The Immortality Factor (49 page)

“Yes. The political, economic, and other issues can be discussed in other forums, once we have the scientific question settled.”

He took a sip of his margarita and grimaced. “Nobody east of the Mississippi knows how to make a decent margarita,” he grumbled.

I was drinking California chardonnay. Would you believe that the Waldorf didn't stock any Tavels? “We
need
a rational procedure for making decisions about science,” I said. “The science court is the way to go, I'm convinced of it.”

He wasn't. “You expect to have a courtroom-type of trial strictly on the scientific merits of your work—”

“And once that's settled, the politicians and priests and general public can argue about the economic impact or the morality or whatever else they want to bring up.”

His expression was worse than dubious. It was positively sour.

But I went on, “The important thing is to settle the scientific facts first. The way the government makes scientific decisions today is crazy, absolutely irrational.”

“I can agree to that, at least.”

And it was. They mixed the science and the politics and economics and ethics and everything else all in a big jumble. You pick your side of the argument and go out and find scientists who agree with you and get them to make solemn pronouncements. That's how you get scientists on both sides of the issue; they're not speaking as scientists, they're speaking as regular citizens. They're not making scientific decisions, they're telling you their opinions. But to the public at large, it looks as if scientists are just as confused and ignorant as anybody else. The science court would separate out the scientific question from all the other facets. Scientists would have to stick to the facts, to the data, regardless of their opinions. Science would produce a definitive answer, one way or the other.

“The science court will make it easier for the general public to understand the scientific facts,” I said.

“The general public.” The chancellor sneered. “They don't know shit from ice cream.” His margarita was starting to hit him.

“We've got to educate them,” I said. “Otherwise—”

“Somebody's got to educate them,” he agreed. “Did you see the survey the
Chicago Academy of Sciences did a year or so ago? Eighty percent of the general public doesn't know what DNA is! Ninety percent haven't the foggiest notion of what bacteria are!”

“All the more reason for a science court,” I insisted. “We can't let people who're that ignorant make decisions they're not equipped to make.”

“The politicians make the decisions.”

“And they're smarter?”

He scowled at me and gulped down the remains of his margarita.

 

T
hings at the lab were getting tense. I was spending most of my time traipsing around the country to rally backing for the science court, but I was in the lab often enough to feel the growing tension.

Zack had gone as far as he could go without trying his regentide on a chimpanzee. We were trying to get him a few chimps to work on, but the red tape was titanic. And there was Max sitting out in the back yard, untouched. I had Zack do more work on macaques, and he got good results, but we both knew that we were just marking time. Wasting time, I should say.

More than that, Zack had started romancing Tina Andriotti pretty strongly, and her father apparently didn't like it. Vince had an Old World attitude about his one and only daughter: he didn't like to see her falling for a guy who wore an earring and never mentioned a word about marriage. Tina, from what I could see, could handle herself without her father's glowering presence. Whether or not she was serious about Zack, I had no idea.

So I decided to use a spy.

“Pat,” I said one chilly spring morning, “I need your help.”

Pat Hayward had stayed at the lab all through our publicity ordeal. She had earned every penny of her consulting fee, screening us from the nutcases and orchestrating the serious reporters so that they saw enough to be impressed and write good stories about us. I had given her absolute control of Glamour Alley; she would lead the TV camera crews through that section of the lab and end the tour with Max. The chimp earned his bananas; he was on the tube more than I was. Which was fine with me.

“What is it?” she asked.

It had taken a certain amount of self-control to keep our relationship strictly on business. Patricia was a handsome woman, and intelligent. That night in Las Vegas could have turned into something extraordinary if either one of us had moved a centimeter closer toward the other. I got the feeling that she was struggling to keep her emotional distance from me, but that might have been nothing but my ego bragging to itself. She certainly made no overt moves; neither did I.

Yet, she was mighty attractive, sitting in front of my desk. Even in a tailored
business suit with slacks that hid those long legs of hers, and her red hair neatly tied up, she looked awfully good.

“Have you ever done any espionage?” I asked, trying to make it sound light.

“Spying?”

I raised both my hands. “Let's call it intelligence gathering.”

“Where?”

“Here in the lab.”

Her expression went a little on the grim side. “Spying on one of your employees.”

“Zack O'Neill seems to be spending a lot of time with Tina Andriotti.”

“That's their business, isn't it?”

“I just want to know how serious Tina is about him.”

Pat nodded briefly. “Her father. Vince.”

“I'd like to avoid an explosion, if that's possible.”

“Why don't you just bring the two men in here and ask them about it?”

“Too confrontational,” I said. “I'm trying to avoid an explosion, remember.”

“So you want me to go to Tina and ask her if she's shacking up with Zack?”

It took me a moment to realize that Pat was trying to shock me. I forced a smile. “Nothing so crude.”

“Then what?”

With a shrug, I answered, “I don't know. Whatever it is that you women do, do it. You seem to be able to exchange complete life histories in thirty seconds when you want to.”

She broke into a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think?”

“I've seen it happen,” I said. “Two women meet, complete strangers, and thirty seconds later they know all about each other.”

Pat shook her head. “Arthur, deep down inside, you're a male chauvinist.”

I put on a hurt expression.

“I didn't say pig,” Pat added.

“Well, that's something, at least,” I said.

Her face became more serious. “You're really worried about this?”

“Wouldn't you be, if you were in my shoes?”

She thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I would be.”

“I don't want to see Zack mess up what could be a fine career.” Then I quickly added, “The same for Tina, too.”

“But they're both adults . . .”

“Look,” I said, leaning my elbows on the desk to hunch closer to her, “how many people do you know who've damaged themselves and their careers by making the wrong choices in their love lives?”

Even as I spoke the words their impact hit me. I was one of those people. And from the expression on Pat's face, she had been hit just as hard.

“We've all done it,” I said, more softly. “I just don't want to see those two kids mess up their lives, if it can be avoided.”

Pat looked straight at me with those marvelous green eyes of hers. “All right,” she said. “I'll see what I can find out from Tina—on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You do the same with Zack.”

I leaned back in my chair. “You want me to ask Zack about it?”

“Why not?”

“I'm his boss, his employer. He won't be completely frank with me.”

Pat smiled slightly. “You think women always tell each other the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

I mulled that one over. “Very well,” I said. “It's a deal. You talk with Tina and I'll talk with Zack.”

“Good.”

“Under one condition.”

Her brows rose questioningly.

“You have dinner with me tonight.” I don't know what made me say that. I hadn't intended to. But there it was.

Pat seemed more puzzled than anything else. “I can't. Not tonight.”

I mentally reviewed my calendar. “Friday night, then.”

She nodded. “Friday. Okay.”

Then she got up and left my office. Neither one of us was smiling.

 

T
oward the end of the day I wandered back to Vince's lab. He was bent over a display screen, tracing one finger across its green-glowing surface.

I stood in the doorway, not wanting to disturb him. As usual, Vince's lab was crammed with humming electronic equipment, dimly lit, hot, and intense.

“Come on in and grab a chair,” he said, without turning from the screen. “Be with you in a minute.”

There was only one chair to take: a spindly little typist's seat on wheels.

“Whatcha want, boss?” Andriotti asked as I sat down.

“How did you know it was me?”

I could sense his knowing grin. “I got mystical powers. And besides, you ain't no vampire.”

It took me a moment to realize he had seen my reflection in the screen.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I knew that Vince could work and talk at the same time. Some people can't, but he could blithely hold a conversation and make the most delicate measurements without missing a beat on either.

“Tracing out this NGF map. Neurons follow the stuff like a bloodhound.”

Nerve growth factor. Vince was still spending most of his time on the
spinal neuron regeneration program. I had all but forgotten how we had started the regeneration work.

“We'll have paraplegics dancing like Gene Kelly one of these days,” Vince said, still staring so intently at the screen that his snub nose almost touched it.

“That's good,” I said.

“You didn't come here to check on my progress, though, didja?”

“Not exactly.”

With one hand he pecked at the keyboard off to the side of the display unit. “Worried I'm gonna break Zack's skull?”

“It's crossed my mind,” I admitted.

“Tina likes the jerk.”

“Your daughter is a very intelligent young woman.”

“Yeah, sure. But once those damn hormones start bubbling, their brains take a back seat. Guys ain't the only ones who think with their cojones, y'know.”

“I don't see Tina doing anything irrational,” I said.

“You're not her father.”

“That's true.”

“Arthur, I don't mind if the kids have some fun together. I can't tell my daughter she's gotta keep her legs crossed at all times.”

That was a relief.

But then Vince went on, “But if that punk little sonofabitch hurts her in any way, if I see just the glimmer of a tear in the corner of her eye,
then
I'll break his friggin' skull.”

And he looked up from the screen with a fierce pirate's grin on his swarthy face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
t all started out so wonderfully. I should have known it would end in a disaster.

“How would you like a week in Acapulco?” Bill asked me.

We were sitting in the living room, in the purple dark after sunset, sipping wine and just doing nothing. No lights. Just sitting in the shadows together on the sagging old sofa. Neither one of us had made a move to start dinner. I had just come back from my quick trip to Connecticut to see Max and make certain he was all right after the terrorists' attack on the lab. I was way behind on my work, and even though Arthur didn't push me much I swore to myself on the plane back to Mexico that I'd catch up and write the reports I should have done months earlier.

I hadn't told Bill about my cancer and my decision to inoculate myself. If the enzyme did its work on me I'd never have to tell him about the cancer. That's what I was praying for.

So now Bill was talking about a week in Acapulco.

“Can we afford it?” I asked him.

I never knew exactly what Bill's financial condition was. The little row house he rented sure wasn't in the expensive part of town, but it was a whole house and it was decently furnished and he even had a cleaning woman come in twice a week.

He shrugged. “My mother just sent me a check. Birthday present.”

“It's your birthday? When?”

“Last month,” he said carelessly. “Anyway, I want to see the tourist traps in Acapulco, make a nice contrast in my film to the reality of the poor people's living conditions.”

That was another thing. Bill's idea of working on his film was to travel here and there soaking up atmosphere. I never saw him write anything down, although he had an old-fashioned manual typewriter set up in the bedroom. Whenever I asked him how his work was going he'd tap the side of his head and say, “It's all in here.”

“You didn't tell me about your birthday,” I said. “I would've gotten a present for you.”

He smiled, bright enough to light the whole street. “Come with me to Acapulco. That'll be your birthday present to me.”

A week. My work would slide even further behind. But one look at his smiling face and everything else faded away. We went to the glitziest, most expensive hotel in Acapulco and behaved like rich American tourists for a whole week. It was the height of the winter season and the place was crammed with Americans and Europeans and even a few busloads of Japanese tourists.

Bill was already deeply tanned, but I slathered sunblock all over myself the first day we went out to the beach. At this tropical latitude, even the winter sun could burn you to a crisp in minutes, I knew. Our second day, Bill took over the job of covering my skin with lotion and we never did get to the beach.