The Immortality Factor (62 page)

“No, it isn't,” I said. Julia glanced at me, but said nothing.

Simmonds hunched forward, forearms on knees, hands clasped together. “Now, look. I could give you a whole morning's worth of religious talk about the sanctity of life. Make you cry and tear your hair out. But I know that neither of you believes in my kind of religion, so I won't bother you with that.”

“We believe in the sanctity of life,” Julia said, still in that small voice.

“Of course you do. Everybody does. But there's three lives here to consider, not just one. The two of you have to think about your own lives—which are just as sacred as the life of your unborn child.”

“Which side are you on?” I blurted.

He grinned at me. “God's, of course. But sometimes the good Lord doesn't make it very clear as to which way He wants us to go.”

“I can't kill the baby,” Julia said firmly.

Simmonds nodded. “I understand how you feel. I agree with your decision. But I want you both to realize that there are going to be times when you'll regret that decision. You're going to wonder if you've done the right thing. You're going to hate yourselves and your baby for making your lives miserable.”

“Never!”

He reached over and patted her knee. “Yes, you will. Even over the next few days you're both going to feel like you've martyred yourselves and thrown your lives away. That's natural. It's the devil tempting you.”

I could believe him, all except that last line.

“Oh, I know you don't believe in the devil,” he said good-naturedly, looking me in the eye. “Okay, call it self-interest or the instinct for self-preservation, whatever you want. But there will be times when you'll look at your child and ask yourselves why you ever let him ruin your lives.”

Neither Julia nor I had anything to say to that.

“It's a natural reaction. Don't start hating yourselves or each other for it. Don't start hating the baby.”

“I could never hate my baby,” Julia said.

“Only the love that you two feel for each other can see you through this crisis. Only if you can share that love, enlarge it to include your baby, will you be able to make a happy life for him and for yourselves.”

“I understand,” I said.

“If you were religious, I'd tell you that God will strengthen you, that He has enough love to share His with you and your baby. But you don't have that kind of faith, so I'll just tell you that God will help you anyway. That's His way.”

I wondered why, if god was such a nice helpful guy, he had given our baby spina bifida.

But Julia just smiled. “That's very comforting.” She didn't mean it, I knew. And Simmonds knew it, too, but it didn't really seem to matter.

Then she asked, “Suppose—just hypothetically, now—suppose that scientists learned how to cure spina bifida. Suppose they could make my baby normal. What do you say to that?”

“It can't happen soon enough to help us,” I snapped.

Julia gave me a pleading look. “But suppose it could.”

Simmonds scratched at his thick mane of gray hair. “You know I'm against tinkering with God's will. We don't know why God has sent you this cross to bear, but whatever the reason, it's part of His plan.”

“Curing my baby could be part of His plan, too, couldn't it?” Julia asked.

Simmonds bowed his head. “Okay. We're going to get down into the details of this now.” Looking up at Julia, he said, “Apparently the Lord has decided to test you. I don't know why, neither do you. He moves in mysterious ways. But someday you will stand before Him and He will judge you on the strength of how you accepted His test.”

The same old religious hogwash, I thought. Julia kept her expression noncommittal, though, and continued to listen without interrupting.

“Now, suppose you circumvent His test. Suppose you latch on to some miraculous scientific cure for your baby. What does that mean for your
relationship with God? What does it mean for your baby's relationship with his Creator?”

I couldn't take any more of it. “Do you honestly think that God doesn't want us to practice medicine?”

He turned to me. “I honestly don't pretend to know what God has in mind for us. Except for this—He sends His tests to us for His own reasons. And if we turn our backs on Him, we do it at our own peril.”

“But curing my baby might be part of God's plan, mightn't it?” Julia insisted.

“I'm sorry, but I can't accept that,” Simmonds said. “I think what those scientists are doing is the devil's work.”

I must have huffed.

“You don't believe in Satan, I know. That's his strongest weapon against you.”

It was incredible. One moment Simmonds was a kindly, thoughtful, helpful counselor to us. The next he was a religious zealot telling us to accept whatever plagues his god chooses to throw at us and warning us that Arby and his researchers are in league with the devil.

We talked back and forth for more than an hour with him, and I've got to admit that I felt a lot better for it. So did Julia, I'm certain. By the time we finally got him out the door and had the apartment to ourselves again, I was almost smiling.

“It was awfully good of him to come and talk to us,” Julia said, much brighter than she'd been at dawn.

I shook my head. “He's a nice guy, all right. But a meshuga.”

“He has his beliefs,” said Julia. “I almost wish I could be as convinced about it all as he is. It must be very reassuring.”

We felt good enough to go out to a neighborhood restaurant for a late breakfast and we almost got through the whole meal without talking about the baby.

As we walked back home, Julia asked me, “Will you be going back to Washington this afternoon?”

I shrugged. “It's almost noon. I'll stay here, spend the weekend. I'll go back to the hearing Monday—if it's still going on by then.”

“Do you think it might end sooner?”

“I think Arby's sinking faster than the
Titanic,
” I said. “They've got him by the balls.”

Julia looked shocked. “I can't imagine Arthur losing anything to anyone.”

“Well, imagine it. It's going to happen, believe me.”

Julia got real quiet the rest of the way from the restaurant to our building.

“Listen,” I said to Julia as we approached our front door, “Even if the decision at the hearing goes in Arby's favor and he's allowed to start human trials,
the work will never be done in time to help our child. Do you understand that? Don't think that my brother can save our baby, because he can't.”

Julia smiled and patted me on the cheek. “Oh, Jesse, I love you. Don't you know that?”

I opened the front door and she went through. I followed her into the foyer, wondering what she meant by that.

Then she added, “I do think you ought to get back to the trial this afternoon, though.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

L
ike an addict, Arthur turned on the morning news shows while he shaved, watching the little TV set sitting next to the bathroom sink with morbid fascination as its screen showed the same clips and footage as the late-night broadcasts had: Cassie branding Arthur as a murderer.

Both
Good Morning America
and
The Today Show
featured guest experts discussing not the possibilities of organ regeneration, but the ethics of using animals as experimental subjects. Two philosophers, a Jesuit priest, and a rabbi. Not a biologist in sight. In disgust, Arthur flicked to
CBS Morning News
.

A woman was being interviewed by a woman reporter. It took a few moments for Arthur to realize that the guest was an animal rights activist.

“And how did you feel when you saw the videos of Max, the chimpanzee who was used in those experiments?” the interviewer asked in a low, funereal tone.

The woman blinked back tears. “Actually, I almost felt relieved when the poor creature died. He had escaped. He's free now. They can't hurt him anymore.”

Arthur wanted to ram his fist through the tube.

“Do you think he was in a lot of pain?”

Goddamned vampire, Arthur thought.

“Obviously,” came the answer.

The interviewer shook her head sadly as she looked straight into the camera and said, “I'm afraid we've run out of time. Now this.”

A commercial for a denture cleaner showed a frowning white-haired woman holding up a fizzing glass of water with her choppers in it.

 

P
rofessor Potter, please.”

He came shuffling up to the witness table, his sparse fringe of dead-white hair catching the light like a filmy halo. He walked alone, leaning heavily on his cane. If his assistants were still in the chamber, Arthur did not see them.

There were even more reporters on hand than the previous afternoon, and five TV cameras now obstructed the side aisles of the hearing chamber. Reporters had clustered around Arthur when he arrived at the hearing room, their clamoring questions little short of accusations. Arthur had steadfastly refused to say anything except, “I'll make my statements on the floor of the hearing.”

As Potter sat himself facing the judges, Arthur got up and walked toward the witness table. He took in his audience at a glance: Jesse's seat was still empty; Senator Kindelberger was up front with the judges, looking serious and concerned; Pat had moved to the media table, squeezing herself in among the reporters and photographers. He turned toward the jurors, sitting against the side wall: six men and six women, all of them from either academic or government laboratories. Political correctness went only so far, Arthur knew. No scientist from an industrial lab was asked to be on the jury; no one connected with a profit-making organization.

“Good morning, Professor,” Arthur said, trying to make it sound friendly.

Potter said, “Morning, Arthur.”

His stroke had pulled the left half of his face down into a grimace, his left eye almost completely closed. It made his habitual little smile into an ironic rictus, one corner of his mouth turned up, the other curled down.

“This is just a formality,” Arthur said, “but I must remind you that you are still under oath.”

“Of course, of course.”

“I read the paper you presented to the jury.”

“You'd better have.”

Several of the jurors looked openly skeptical at the mention of Potter's paper. Arthur thought that was a good sign.

“Where was it published?”

Potter's right cheek ticked. “That information was in the reprint.”

“For the record, where was your paper published?”

His eyes narrowed. “In
Counterpoint
.”

“That's a British magazine, isn't it?” Arthur asked.

“British, yes. But it's not a magazine. It's a reputable scientific journal that publishes papers that the prevailing scientific establishment won't touch.”

“Controversial papers?”

“That's right.”

“Do you consider your paper to be controversial?”

“No,” Potter said firmly. “My paper is self-evidently correct. You can't argue with mathematics.”

“And yet you sent it to a journal that specializes in controversial papers. Why?”

“Because I knew the scientific establishment wouldn't publish it.”

“Did you try to have it published in a more reputable journal?”

“There's nothing disreputable about
Counterpoint
!”

“Excuse me,” Arthur said. Several of the jury members were grinning. “A more orthodox journal. Is that better?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you try to get your paper published in a more orthodox journal?
Science
, for example. Or
Nature
. Or one of the refereed journals that specialize in the various branches of molecular biology.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Arthur knew the answer to his question. Papers submitted to scientific journals are reviewed by a panel of referees who read each paper, scientific peers who judge the merit of each paper submitted on its scientific quality.
Counterpoint
was a sensationalist magazine, nothing more.

“They wouldn't touch it.”

“No refereed journal would publish it?”

Potter fidgeted in his chair. “It was too unconventional for them.”

“Isn't it true,” Arthur asked, “that you presented the basic material of your paper at the annual molecular biology conference in San Francisco more than six years ago?”

Frowning, Potter muttered, “I might have. I think so.”

“I recall hearing your presentation,” said Arthur. “As I remember it, the questions and comments from the floor afterward were less than flattering.”

Potter said nothing; he just scowled at Arthur.

“Do you recall the comments?”

“No.”

“Would you say that your paper was well received?”

Again the little twitching, squirming. “The general tone of the comments was negative. It often is when a new concept is broached for the first time. I was years ahead of them. Years ahead! Still am!”

“Did any of your questioners characterize your paper as ‘numerology'?”

Potter bristled. “It's not numerology! It's mathematical fact!”

“What experimental corroboration do you have?” Arthur snapped.

Potter glared at him.

“You've written a paper that is entirely hypothetical. Have you tried to match your mathematical speculations with experiments?”

“They're not speculations!”

“They are until you get some experimental evidence to test them. What experiments have you done?”

“I—I'm not an experimenter.” Potter turned slightly toward the jury. “Not anymore.”