Ezembe

by Jeffrey L. Morris

  Pat’s eyes flicked from Havard to Bob, and back again. “Tell you what, Dr. Troelson: why don’t we have a cuppa first? Not a lot in my lab that you would not have seen before.”

  “Yes, yes, fine. That is, if you know a good place for coffee.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Don’t you have papers to push or something, Bob?”

  “Not at all. I’d enjoy a stimulating chat over a cup of joe.”

  “Great,” Pat sighed.

  They left Chris, along with his sleeping roommate, James. Pat, of course, had placed James there as part of an experiment, and fortunately, Bob had failed to notice. As the three doctors left the ward, Havard turned his head and cast his eye in James’ direction.

  ~* * *~

  Over the preceding months, Pat had been putting James near a variety of human patients, both to explore this strange savant’s abilities and to flesh out information on various trials he had been conducting. James enjoyed these sojourns. All boned up on biological essentials, he was beginning to see these landscapes in more concrete, less abstract terms. Now, when he saw a cell, he’d likely see it for what it was, and not as a beach ball or other abstraction. Transformed from passenger to explorer, he was empowered and he loved it. The quantity and quality of James’ information increased with each experiment, and never failed to astonish Pat.

  This trip marked James’ seventeenth Fantastic Voyage. This time, he was to observe a specific population of bacteria—Clostridium difficile—a relatively large species, sausage-shaped, pinkish and flecked in blue, and the bug causing the uproar in Chris’ gut. James wasn’t looking for anything ground-breaking, only to observe on Pat’s behalf and learn a few things while he was at it.

  Pat’s targeted anti-biotic cocktail was well established, and the bacteria were spewing vast clouds of noxious chemicals, a sure sign they were in trouble. Others, however, banded together, gathering themselves into a long stem, hundreds or even thousands of individuals making up its length. One end of the stem stuck to the walls of the host’s gut, and the other end split into strands that gave the assemblage the appearance of a daisy. This scene was repeated all across the landscape until Chris’ large intestine looked like a speckled pink and blue forest. The clumped bacteria became very quiet, while their aimless brethren perished, squealing like pigs. James found every signal as easy to decipher as eavesdropping on a couple of guys talking sports in a bar.

  But there was something else going on, something different. As well as discussing their survival, the little creatures referred to a presence, a being. At first, James assumed it was himself, but as he listened, he realized that something else was exciting them, perhaps a different group of microbes. Try as he might, he couldn’t nail it down. Once again, he was left with that nebulous, uneasy feeling that this was something he already knew, something tangible, but just out of reach.

  Twenty-four

  Pat led Havard and Bob up a side street. A grimy second-hand bookshop hosted a handful of tables on the cracked pavement. If the windows had been washed within the last year or two, they would have revealed a dusty interior with musty old books piled from floor to ceiling. A faded and cracked hoarding bore the name Mocha Manifesto. Bob poked at the rusty furniture, with its flaking paint and the joint’s “beatnik” clientele—as he called them. Havard loved it, saying it reminded him of a little cafe on the docks of Bordeaux he’d frequented once upon a time.

  “Best coffee in town,” Pat chirped. He selected a wobbly table under a maple sapling. Bob selected the least offensive-looking chair, and laid a large handkerchief over it before taking a seat.

  About a dozen students occupied the shop, inside and out. Most were smoking. Bob murmured that he could smell marijuana smoke coming from inside the cafe.

  Pat held up three fingers to the waitress. “Three of the specials, please.” The girl had numerous piercings on her nose and ears, blue lipstick with matching nails, and several highly visible tattoos.

  “Dr. Roche, I am most anxious to chat,” Havard began.

  Pat interrupted him. “Dr. Roche is what I call my insecticide, Doctor. Call me Pat, will ya?”

  Havard patted Pat’s hand and said, “Excuse me—Pat.” Havard squinted merrily for a moment. “Patrick, I think. And you, of course, must call me Havard. I have come a long way to talk with you, and to see what you have discovered, Patrick.”

  “Well, like I say, not a lot, Havard, if I’m honest, and I am. Bob’s contribution to that, erm, periodical was more of an exploratory piece.”

  “Based on some solid research!” Bob insisted.

  “Well, the facts we have are very thin, and really, we have nothing even resembling a conclusion. No peer-reviewed journal would have published.”

  “But it is important to put these things out there, for debate,” Bob pointed out, weakly.

  “Well, yes, Bob, but we’ve got next to nothing. What the hell is anyone going to debate?”

  Bob’s eyes narrowed. His already thin nose narrowed as well. His mouth puckered involuntarily. One eyelid trembled until it slapped shut.

  “What do you have then, gentlemen?” Havard asked.

  Pat snapped briskly around to face him. He was uncomfortable speaking about any of this with Bob present, but at the same time, was burning to share. He looked back at Bob, who was picking at some chewing gum on the table, and then back at Havard.

  “Okay, here it is: we came across a case where the father’s mitochondrial DNA was inherited by an individual. We also noted an olfactory hypersensitivity in this same individual. Nothing too dramatic, really. I’m sure you are aware of some of the other mtDNA aberrations that have been reported.”

  Havard nodded. “Yes, I am. Most curious.”

  “This is apparently one of those. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I see, I see. And the significance of the anomalous mitochondrial DNA with the olfactory aberration?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that either, but my best guess at the moment is that the individual is extraordinarily sensitive to certain chemicals. That sensitivity appears to be independent of the olfactory system.”

  The coffee arrived. It smelled of butter and cinnamon.

  “We believe this to be of some significance,” Bob said.

  Havard leaned back and tilted his head. “Ah, how so, Doctor?” The mustache danced.

  “Please call me Bob, Doctor.”

  “Well, I cannot see how I may refer to a department head as anything but Doctor!” Havard laughed.

  Bob pouted like a bold child for a moment, then said, “We do believe this to be significant, though.”

  “Well, it seems to be new, doesn’t it?” Havard sipped his coffee, eyes wide, waiting for Bob to continue, but Bob had resumed sulking.

  Pat sighed, then reluctantly said, “What we think is this, Havard: the mitochondria in this individual, by virtue of their unusual structure, make his cells more open to the surrounding chemistry.”

  “I see. I did not quite get that from your article, Patrick.”

  “Well, as I’ve said, Bob really gets most of the credit for that article.”

  Bob perked up for a moment and beamed. Havard smiled weakly. “Of course, of course,” he said.

  Hesitantly, Pat said, “In itself it’s really not much, Havard. Tell me, what is it about this case that has caught your fancy?”

  “Fancy? Oh, what has my interest? I see. Well, as you are aware, Patrick, there is a trend developing where our war on bacteria will be fought with a substantially different arsenal from what is in use at present. I have a particular interest in these sorts of developments, and I believe your seemingly small breakthrough may give some new insight.”

  “Well, anything we can do to help, of course, Havard,” said Bob. Havard winced ever so slightly.

  Pat noticed, chuckled quietly, and asked, “What’s the connection, Havard? You’re presumably talking about the use of bacteriophages, are you not?”

  “Well, those ar
e of interest, of course. I’m also interested in protective biofilms, and this is where your research interests me.”

  A cat had come out of the shop, and was rubbing against Bob’s trouser leg. He tried shooing it, but the cat only purred affectionately and wove its way around Bob’s feet.

  Pat continued, “Ah, I see. I was just a little surprised that someone from management at the WHO would be interested in a little curiosity like this. Would you not be better spending your time pushing for an HIV vaccine or something?”

  “Well, it is like this, Patrick. Microbiology was my first love. It was from that background that I became involved in the WHO, and the rest—managing and all of that—just happened. I would be much, much happier behind a microscope, but a desk is where the powers that be placed me, and so that is where I am.”

  Bob gave up on the cat for a moment, sat up, and asked, “So this isn’t an official visit, Havard?”

  “No, Doctor, this is more of a hobby for me. For me, this is a vocation. So this is a vacation, to indulge my vocation.” Havard laughed, took his pipe out, and filled it. He rattled the nearly-empty pouch. “I am beginning to run low on the Turkish mixture I favor. Do you know where I might find some?”

  “I will see to it this afternoon,” Bob said instantly.

  “Thank you, thank you, Doctor.” Havard lit up with a wooden match, and puffed until the tobacco burned brightly. The succulent clouds soon banished the smell of pot. “My hobbies tend to take over my life, and vice versa.” Havard squinted one eye tight, like Popeye. “Do you sail, Patrick?”

  “Me? Nah. Paddled around in a rowboat on a nearby lake when I was a kid is all.”

  “You must sail with me sometime. I intend to take a boat on the Chesapeake while I am here. The sailing in early autumn is sublime.”

  “Sail? Moi? I can’t even swim!”

  “There are lifejackets, naturally. I would be very appreciative of some stimulating company.”

  “Ah, I think I might take a rain check on that, Havard.”

  Bob shifted in his chair, waiting his turn to be asked, but Havard just puffed away for a bit before saying, “So when might I get a look at this patient of yours, Pat?”

  Pat said, “The patient requires anonymity, understand, but I could show you some of what we have observed, certainly.”

  “That would be excellent, Pat! When?”

  “Right now, if you like.”

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  Bob fidgeted. “Ah, well now, that’s a problem for me. I have a meeting at eleven-thirty, and a lunch date after that. Do you think we might be able to make it this afternoon?”

  “Oh, that’s no problem at all, Bob. Sure, you head off. Havard and I will go over to the lab, and you can catch us up this afternoon.”

  Bob was clearly annoyed, but agreed.

  The chairs scraped as they shoved them under the table. “And don’t forget Havard’s ’bakky, Bob!” Pat shouted as they went their separate ways.

  Pat weighed the pros and cons of whether and which, as well as precisely how much, information to parse to this stranger. But he was warming to the Dane, and he absolutely needed a peer to confide in. His fear was that, once he began, he would not be able to stop.

  ~* * *~

  Pat pulled out a tray full of slides, and slipped one into the microscope. He gave a nod, and Havard pulled away his glasses and focused the device. “I’m afraid my eyes aren’t so good, Pat. Can you tell me what I should be seeing?”

  “Ah, just a moment.” Pat booted up the computer and brought up the electron ’scope pictures. “Here.” He pointed at the mitochondria.

  “Min Gud! These are incredible, Pat!”

  “Aren’t they, though? You can’t tell from these, but if you look here, you can see that they’re considerably larger than normal mitochondria.”

  “Yes, yes, fascinating. These tubules leading from the matrix to the membrane, these are most unusual.” Pat magnified them on the screen.

  Havard shook his head, appropriately impressed. “Yes, most unusual. The individual is healthy?”

  “Positively rude with health, Havard.”

  “Surely this defect would interfere with innumerable functions?”

  Pat hesitated, then said, “We’ve discovered the presence of an unusual protein. It may have something to do with the immune system. It appears to be similar to AIM2; however, each protein strand is bound to two other identical strands.”

  “That is astonishing! Are you certain?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “And it is unique to this individual?”

  “Think so.”

  “Have you some information I can see on the protein?”

  Pat rummaged around the computer files, and pulled up the report his friend John had developed.

  Havard scanned at the figures. “Pat, this is incredible. Have you attempted synthesizing this protein?”

  “Look, Havard, I have to be honest with you. You now know more about this case than Bob does.”

  Havard grinned reassuringly, and tapped the side of his nose. He was now a co-conspirator in Pat’s “War on Bob”.

  “I’m going to have to ask for your discretion here.”

  Havard shook his two fists in boxing style and said, “Of course, of course. You have it.”

  “Thank you, Havard. I don’t have the resources for anything like protein synthesis at the moment. More to the point, the subject, the patient: privacy, ya know?”

  “But this could be a groundbreaking discovery. You should have the resources you need. Do you not agree?”

  “Of course I do. The benefits from this have enormous potential. A middle ground must be found, a way to disseminate these findings without compromising this individual.”

  “I am failing to see the problem, Pat. Surely the man can provide samples anonymously, through yourself or some person of his choice?”

  “It’s not as simple as that, but that’s all I’ll say right now.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I assure you, Pat, it will go no further.”

  “Thank you, Havard. You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

  Havard perused the computer images once again. “Are you suggesting he receives this information through his mitochondria?”

  “Now there’s a question. I can’t say with any kind of certainty, but it does seem to be via his cells in some way or other. Most, if not all of them, in fact. From some simple experiments, I’ve deduced that nearly any cell in this individual, even epidermal cells, can detect the presence of certain chemicals.”

  “For example?”

  “Humic acid, for instance, and a wide range of others, all of organic origin. He can detect compounds in ridiculously miniscule concentrations.”

  “Patrick, I can get you all the resources you could ever want. This protein has potential to open whole new worlds, I believe,” Havard said. He watched Pat’s face carefully for a response.

  Pat stroked his chin and said, “Who are ya tellin’? I know that, of course, but the time is not right.”

  “Very well, but I would be honored if I would be permitted to assist you in some small way.”

  Pat considered the offer, then said, “Are ya any way handy with a test tube?”

  ~* * *~

  James fumbled his way into a search engine on his newly-purchased laptop. Computers held even less interest for James than biology, but Pat had convinced him that, without one, he’d be lost.

  James had hated high school, but enjoyed art school. Art was interesting. Everything else, biology in particular, had bored him senseless. Come morning, though, the grindstone, or millstone, awaited.

  Pat also advised visiting a few science sites before school started. Googling biology brought up a tad over two hundred and fifty million pages. No way he’d cover that before his first class. He clicked on a few, but found nothing, so he tried disease. On one page after another there were cures for cancer, herpes, impotence, baldness, and a plethora of alter
native medicines for the treatment of every malady known to man and almost as many that weren’t. After some trial and error, James happened upon a children’s chemistry website. There he found animations demonstrating the formation of molecular bonds. The molecules had cartoon faces, and each had a unique personality. Some wore funny hats. As basic as it was, things were falling into place, and James wondered why he’d ever thought it was difficult. More pages, more information, and within the space of a few hours he had a sound, if basic, understanding of chemistry.

  Chemistry mastered, James moved on to biology. He began with cells and perused the results until he found an uncomplicated site. Animations and diagrams unraveled the inner workings of cells, and one by one their secrets fell. Not so different from an internal combustion engine, after all. The body really was the ultimate Swiss watch.

  Plants, animals, toadstools, bacteria: there wasn’t much to distinguish one from another, at least at the cellular level. Each step James made, every piece of the puzzle absorbed, made the next piece of information easier to absorb. The things he’d learned from his travels in infection-land slotted into place. He even read some of Pat’s papers on Toxoplasma gondii, and though he could just barely understand them, he did understand them, but couldn’t understand why.

  The clock in the corner of the screen caught James’ eye. He’d been surfing for nine hours! Eyes scratchy and dry, he worked the creases out of his joints, then readied himself for bed. The next day was, after all, a school day.

  Sleep that night was dream-ridden, but the dreams weren’t germ-driven, though they were about germs. Vast savannahs alive with herds of roaming microbes, grazing and hunting. James himself was a cowboy, a gaucho. His steed, a long, silvery worm, replete with saddle and bolas. He trotted on down towards the herd. This was his domain. Hi ho, Silvero! The fine-looking worm eased into the herd and settled to a gentle canter. James smelled his charges, gritty and earthy, and listened as they lowed and grunted. This dream persona of his knew his herd, as any good cowboy would.

  Twenty-five

  Havard peered over the top of his computer screen. “Tell me, young Patrick, how did you come across this individual?”