The Cloning

  “I’m glad to have you back here,” he said.

  “Not nearly as glad as I am,” she replied, giving his hand a squeeze, then adding, “And I like having all those cops outside.”

  *

  Marc didn’t plan to leave the lab until the outcome of his procedure was known, one way or the other. Nora sent out for food and fended off the reporter’s requests for interviews.

  “Don’t you think it would be nice if you were to call Maria?” she suggested while they munched their sandwiches that night.

  “For what?” Marc asked.

  “Just to let her know how things are going.”

  “I’m sure she’s watching it all on television. She knows as much as I do.”

  “Still, wouldn’t it be good to establish some sort of working relationship with her? After all, if your experiment works, you’ll have to spend some time with her during the next nine months.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to her, Nora. She’s so immature! I mean, we have absolutely nothing in common.” he replied as he returned to the microscope to check again on the egg.

  Nora didn’t press the point. Obviously, the wait was beginning to get on his nerves. She knew from past experience that he became very personally involved with his work, suffered deep disappointment when things didn’t pan out as he’d planned. And, as he’d commented earlier, if this experiment failed, with the whole world looking over his shoulder, he’d have a hell of a lot of egg on his face, so to speak.

  *

  He was not alone in his wait. As the hours passed, fervid interest in the outcome continued to mount around the globe. Millions upon millions of people were hoping that the egg would split and begin to grow; even those who had no religious interest in the outcome were involved on a purely scientific level because of its uniqueness. Others hoped that the experiment would fail since its success would surely intensify a highly problematic new era for the human race, an era in which many old rules of ethics would be thrown into a tailspin. The simple fact that the world was allowed to watch this procedure live on television gave the whole process a personal appeal.

  In Las Vegas, Hong Kong, and London, professional bettors waged fortunes on whether the egg would begin to grow within the allotted thirty-six hours. In bars and cocktail lounges of both hemispheres, customers lingered for hours, transfixed by the gleaming, round shape of the ovum that filled every television screen.

  In Rome, the Pope appeared in his window overlooking Saint Peter’s square. He blessed the thousands of faithful who had gathered below, then said a prayer for the success of the experiment, that the ovum would grow into the reincarnation of Jesus of Nazareth.

  *

  The night wore on interminably for Marc. Because his windows were still painted black for security, he was unable to see the fine spring dawn that finally broke over Cambridge.

  Nora went home for a few hours to freshen up. When she returned, carrying hot coffee and bagels, she told Marc about the strange hush that had fallen over the University. Classes had been canceled since both faculty and student body were all glued to their televisions.

  “It’ll be twenty-four hours soon,” he commented.

  “I’ve been counting,” she smiled.

  “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “My shower helped. Maybe this coffee will do us both good,” she added, taking a sip of the hot, fragrant brew. “You know,” she continued, “I realize that you don’t want any phone calls interrupting things, but it might help to turn the phone back on and call some friends. It’s a good way to pass time.”

  “I don’t think so,” he replied simply. “It’s better this way.”

  They shared the rest of their breakfast silently.

  *

  The next twelve hours seemed as ponderous as the pyramids, Marc thought. Time just sat there, almost an object. He pondered Einstein’s theory, that time is another dimension . . . but in this case time seemed to be a thing, a thing that would not budge.

  After staying awake as long as her strength allowed, Nora improvised a little cot for herself and slept fitfully in the far corner of the lab.

  Marc’s eyelids became heavier and heavier. He occasionally lapsed into a momentary sleep, only to rouse himself and return to the microscope for another look. He checked all the readings on his instruments for the umpteenth time. Everything was in good order. But the egg showed no sign of life.

  Rather than shuttle back and forth to the microscope, he began just keeping an eye the TV screen, like the rest of mankind. He sat at his desk, staring at the image, straining to keep his eyes open.

  The unmoving ovum became everything to him

  . . . the world . . . the universe. His future.

  *

  Eventually the day dragged to a conclusion, and night came. Nora roused herself and ordered a fresh supply of food. Neither she nor Marc had an appetite, but they forced it down. As the thirty-sixth hour approached, he became aware that the clock seemed to be moving faster. Now, time was no longer standing still. It was running out.

  “I think I’ve had it,” he finally said.

  “Don’t give up. There’s an hour left before midnight.”

  “I’m a realist, Nora.”

  “You’re a dreamer too. Didn’t you dream up this whole cockamamie thing?”

  He smiled briefly, but then the smile faded as his eyes drifted back to the clock.

  *

  In Rome, the Pope rose before dawn to celebrate a special early morning Mass in Saint Peter’s to pray again for the success of the experiment. In the sacristy, he was dressed by the sleepy-eyed staff that seemed quieter than usual. He realized that they too were feeling the weight of events because not only his reputation but also the future of the Church Universal would be irrevocably influenced by events of the next hour. It was without question the heaviest burden he had carried in his brief reign.

  As often as he’d celebrated the Mass, Pope Gregory found it a heightened experience in the Basilica of Saint Peter, arguably the most magnificent church extant. The history, the beauty, and the sheer grandeur of the sanctuary brought a special meaning to the familiar ritual. This morning’s service promised to be even more significant. His robing complete, the Pontiff was given the miter; he leaned forward, placed it on his head, then straightened up quickly so that the lappets fell neatly over his cowl. Monsignor Lissaro handed him the Papal staff, then led the way to the door.

  The Basilica was packed with people from around the world. Here too, the Pope sensed a special feeling of expectancy in the air, the ambient hush of myriad souls in unison. He made his way in procession to the high altar where only he was allowed to celebrate the Mass, and began the ancient ritual. All eyes were on him.

  As the ceremony reached it’s climax, the choir chanted Plainsong that echoed in the high recesses of Michelangelo’s masterpiece, and the pungent smoke of incense wafted up into the dome, carrying the Pontiff’s prayers that the egg would become viable, ushering in a new era for all Christians. The Pope lifted the host high over the altar.

  “Christ has died.

  Christ has risen.

  Christ will come again.”

  *

  Meanwhile, the soft spring night in Cambridge had suddenly changed as dark, ominous clouds scuttled across the sky. From out of nowhere, it seemed, a wind arose and shook the trees violently. A torrent of rain began to fall in sheets across the campus, followed by a single, massive, bolt of vivid blue lightening that appeared to rend the sky above the quad, and an instantaneous crash of thunder followed, rattling the very foundations of Harvard. In Marc’s lab, the lights suddenly went out, along with the TV monitor and all the equipment.

  Nora, startled awake by the thunder, sat up instantly in the darkness. “What’s happened?”

  “The power’s failed.”

  “Oh, no. Do you have a back-up?”

  “Sure. The auxiliary system’s in the basement. It’s supposed to cut on automatically. Is there
a flashlight anywhere around here?” Marc asked, rummaging through a desk drawer in the blackness. Almost before the words had left his lips, the lights flickered, then came back on. He instantly rushed to the microscope and checked the ovum.

  “Is it all right?” Nora asked.

  “Seems okay,” he replied, his eye glued to the eyepiece. “It was about five seconds without power. Maybe a little more.”

  “Will that make a difference?”

  “I don’t . . .” he began to say, but then stopped himself because he thought that something stirred. Or was it just a momentary blip in the electronic transmission? Maybe his eyes were playing tricks from fatigue. He looked more closely. Nothing moved.

  Outside, the mob of sleepy journalists had suddenly come to attention. They were staring intently at their televisions.

  “The electrical storm seems to have abated almost as quickly as it arose, and the electricity is back on,” Halliburton told his television audience. “But we’re not sure what we’ve seen on the monitor. It could have been a power surge from the auxiliary electric supply that altered the image for a split second. Of course, it could also be that Doctor Solovino somehow moved the egg slightly. We’re standing by . . .”

  The world held its breath.

  Marc watched intently. Then the image stirred again. The egg seemed to contract slightly, then contorted itself to become an oval, as if it were yawning, taking a deep breath. Then it elongated in another direction, and suddenly . . . with a little lurch, it became two cells.

  “Nora!,” Marc called. “It worked! Look, it’s worked! It divided!” They held one another and wept as they watched the two living cells on the monitor.

  The media were hysterical. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just witnessed one of the most monumental events in scientific history . . . the first time that autogenesis has ever been induced from reconstituted DNA, from matter that seemed to have no life!”

  Suddenly the door to Marc’s lab was flung open, and he bounded out into the hallway, followed by an exultant Nora.

  “It’s alive! Did you see it?” Marc shouted to the crowd, grabbing Halliburton, then another reporter, for an embrace of celebration. Other journalists lifted him to their shoulders and danced in a spontaneous outpouring of shared joy. “It’s alive! “ he exulted, “It’s a human being!”

  *

  By morning the cells had divided innumerable times. No longer an ovum, it could now be called a blastula, and it was time for the implantation into Maria’s body.

  Marc personally carried the container with the blastula from his lab to the awaiting ambulance that was escorted by a police motorcade back to Massachusetts General Hospital. He delivered the little collection of cells to the operating room himself and watched while Doctor DeFeo placed it through a small incision into the waiting womb.

  DeFeo had done similar procedures many times in connection with in vitro fertilizations, and he told Marc that this implant appeared to be completely normal. “There’s every reason to think that she’ll have a perfectly ordinary pregnancy.”

  “Terrific!” Marc replied. “Damn, I feel like I’ve just delivered a baby myself. What about letting me buy you a drink?”

  “You’re on,” DeFeo replied. “But don’t you want to see Maria first?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll let your team handle her.”

  *

  But even after a couple of drinks and no sleep for nearly two days, Marc still couldn’t close his eyes when he reached home. He tossed and turned for an hour, then got up, showered, and dressed. “What the hell’s wrong with me?” he wondered aloud as he drove back to the hospital.

  He went directly to Maria’s room and felt a great sense of relief to find her sleeping comfortably. The nurse whispered that Maria was doing very well.

  “Mind if I sit with her for a while?” he asked.

  “Not at all, Doctor. Just call me if you need anything.”

  Marc pulled a chair near Maria’s bed and watched her regular breathing until his head began to nod. Then he too slept like a baby.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Maria woke early the next morning, she was more than a little surprised to see Marc sleeping in the nearby chair. She watched him for a long while, counting his regular breaths, and wondering what had brought him to her bedside. He has nice lips, she thought, especially when he smiles. But he smiles at everyone except me, she mused; in fact, he hardly pays me any attention at all unless I’m creating some sort of problem.

  His eyelids began to flutter, and when he opened them he focused directly on her. “What’re you staring at?” he asked a little groggily.

  “You. What’re you doing here?”

  He sat up in his chair, took a deep breath, and stretched before replying. “My experiment’s inside you, remember?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Duh!” she zinged him.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “I feel like I’ve been knocked up.”

  “Good. That’s the way you’re supposed to feel. Are you hungry?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I’ll tell the nurse to bring you some breakfast.” He left the room, and didn’t return for the remainder of the day. Maria put him out of her mind, concentrating instead on her baby.

  Doctor DeFeo, looking freshly scrubbed as always, stopped by. After a careful study of her chart, he did a cursory examination and concluded that she was in tip-top shape. He instructed her to continue bed rest for three more days, then to resume her normal routine.

  As DeFeo was leaving, her father arrived with Colonel Rodriguez carrying a monstrous bouquet of passionflowers, and five minutes later came Diane Sawyer with a TV crew. She explained that she’d been chosen to be the pool reporter for the day, representing the throng of journalists massed outside the hospital. Maria was tense as a technician attached a small microphone to her bed jacket and another patted her face hurriedly with makeup. “We’d better get started right away because the President will be calling in about ten minutes,” Sawyer smoothly explained.

  Bright lights suddenly flooded the room.

  “The President of the United States?” Maria asked, astonished.

  “Yes. He wants to offer his best wishes.”

  “And don’t forget,” the Generalissimo interjected to Maria, “make some mention of Santo Cristo. Here are some facts that might help you,” he said, slipping several three by five cards into her hand. Maria realized that he’d positioned himself in a chair as close to her bedside as possible; he’d obviously known in advance about this interview as well as the call from the President. Hence his timely arrival with the flowers.

  Sawyer, a consummate professional, put Maria at ease by making the interview seem more like a conversation between old friends. By the time the telephone rang Maria was feeling more relaxed. Her father nearly broke his arm reaching for the receiver.

  “I’ll get it!” he shouted. “Hello?” he beamed. “Oh yes, Mister Presidente, this is her father, Generalissimo Madeira . . . from Santo Cristo. Oh yes, Mister Presidente, it is a great honor for myself and all the citizens of our wonderful country. We hope that you and the First Lady will be able to come for a visit to see Maria and the baby. Si, si . . . I’ll put her on.” He reluctantly passed the receiver to his daughter.

  Feeling a kind of pressure she’d never experienced, Maria hardly knew what she was saying, but happily the President did most of the talking, and his conversation was superficial anyway. It all happened so quickly that the call ended before Maria realized that she’d made no mention of Santo Cristo’s attributes, so her father went into a funk and left immediately after Diane Sawyer, obviously disappointed in his daughter’s performance. Later that afternoon Maria watched a re-play of the conversation. The technicians had put her face on the right side of the screen and the President’s on the left so it almost looked as if they were meeting face to face. She was sadly disappointed with her appearance and resolved to scrub her face thoroughly three times daily from
now on to remove the imperfections that were emphasized on the television screen. She thought that maybe Marc would call to say that he’d seen her with the President, but the phone never rang.

  Marc did come back the next morning but only stayed five minutes and made no mention of her appearance on TV. He checked her condition daily during the following week, but their exchanges were largely, “You still feeling okay? Good. I’ll see you again soon,” and the regularity of positive reports made the frequency of his visits seem superfluous. By the second week, he was only visiting her every other day, just long enough to take a hasty look at her chart. Then he began calling Doctor DeFeo for an update rather than driving all the way into Boston.

  *

  The month of May came to New England with an explosion of color. Under clear blue skies, the hillsides radiated a pale green, and the woods were dotted with white splashes of dogwood. In Boston, the Public Gardens were awash with ornamental fruit trees in bloom, accented with bursts of color from tulips and jonquils.

  Marc remained in Cambridge, insisting on completing his academic year as scheduled in spite of his sudden fame and Swanson’s generous offer to provide substitutes. It helped maintain normalcy, Marc felt . . . going to classes, grading papers, having conferences with students. It also gave him a valid excuse to avoid many interviews with the media. Thanks to Nora’s running interference, his public appearances were kept to a minimum, and he managed to maintain a modestly low profile despite his ubiquitous bodyguards.