order?” Meredith found her way back to the table, notebook in hand.

  De Cremonese picked up the menu. “Is there anything you can recommend?”

  “We have the best green chili cheeseburger in town with our homemade fries.”

  De Cremonese looked at Gavino, who nodded. “Then I’ll have that,” he said.

  “I’ll have the same,” Gavino added as she turned to him.

  “Two chili cheeseburgers coming up.” And she disappeared behind the bar again.

  “So, five big problems,” Gavino repeated as he took a pen and wrote “gravity” on a coaster. “There’s gravity. Mars has a third of Earth’s gravity, but researchers think we could get used to that.”

  “Okay, that’s one,” De Cremonese said, counting the five problems.

  “There’s temperature,” Gavino said, writing it on the coaster. “Since Mars’s atmosphere is one hundred times thinner than Earth’s, the temperature on an average day is about minus eighty degrees, but may get up to a cozy seventy degrees on a summer day.”

 

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