The Cloning

  “Laura,” the attendant replied, catching Marc’s eye as he noted the same name embroidered on her uniform. “You see, actually she named me after her self. Laura.”

  “Pretty name,” Marc commented as he signed. “Thanks a lot, Laura.”

  “Thank you!” she beamed, then returned to the galley to share her prize with the other attendants.

  Cynthia chuckled. “Isn’t it a coincidence that her mother has the same name!”

  “Oh, one gets used to these little subterfuges when one’s dealing with the public,” he replied with exaggerated casualness.

  Cynthia gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs, then laughed, “Don’t pull that phony stuff on me, Doctor. Remember we’ve known each other so long.” Marc didn’t pursue the subject, but he was confident that this little exchange had made points with Cynthia, which would pay off in the sack later.

  *

  Their hostess, Louella, had her car and driver meet them at the Denver airport, and within two hours they were high in the Rockies, approaching Louella’s fabulous home which was carved into the side of a mountain overlooking the faux-Alpine village of Vail.

  “Darlings,” Louella gushed in a heavy Texan accent as she showed them their suite, “I know you wanna do a few runs today, so I'll hold off showin’ you the rest of the house. Y’all get changed now and I'll see you later for a little après ski toddy.”

  Marc and Cynthia needed no urging to do exactly that. They'd brought their own equipment along, so in less than a half-hour, they were being whisked upward on the Vista Bahn quad, and their first run was fabulous.

  Chauvinistic or not, there was no doubt in Marc’s mind that this skiing was better by far than Chamonix. The snow was deep packed powder, groomed to absolute perfection by a fleet of snow-cats that worked into the wee hours of each night to bring the trails to such an unbelievable level of excellence. Perhaps the Rockies weren't as visually spectacular as the Alps with their craggy beauty. After all, the Rockies were several million years older and had been smoothed down, to a degree. But the skiing was primo.

  And Cynthia was no slouch either, Marc noted as he allowed her to take the lead in the China Bowl. Watching with admiration as she cut a perfect pattern into the virgin snow, he couldn't help comparing her form with Freda's, and even though Freda was the better skier of the two, there was something about Cynthia's long silhouette that really turned Marc on. Nora was right: Cynthia was first-class all the way, and he was looking forward to the night with her.

  In fact, he was hoping that they might squeeze in a little après ski hanky-panky before joining their hostess, but no such luck. Louella was at the door to meet them the moment they returned, and as soon as the butler had served their drinks, she led them on a tour of the house. Spectacular was an understatement for the mansion that was already decorated to the nth degree in a casually elegant Southwestern style. Marc couldn’t imagine why Louella wanted to change anything; apparently the woman had so much money that finding ways to spend it was her full-time occupation. Since interior decorating wasn't his long suit, he used that as an excuse to head for the sauna and Jacuzzi, hoping that Cynthia would join him. But she opted to stick to business with Louella, discussing plans for redecorating until dinnertime.

  The meal was as spectacular as the dining room itself, a glass-enclosed semi-circle that provided a panoramic view over the whole of Vail valley, snow-clad and speckled with twinkling lights. After the fish course of fresh Rocky Mountain trout came venison and elk steaks for the entrée. Copious pourings of wine loosened Louella's tongue, leading her to become increasingly familiar, and over desert she gushed, “Marc, that certainly was a fabulous picture of you on the cover of the National Inquirer . . . with that pretty little French thing.”

  Marc shot a glance to Cynthia who appeared to be studying her chocolate mousse intently. “Actually, she was Swedish,” he corrected.

  “Well whatever she was, she looked like she was plumb wild about you.”

  “You know, you can't believe half of the stuff you read in those magazines,” Marc observed with more meaning than Louella or Cynthia realized. “I'm shocked that you'd stoop to even look at such trash, Louella.”

  Louella giggled. “You'd be surprised at some of the things I've stooped to in my day.”

  “You'll have to tell me about that sometime,” he replied noncommittally.

  Luckily, Louella's intake of alcohol had reached its limit, and she was forced to retire to her quarters before she could regale them further with her exploits. Relieved, Marc was happy to be able to concentrate exclusively on Cynthia, but to his dismay, she decided that it would be fun to go dancing at a trendy club in the village. He'd never been an enthusiastic dancer, but she’d obviously consider it gauche if he suggested going directly to bed . . . although that was exactly what he'd have preferred.

  In any case, the dancing excursion was short lived because he was besieged by women of every age and description asking for his autograph, some even asking for a dance. So he and Cynthia took a leisurely stroll back through the village to Louella's house. Fresh snow had begun to fall, and the mood seemed promisingly romantic to Marc. He was pleased to note that Cynthia held his arm tightly and walked close as they approached their suite.

  But that was as close as she came that night . . . or for the entire visit. Each time he made an advance she offered one excuse or another, beginning with the old, “I’ve got a headache.” Next came, “I’ve had a little too much to drink.” And then, “My back is killing me . . . must have pulled something on the slopes today.” It wasn’t that she was cold to him; quite the contrary. She was warm and affectionate, let him nuzzle her, hold her close. On the third night, he presumed to cross the no-man’s land between their beds and to crawl quietly under her covers in the wee hours of the morning. She allowed him to cuddle next to her . . . that is, until his fingers inched close to her breasts; then she woke just long enough to tell him that she had an upset stomach and feared that she might throw up.

  He had reached a state of high horniness. Here he was being treated to the luxe life of Vail, enjoying the fresh air, the sunshine, the exercise, the delicious food and drinks . . . almost everything a man’s heart could desire, all in the company of one of the most attractive women he’d ever known.

  But at the end of each day . . . nada.

  He found himself—like a high school kid—lying awake at night thinking about nothing but Cynthia. About her long, graceful legs. About her silken blonde hair. About her soft breasts, her lips, her fragrance. Everything. Although there were women throwing themselves at him right and left in public, he could only think of Cynthia and how much he wanted her. He’d never experienced such tangible desire . . . or such frustration.

  Finally, on their last night, Louella announced over dinner that she’d like Cynthia to fly with her the next day to San Francisco to look at a fabulous Spanish refectory table that had just come on the market. It was clear that this was a ladies-only trek, and Cynthia was in no position to refuse a client as well-heeled as Louella. Since Marc had already made arrangements that required him to return to Boston the next morning, this was his last night to share quarters with Cynthia.

  But, in the privacy of their bedroom, when he put out a feeler, she once again demurred. “We have to get up so early, Marc.”

  “So what?”

  “So I’d rather not make love tonight, if you don’t mind.”

  “Tonight? Tonight?? What about the other nights? Do you know how much I want you?”

  “Do you really?”

  “You know damned well I do.”

  “I suppose you do.”

  “Why the hell did you invite me out here if you weren’t interested in anything but skiing?”

  “I thought you liked skiing.”

  “I do! But I also like making love. What’s wrong? Have I developed bad breath or something?”

  “Something.”

  “Something what?”

  “Y
ou’ve developed some bad habits, Marc. You’ve forgotten how to treat a lady as a lady.”

  “Whaa . . .?”

  “And I thought it was time for you to have a little refresher course . . . especially after the cavalier way you’ve treated me lately.”

  The fog lifted, and Marc realized that he’d been set up . . . once more. “You mean you waited all this time, then invited me all the way out here just to teach me a lesson?”

  “Uh huh,” Cynthia nodded sweetly. “No woman—at least no decent woman—wants to be treated like a sex object. We’re different from men in that regard. If you want to spend the rest of your life going from one one-night stand to the next, then be my guest . . . although I think you’re smart enough to know that eventually it’s going to leave you feeling a little empty. On the other hand, if you want to build a meaningful relationship with any woman, you’re going to have to change your ways. That’s my little lesson, given with great sincerity on behalf of all the females of the world. And I hope you won’t forget it.”

  “Are you saying that we’re finished?”

  “Not necessarily. I like you, Marc. I don’t know exactly why, but there’s something about you that turns me on . . . makes me forget that I’m a lady. I like that sometimes . . . when we’re alone. But I won’t be treated like a tramp in public, and I won’t have my name dragged through the tabloid press. So, after you’ve had time to think it over, maybe we can work things out. Okay, sweetheart?” And with that, she switched off her bedside light, pulled up her duvet, and said, “Sleep well.”

  Marc lay there, staring into the darkness, feeling as if she’d thrown a bucket of ice water in his face, or more precisely in his crotch. His first instinct was to explain that he hadn’t had sex with Freda at the Taj. But why would Cynthia believe that? Why would anybody, when the photographic evidence so graphically suggested otherwise? His next thought was to get dressed and go to the club where he was sure to make out with one of his groupies within a half-hour. But somehow, he wanted something more than to just get laid. Damn Cynthia! he thought, giving me the knee right in my ego! Is she implying that she’ll only resume our relationship if it’s headed toward marriage? Well, if that’s what she has in mind, she’d better find herself another guy. She knows me well enough to realize that marriage is out of the question . . . to anybody. So, what’ll she settle for?

  The question plagued him for hours. He tossed and turned until finally sheer physical exhaustion lulled him into a fitful and frustrated sleep. She shook him awake two hours later with a cheery “Good morning.” He showered, went to the airport, and flew back to Boston in a total funk. Not only had he lost control of the cloning, he seemed to be losing control of his private life as well.

  *

  Later that month, the results of the referendum on the baby’s sex were counted, and to the astonishment of most of the pundits (and the disappointment of feminists), it was a stunning vindication of traditional values and sexual role models. According to the Secretary-General’s announcement, the vote was sixty-four percent in favor of a male.

  “BABY OF THE CENTURY A BOY,” the New York Times announced. The Daily News couldn’t resist, “BOY OH BOY!”

  Marc had, of course, been back from his ski trip for some time, and, hoping that the referendum was the last hurdle, he moved ahead with all deliberate speed to the fruition of the long-delayed experiment. This was helpful in putting Cynthia’s lesson out of his mind. And her lesson had apparently hit its mark, he had to admit to himself, because his id seemed to be in neutral, just sort of contentedly idling. He assumed that he could kick it into gear just as he would his Ferrari. But for now, idling was just right in his current circumstances.

  When the appropriate time arrived in Maria’s monthly cycle, she was assigned a room at Massachusetts General Hospital where Dr. William DeFeo gave her one final examination on the morning of the procedure.

  Maria was nervous about the ovum being removed, afraid of being hurt, but Dr. DeFeo reassured her. “Any discomfort will be minimal.”

  “You swear?” she pressed.

  “I swear.”

  Marc joined them and said that the ambulance was waiting downstairs to take him and the egg immediately back to his laboratory where the most critical part of the process would take place.

  “The patient’s all set,” DeFeo informed him.

  “Great.”

  “I’ll see you upstairs in the operating room, Maria. And don’t worry,” DeFeo told her before leaving.

  “So . . . it wasn’t such a long wait after all, was it?” Marc proffered.

  “Maybe not to you,” Maria replied, “but it was a month for me.”

  “Did the nuns let up on you a little?”

  “A little.”

  “I spoke to Father Reilly.”

  “Thanks. They let me have a few beers but they said cigarettes were out of the question.”

  “It’s the wave of the future,” Marc offered lamely as he reached for her chart.

  Maria was not happy about her role as a paragon of the future, but rather than fight a losing battle, she changed the subject. “How was the trip?”

  “Huh?” he asked, preoccupied with her chart.

  “Skiing with the babe . . . in Colorado?”

  “Oh . . . the snow was great.”

  “I’ll bet you’re both good at it.”

  “We’re not bad. We did a lot of bumps.”

  “What a surprise!” Maria let that settle, then added, “You going to marry her?”

  Marc smiled tolerantly. “No way.”

  “What about the French movie star?”

  “Not her either. Marriage isn’t in the cards for me.”

  “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  He couldn’t believe that this brat was giving him the third degree, but he didn’t want to upset her just before she went into the operating room. “My folks didn’t set a very good example. It was like being brought up on a battleground.”

  She nodded her head understandingly. “Same for me . . . except my mom died.”

  “Mine did too.”

  “Sorry,” she offered.

  “Clumsy of us both, losing our mothers,” he quipped, trying to lighten things but regretting it even as he said the words.

  She was suddenly wistful . . . but fought back the tears, determined not to let him see her acting like a child. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t mind finding mine again.”

  Before they could continue, a nurse and two orderlies arrived to take Maria upstairs. They transferred her to a gurney and rolled her to the door.

  “Hang in there,” Marc said to her. “I’ll see you afterwards.“

  “Thanks,” she murmured, then gave him a little wave as she disappeared down the hallway. For the first time, Marc saw her as more than a convenient guinea pig . . . he saw a lonely kid who was frightened.

  *

  A little more than an hour later, a mob of journalists hovered in the hallway outside Marc’s lab in Cambridge, kept back by a cordon of State police. Doctor James Halliburton, ABC’s chief scientific correspondent was one of those reporting. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness the first live broadcast of a human being actually being cloned. The tiny egg, smaller than the head of a straight pin, which was removed earlier this morning from Maria Madeira, has been brought here to the Harvard campus, and Doctor Solovino has already performed the very delicate surgical procedure in which all the genetic information in the egg was removed. We’re hoping to have a look through our pool camera that is tied in with the same electronic microscope through which Doctor Solovino is working. Yes, here it comes. This is it . . . the first look at the egg.”

  The TV screen fluttered for a second, then the image of the tiny ovum came into clear focus. It glistened, pink and rather translucent. The magnification made it appear almost like a gelatinous tennis ball, which had been opened at one side.

  A few miles away, Maria wat
ched the television from her hospital bed while Generalissimo Madeira sat nearby on the edge of his seat, his eyes glued to the image. He viewed the whole procedure as the first step toward establishing his own immortality. “You haven’t had a cigarette, have you?” he asked.

  “How could I get one?” she answered defiantly. “This place is guarded like a bank.” She wasn’t about to admit that she’d stopped smoking weeks ago; that would give him too much satisfaction.

  On the screen a tiny instrument came into view, a pipette of almost unimaginable delicacy. It carried the new nucleus Marc had developed from the hair’s reconstituted DNA. He slowly maneuvered the pipette to the opening in the egg and inserted it. The man-made nucleus was gently deposited inside.

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a big thing of it,” Maria said. “After all, he removed all the genes that have anything to do with you or me. All that’s left is just an empty shell.”

  “But it came from your body, Maria,” the Generalissimo insisted without removing his gaze from the screen. “And it will grow in your body.”

  “Big deal. It won’t be my baby.”

  “Oh yes it will. When it’s inside you once again . . . it will be all yours. And it will be my grandchild.” Maria snorted in derision at her father’s lack of understanding. “The egg might not even work,” she insisted. “I could still get my year off from school.”

  “It will work,” the Generalissimo replied intensely.

  Meanwhile, Marc had closed the egg and placed it in a special solution, at a carefully controlled temperature. The television monitored it for all the world to see.

  “If all goes as planned,” the commentator continued, “the egg should start to divide within twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Then this small mass of living material will be returned to the womb of Maria Madeira where it will hopefully attach itself to the wall of her womb. And there it will grow to maturity in approximately two hundred and fifty days.”

  With nothing more to do but wait and hope, Marc turned to Nora who had been nearby during the whole procedure. Her hair had grown back from her surgery, and she was very much the same woman as before the shooting except for the loss of about ten pounds. Since he had no immediate family, it seemed very appropriate that Nora should be with him for this high point of his life.