“Dilettante!” sneered Professor Zee, my
Biology 51 professor at Rutgers and author of
the textbook Biology from A to Zee.
She was angry with me for having
deviated from the assignment. Instead of dissecting a frog I had assembled one
from pieces scrounged from my classmates. It was more fun that way: sort of
like a jigsaw puzzle.
The professor was right about me,
of course. I have some talent, if I may say so myself, but I don’t have the
temperament for serious science. All the same, I may have altered the course of
evolution on this planet – not entirely intentionally, it is true. Only time
will tell.
“See me after class, Mr. Bathory,”
Zee ordered.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Professor Zee sat behind her desk
with her hands folded. I stood. This common office geography is intended to
express the authority of the person behind the desk. It works only on those who
take authority seriously anyway.
“Mr. Bathory.”
“Yes, Prof.”
“Not Prof. Professor or Doctor.”
“OK, Doc.”
Dr. Zee sighed. “What kind of a
name is Bathory?” she asked.
“Hungarian.”
“Do you speak Hungarian?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Pity. Since you plainly don’t
understand English, I had hoped we could communicate in some other language.”
“Ma’am?”
“See if you can follow this. I’m
taking the trouble to speak to you because hidden inside your irresponsible
head is a very good mind. You show innovative thinking. Despite your tendency
to perform everything but the assigned tasks, you inadvertently have revealed
to me a solid grasp of chemistry, biology and physics. When Miss Benson asked
you about Heisenberg a few weeks ago, for example, you lost her completely with
your sample probability equations. Incidentally, you lost me too. You must know
that you belong in more advanced classes, so why are you here?”
“There are prettier girls in this
class.”
“I see. Thank you for being honest.
Judging by what I have witnessed, however, that won’t be much benefit to you.
Young women, pretty or otherwise, are outside your skill set. Perhaps I should
tell you that Miss Bensen didn’t care about Heisenberg, Mr. Bathory. She was
giving you a chance to show off.”
“Really?”
“Forget her. She doesn’t like you
now because you showed off too much and made her feel like an idiot. Getting
back to the things you do understand, is your major a science?”
“I haven’t decided. May I be honest
again?”
“Please.”
“I plan to get a Bachelor’s degree.
I don’t know what kind yet. It doesn’t matter. I don’t really wish to work too
hard at it.”
“I can see how that would be a
problem for you.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am not attending
college as part of a narrow career path. My plan, you see, is to collect my
inheritance as soon as possible.”
“Should I warn your parents?”
“No need. They died in an accident
years ago. According to the terms of their wills I don’t get full possession of
my trust fund until I graduate college or turn 30, whichever comes first. I
don’t want to wait until I’m 30. I am impatient for one thing, but also I don’t
want to give the fund administrators another decade to rob from me. So,
basically I’m just taking whatever classes I enjoy that put me on a swift track
for a degree. Any degree. After that I plan a life of cheerful dissolution.
Perhaps that sounds lazy.”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it.”
“Nevertheless, it is the truth.”
“I don’t doubt it. So, you have no
real interest in science or, for that matter, the humanities.”
“On the contrary, Doc. I have an
interest in them all. But I have no wish or need to be a drudge in the service
of any of them.”
“Well, that is a shame and a waste.
You have potential. But it appears you have no discipline as a scientist or,
from what I can see, as a human being. Everything worthwhile in life requires
drudgery, Mr. Bathory. Dabbling carelessly in anything is at best useless and
at worst dangerous.”
Zee paused for a full minute while
staring at the ceiling.
“Our discussion is over, Mr.
Bathory,” she said at last.
Professor Zee was right, of course. The world is built on
drudgery. Don’t get me wrong. I respect
the tenacity of a donkey. All the same, I have no desire to be one.
It happens that I myself am
something of a dilettantish experiment, so perhaps that contributes to my way
of looking at things.
My father was a brilliant
mathematician who made a fortune in the stockmarket by applying formulas
originally developed to analyze turbulence data from a Boeing 777 wing. My
mother was a geologist with an interest in volcanism. It is fair to say that
neither of my parents was socially adept. From all accounts they were barely
presentable in public. It is not surprising that by age 40 both were single.
Yet, both were egotistical enough to believe their genes were too precious to
be discarded, so, when they met at a Mensa convention and compared IQ test
results, it was love at first data compilation. They married the very next week
and I was output one year after that. They hardly looked at me again. Their
true interests lay elsewhere.
One may ask if their eugenics
exercise was a success. Well, my IQ test scores are high. On the other hand, I
apparently have character shortcomings upon which others often feel obliged to
remark. Did I inherit these, too? I don’t have an answer to that one.
When I was 11, my parents planned a
trip to Columbia .
My mom had predicted an eruption there by applying my dad’s turbulence formulas
to information from seismic stations and from satellites. The two flew to Columbia and climbed the
mountain to examine the crater first hand. My mother’s calculations were right
on the money. The mountain exploded while they stood at the top. After that I
lived off an allowance from the estate.
The frog a la Mary Shelley led indirectly to the affect on evolution I
mentioned. A few hours after my chat with Professor Zee, I was still thinking
about her words and that frog that evening when an online article in National Geographic caught my eye. It
described Antarctic fish with a natural anti-freeze solution. These fish can
lie trapped in ice for months. When the ice melts, they thaw out and swim away
with no apparent harm done. How marvelous. I wondered if it would work on a frog.
What about higher animals? I figured the antifreeze would need to be modified
significantly to work on anything but fish.
On my own over the next few weeks I
attempted to synthesize a substance that would work on mammals. If the
antifreeze could be modified to work on humans, true suspended animation would
become possible. Surgeons could take their time on tricky operations such as
transplants without losing the patients. The old sci-fi fantasy of sleeping
though deep space missions would be a real option.
I used the college’s facilities
whenever possible. If you look like you belong someplace, few people question
your right to be there, and I always looked like I belonged in the labs. After
numerous concoctions and even more numerous lab rats, I had a promising
antifreeze cocktail. I tried it on four rats named Dean, Sammy, Peter and
Frank. I injected each and tossed all four in a freezer for a week.
The results were mixed. Dean was a
qualified success. I removed him from the freezer, unthawed him in warm water,
and gave him a few jolts from a battery in order to start his heart. He
revived. He had a disconcerting tendency to follow his own tail in mindless
circles, but he revived. Frank’s heart restarted, but he was otherwise
unresponsive. Sammy and Peter refused to cooperate at all after being thawed.
My brew plainly needed adjustments
before it was ready for rats, much less humans, but I had confidence I was on
the right track. I decided to try the formula on lizards just to be sure. These
have, in many ways, a more robust biology. On them, the anti-freeze worked
splendidly. Once thawed out, they scurried around as though nothing had
happened.
It was at this point that an assistant lab instructor,
himself a graduate student, interfered. He demanded to know who authorized me
to use the labs. He didn’t accept my “independent project” explanation and said
he would report me to administrative officials if he caught me in there again.
So, I put my antifreeze project aside. Graduation arrived before I ever returned
to it. Diploma in hand, I immediately took full possession of the trust and
fired its administrators, whose depredations, it turned out, had amounted to no
more than $10,000,000 of the original $22,000,000. I considered the loss
acceptable.
So, I’m lazy. I can afford to be.
I’m not superrich, mind you. $12,000,000 is not as much money as it used to be.
Nevertheless, I have enough for my needs. I live alone in my parents’ old house
in suburban NJ. It is not pretentious, but it is comfortable, and it has a
cottage behind the main house. The rent from the cottage covers the property
taxes. I set up a laboratory in my basement where I like to dabble in my
dilettante fashion. A dilettante has one advantage over both the forest viewing
generalist and the tree counting specialist: the leisure to pick fruit. One day
last year, a particularly ripe apple fell in my lap.
A tenant had moved out of my rental
cottage, so I posted it on Craigslist. A fellow named Darren Konelly responded
almost at once. We exchanged e mails and set up an appointment. When he showed
up at my door, he proved to be a nervous fellow who looked as though he
expected a stranger to jump out of nowhere at any moment and shout “Boo!” at
him.
“Good afternoon, I’m Andre
Bathory,” I said.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bathory.”
“Andre.”
“I’m Darren Konelly. No Bewitched jokes, please.”
“Good, because I really can’t think
of any. So, Darren. Tell me. Before we look at the cottage, can you afford the
rent?”
“Would I tell you if I couldn’t?”
“I try not to prejudge another
person’s honesty.”
“Are you joking with me?”
“A little.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you
have a flippant air that discourages trust in you?”
“Yes, and that is unfortunate,
because I’m actually rather honest.”
“As opposed to being honest without
qualification?” Darren asked.
“That condition is as unlikely as
it would be socially objectionable. Count your silverware when someone tells
you he is honest without qualification. He is a liar on a grand scale.”
“OK, OK. Can we look at the
cottage?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
We walked to the back of the
property. The four-room cottage is small but it has some charm. There are pine
paneled walls, oak plank floors and a fireplace. Spruce trees offer privacy
both from the road and from the main house. Darren liked it.
“It’s cute. How far are we from
Route 10?” he asked. “I work at Nucleicorp.”
“I know where it is. It’s 15 or 20
minutes away. Are you new there?”
“Yes. I just transferred from the
company’s Delaware
labs.”
“So you are a biochemist or some
such thing?”
“Yes, some such thing.”
“Does it pay well?”
“Not spectacularly. I wouldn’t be
looking to rent instead of buy if it paid spectacularly, would I?”
“Once again, I don’t like to
pre-judge. Nucleicorp does genetic engineering, doesn’t it?”
“Among other things, yes, but that brings a false image to
mind. We don’t make goats with wings or anything like that. Mostly we work with
E. coli bacteria. We tease useful new
substances out of them. Or sometimes useful old ones.”
“What do you mean by useful old
ones?”
“Do you really want to know or are
you just feigning interest out of politeness?” Darren asked.
“I’m genuinely curious. The subject
interests me.”
“Are you some anti-GM food activist or something?”
“Not at all. I have no political
agenda.”
“Well, OK. The best source of
pharmacologically active chemicals is a living cell thanks to interactive
evolution. Many researchers collect exotic species of plants and animals and
test any new compounds they find. But there is another approach. Every cell has
ancestral DNA that no longer is put to use. It is cordoned off by markers which
say, in effect, ‘Start reading here and stop reading there.’ But the unread
parts are not just gibberish. Many of them were once active in ancestral cells
when the folds and markers were in different places. Evolution stuffed these
sections into the inactive file so to speak. So, even well known species have a
wealth of unexploited data.”
“Enter Darren.”
“Right. I use a chemical mix that
shuffles the markers. In this way we can recover a lot of paleobiological
compounds.”
“Do you shuffle the DNA markers in
large plants and animals?”
“Not directly. Instead, we
transplant genes from large organisms into E.
coli.”
“Then you mess with them to see
what happens.”
“We’re more rigorous than you make
it sound, but, yes, basically.”
“I see. So, what about the rental?”
“The cottage? Oh. Yes. It’s fine.
I’ll take it.”
“See, you’re beginning to trust me
already.”
A week after renting the cottage to
Darren I was perusing Scientific American
on my laptop. One article was about genetically altered cows that produce
antibiotics in their milk. Another article was the electrical properties of
graphene, which is, in essence, a sheet of carbon.
I pondered the role of fashion in science. There are fads
even in chemistry. Immediately after they were discovered late in the 20th
century, molecules of carbon called buckminsterfullerenes (colloquially,
“buckyballs”) were all the rage. Consisting of 60 or more carbon atoms, they
are in the shape of tiny soccer balls. For a while, it seemed everyone was
trying to find commercial applications for buckyballs. Then along came the
discovery of carbon nanotubes, sometimes called “buckytubes,” which have
interesting structural qualities. Suddenly everyone seemed to forget about the
balls. Now the tubes in turn were being overtaken by graphene.
A dilettantish idea formed in my
mind. I punched numbers into my cell phone.
“Hello, Darren?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Andre.”
“Hello, landlord. I’ve been meaning
to talk to you about the water pressure.”
“Never mind that now. I have a
question for you. Those chemicals you use for DNA manipulations. Why don’t you
use them directly on large animals and plants?”
Darren paused before answering.
“Because they are toxic. A tiny amount delivered directly to a bacterium is one
thing, but any useful quantity injected into a bloodstream would be lethal.”
“I figured as much. I would like to
propose an experiment. I need your help with it but the pay-off could be
substantial. Have you got plans for tonight?”
“Nucleicorp has plans for me. They
want me to work overtime. I’m on my way out the door now. I probably won’t be
back before midnight. Maybe another day.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. Do you have
plans tomorrow?”
“What do you have in mind?” Darren
asked warily.
“Let’s go into New York for a bite tomorrow evening.”
“New York ? Why not someplace closer?”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Trust
me, you’ll like the place, and it’s on me. We’ll talk.”
“OK,” he answered without
enthusiasm.
“I should have taken Park Avenue . I think the backup is for the 57th Street
Bridge,” I complained.
“You would know better than I”
Darren answered.
We broke through the clot of
traffic at long last. I left the car at a parking garage on East 63rd Street . The hourly
parking rate was four times the minimum wage, which is about average for Manhattan .
The
Manhattan Grill on 1st
Avenue is a landmark steak house. It is heavy on
woodwork, heavier on service, and heaviest of all on serving platters. The
restaurant serves chops, seafood, and vegetables, all in heaping portions and
assisted by a solid wine list. The fare is worth the tab, which is
proportionately heavy.
There is nothing like a table piled
with food to produce fellowship, so I allowed alcohol and cholesterol to worked
further attitude adjustments on Darren before I sidled into the business at
hand.
“So, how is the genome business,
Darren?”
“Pretty good, but mapping genomes
is not exactly what I do.”
“Tell me, is it true that we humans
share 99% of our DNA with chimpanzees?”
“Yes, but that number is deceptive.
We also share a huge chunk of our DNA with turtles and houseplants. There is a
lot of information packed into the differences. All eukaryotic organisms have
commonalities. I suspect you know more about this than you pretend.”
“What do you know about buckyballs?”
“Buckminsterfullerenes? What have
they got to do with anything? Pass the sour cream please.”
I passed the sour cream. “Are the
molecules of those chemicals you use to alter the expression of DNA small
enough to fit inside buckyballs?”
Darren hesitated before answering,
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Possibly. Why?”
“Buckyballs could protect them in the bloodstream of a large
animal, couldn’t they?”
Darren looked thoughtful.
“Maybe. But what would that
accomplish?”
“Suppose we were to tweak the
structure of buckyballs in just the right way…”
“We?”
“... so that they could protect
those molecules in bloodstreams or in sap, and deliver the molecules in the
right quantities to target cells where they could unzip.”
“Those are a lot of ‘coulds’.”
“OK, but suppose we did it. If we
injected, say, a cow with the stuff, what would we get?”
“A dead cow.”
“Suppose it lived.”
Darren toyed with his spoon in a
bowl of creamed spinach before answering.
“Well, we wouldn’t turn it into
some extinct species of bison suitable for some Pleistocene Park
“Yes. More wine?”
“Sure. Look, an adult plant or
animal isn’t going to change into anything radically different. All we can do
is make it sick.”
“What if the organisms are not
adult?”
“Well, now that is a more
interesting question. If any survive at all I suppose they might develop
abnormally.”
“Joint venture? The investment
shouldn’t be all that much and the returns could be huge.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“Assume I’m not.”
“Well, to humor you for a moment,
this is very long term research you are talking about. The investment actually
would be enormous. We don’t know anything about the potential dangers. We need
a lab where we safely can isolate biohazards. This could take decades.”
“I think we can do the research
much more cheaply and quickly than that, and without elaborate precautions. The
risk is minimal. After all, we’re not whipping up anything new; as you explained,
we’re just re-expressing things that are old. The planet survived their
presence the last time they were active. Maybe we’ll make a hardier strain of
some over-domesticated food crop. Maybe our modified plants and animals will
make natural antibiotics or antibodies for useful vaccines. Who knows?”
“Don’t forget the problem of
getting past the FDA if we did turn up anything useful,” Darren warned.
“Don’t worry about the FDA. We
ignore them and produce in Mexico .
That is what Mexico
is for. If we have a product the buyers will find us.”
“I don’t even know if that whole
buckyball idea of yours is at all possible. Did that just pop into your head?
You seem to understand the basics but you don’t think in a disciplined way, if
you don’t mind me saying so.”
“You are not the first to say that.
OK, whether we use buckyballs or not isn’t the point. The point is to deliver
your DNA modifiers without killing the host. Can we do it with organisms larger
than bacteria?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“I know just a place to help you
think. Dessert?”
Darren patted his stomach with both
hands.
“You must be kidding.”
“Here comes the selection.”
The waiter rolled a tray to the
table full of sugared artery cloggers.
“Well, maybe just one of those.”
As Darren plunged his fork into a Mount Everest on a plate called Death by Chocolate, I
changed the subject to something more personal, “Tell me about your social
life, Darren. Any girlfriends?”
His answer was no surprise. “No. I
wasn’t really a ladies man in school or college, and I don’t have the time or
money for a social life right now anyway. I’m just trying to get grounded.”
“I understand. I never was adept at
the dating game either – another thing Professor Zee was right about.”
“Who?”
“Someone who was more perceptive
than I like to admit. Never mind. Anyway, I found a way to bypass the game. A
very old way, and you are all about old ways, aren’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“There is a club about a dozen
blocks from here.”
“I’m not much of a nightclubber,
Andre.”
“It’s not what you think.”
The bill arrived. Darren gasped
when he it.
“Close your mouth, Darren. This is
mine.”
Actually it belonged to American
Express for the remainder of the month.
“Do you mind walking a dozen blocks
or so?” I asked.
“No, it’ll do me good after that
meal.”
We walked south to the East 40s. I
entered the outer doors of an apartment building and buzzed an apartment on the
fourth floor. I waved at the security camera. A return buzz unlocked the
interior doors. I held one open for Darren and followed him into the foyer. In
the elevator, I poked at the “4” button. It rose in an unsteady motion.
“What kind of nightclub is this?”
Darren asked. “This is just an apartment building.”
“Trust me.”
“You really should stop saying
that. It just reminds me that I don’t.”
The elevator door slid open. The
black and beige hallway carpet was worn but not ragged. The off-white walls
were smudged but not filthy. I knocked on the door to 4A. All six apartments on
this floor were leased by the same Moscow
corporation. A tall woman of about 30 years opened the door. She had light
blonde shoulder length hair and wore a black pullover top.
“Hello, Andre. Who is your friend?”
she asked.
“Hi, Vicky. This is Darren.”
“Hello, Darren.”
Darren nodded. Vicky smiled.
“Well, come on in boys and have a
seat. Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“No thanks, Vicky. You know I don’t
like to mix my vices.”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Oh. Uh, no, but thank you.” Darren
stammered.
We headed for an L-shape sofa in a
deep and narrow room with windows at the far end. The architect had intended it
as a linear living room/dining room combination, but all of it was occupied by
chairs and couches. A rather overweight and very pale 50 year old man sat in
one chair and watched the Yankees play Toronto
on television. Otherwise the furniture was empty.
“Quiet night, Vicky?”
“Yeah, you never can tell with
Saturdays. Sometimes we’re jammed and sometimes it’s nothing. Fridays are
always crowded. Wednesdays too for some reason.”
“Mid-week stress.”
“I suppose. Do you want a line-up
or are you going to wait for Lana?”
“When will she be available?”
“In a few minutes, I think.”
“Good. I’ll wait. Hold off on the
line for Darren until she comes out.”
“Sure. Excuse me one moment.” Vicky
walked down a hall and went into a room in the back.
“This is what I think it is?”
whispered Darren in my ear.
“What do you think it is?”
“A brothel?”
“Congratulations. Would you care to
wager your winnings on the next question?”
Darren looked uncomfortable, but he
didn’t suggest we leave.
Darren studiously avoided eye
contact with the other customer. I waved at the fellow, but he was too
engrossed in the baseball game to notice.
After a few minutes a buxom
dark-skinned woman in a ponytail came in the front door and approached the middle-aged
man on the couch. “Thanks for waiting, sweetie. Are you ready?” The man nodded.
She led him by the hand out the front door and down the hall to another
apartment.
“Uh, Andre, what does this cost?”
“$300 per hour.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Plus whatever you tip the
girl. And Darren?”
“Yes?”
“Tip the girl.”
“I can’t afford it, Andre. I don’t
have that much cash on me. I never do.”
“Tonight is on me. Just handle the
tip.”
“Why are you spending your money on
me this way?”
“Let’s say I’m investing in you.”
Lana, a petite red head with a
winsome smile, entered the room. She wore a red and white checkered dress that
matched the tablecloth to my picnic table at home. It gave her a wholesome
look.
“Hi Andre!” she exclaimed cheerily.
“I told you to call first so I can be ready for you!” she admonished without
rancor.
“I was playing it by ear tonight.”
“Totally wrong organ.”
“This is my friend Darren.”
Lana smiled.
“Hello, Darren.
“Hi.”
“This is his first time here, Lana.
Could you help make it special for him?”
“You want me to make tonight special for him?”
“No, no. I mean, whom do you
recommend for him?”
“There are seven girls here
tonight. Don’t you want to let him choose for himself?”
“No.”
Darren’s mouth opened wide at my
presumption.
Lana laughed. “OK. Paula is in
back. Men like her.”
They liked her for good reason. I
knew Paula. She was a stunning longhaired brunette with spectacular upper body
attributes.
“Vicky!” Lana called. “Send Paula
out please!”
Paula emerged from the back room.
She wore a deep blue low-cut cocktail dress which she overflowed. The dress
matched her eyes. Her heels brought her up to six feet. Straight near-black
hair hung around her waist. Darren’s mouth opened again.
“Paula,” said Lana, “this is Darren. He’s a first-timer.”
Paula nodded at Lana and smiled
acknowledgment at me. She sat down next to Darren, made eye-contact, and asked
him quietly, “So Darren, what do you do?”
“Well, uh… I work for…a company in Jersey .”
“Doing what?”
“Biochemist.”
Darren failed to expand on that,
so, after a few moments, Paula rubbed his knee.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Darren seemed not to understand the
question.
“Say yes,” I prompted.
“Oh. Yes.”
I reached over and handed Paula an
envelope with $300. She looked at me curiously, but gave her shoulders a barely
visible shrug. She took Darren’s hand and led him out the front door. Darren
looked as though he were going to the guillotine but he put up no resistance.
“So what is your game, Andre?” Lana
asked me with a smile.
“Game?”
“Come on. I know you. You are that
generous only when you want something. What do you want from Darren?”
“His skills. I want him to have an
addiction so that he needs my money enough to work for me. He isn’t a druggie
or alkie. It had to be something else.”
“I figured it was something like
that. You think Paula will be an addiction?”
“I’m pretty sure of it. There isn’t
anyone else in his life.”
“You are incorrigible, Andre.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” Lana
smiled again. “It’s OK. You have your quirks, but I like you Andre. I always
did. You’re my favorite customer.”
“Really? What makes me so lovable?”
“I said nothing about love. I like
that you don’t have the attitude.”
“The attitude?”
“Most guys who come in here have a
real attitude. It is hard to explain. But you don’t have it.”
I chose not to mention that it
wasn’t possible for me to treat her differently from non-professional
girlfriends because, like Darren, I didn’t have any of those.
“So, have you got another envelope
in there?”
“Of course.”
Darren was quiet on the walk back
to the parking garage. He was quiet in the car until we were ten miles west of
the Lincoln Tunnel. At last he said, “We don’t need to custom design protective
buckyballs if we don’t use the circulatory systems of plants and animals. I can
introduce modifiers directly into seeds and single cell embryos.”
“Yes, of course.” It was such an obvious solution that I had
missed it. “That is the easy way, isn’t it? Then we just watch them grow. Tell
me what you need and I’ll set you up my in-house lab.”
“I can do this better at work.
Nothing about it will look unusual to my bosses.”
Darren was developing a sense of larceny. This encouraged
me.
“Too dangerous. Nucleicorp will
claim ownership to anything we make, and the courts will back them. We set it
up my lab, I’ll suspend your rent, and I’ll give you an extra stipend that will
allow you to see Paula every week.”
Darren stared at me a while. Then
he said, “I’ll give you a list of equipment and supplies to buy. It won’t be
cheap.”
“What is?”
A month passed. My money market
account shrank as my lab grew crowded with devices, not all of which I could
identify. I gave Darren some breathing space, and I agreed not to enter the lab
without him. Another month passed. Then a few more. I began to grow concerned.
One day I called Darren at work.
“Darren. How is the garden
growing?”
“Not great. Look I can’t talk about
this now. I’ll get back to you.”
Two days later Darren called me.
“I’ve been putting off talking to
you, Andre. I’ve been working on this day and night, but we are at a dead end.
The animal embryos won’t grow properly after I treat them. They divide a few
times and die. The seeds are the same. They begin to germinate and then die.
It’s no good.”
“Well that is disappointing.”
“I’ll say.”
Darren, of course, was
contemplating an end to his visits to Paula. I considered the matter.
“The changes to the DNA are too
extensive,” I hypothesized. “It messes up the seeds and embryos too much. What
about our original idea? Treat juveniles with gene modifiers wrapped in
buckyballs. Maybe if the organism is far enough along it can tolerate some
tinkering with its genes better.”
“Way ahead of you. But forget about
those damn carbon balls, will you? A form of E. coli works better as a delivery method.”
“Fine. Whatever works.”
“Not so fine. ‘Works better’
doesn’t mean that it works. Remember that the chemicals are toxic. When
carrying useful quantities, he bacteria aren’t surviving long enough to deliver
the molecules where they need to go. My colleagues here think I’m deliberately
developing a new anti-biotic. It sure looks like it. All my Petri dishes are
full of dead bacteria.”
I chose not to comment on Darren’s
violation of our agreement not to pursue this research at work, and simply
said, “Let me think about that one.”
“Be my guest.”
As soon as I hung up the phone I
thought about my experiments at college. In one of my laboratory refrigerators
remained after all these years a bottle of the rat anti-freeze I had made years
ago. I hoped it hadn’t degraded.
In light of Darren’s violation of
our pact, I had no compunction about entering the home lab alone, not that I
would have had any in any case. Darren was more organized than I ever have
been, so I had no difficulty finding a well-labeled beaker full of the strain of
E. coli he had mentioned. I poured
some into a second container, mixed in my anti-freeze, and put the batch in my
upstairs refrigerator between the pastrami and the leftover potatoes.
Most of the bacteria died, as I
expected, but some survived. After repeating the process and culling survivors
over and over, I had E. coli that not
only thrived in my antifreeze but required it. More importantly, the
anti-freeze slowed the cellular metabolism of the bacteria in a way that I
hoped would make them live longer when loaded with Darren’s DNA modifiers.
I walked over to Darren’s cottage before he left for work in
the morning. He opened his door unshaven and half-dressed. I handed him a box
with Petri dishes and a vial of my antifreeze.
“Here, try these.”
“What are they?”
“Just try them. You’ll need to keep
the E. coli supplied with a few drops
from the vial. It’s an essential nutrient for them. I wrote a note about it.”
“OK.”
That very evening he called me.
“Andre! What did you do to the E. coli? How did you make the stuff in
the vial”
“With a little of this and a little
of that. Did it help?”
“Yes! The bacteria survive long
enough now. I’m trying out the bacteria on the juveniles of advanced animals.”
“That is good news. What animals?”
“Rotifers.”
“Rotifers? Those microscopic
things? You call those ‘advanced’?”
“They aren’t really microscopic.
You just about can see them with the naked eye.”
“Maybe you can, but I can’t. Why not lab mice?”
“Oh, we’re not ready for those
yet.”
“Darren, have rotifers changed much
in the past few hundred million years?”
“Not really.”
“Then perhaps they are not the best
subjects for uncovering archaic biochemistry. They are archaic biochemistry.”
“I explained the reasons for moving
cautiously when we first started this. We shouldn’t let this strain of E. coli get into the general food chain
until we know it’s safe.”
“I don’t think it’s a big risk. The
bacteria can’t survive without that organic antifreeze in the vial, and they
won’t find it in nature, so they’ll just die outside the lab.
“Maybe. OK, I’ll move up to
tadpoles tomorrow.”
“I’ll think we should keep the
experiments out of Nucleicorp at this
stage, don’t you?
“Perhaps you’re right. I feel like celebrating. Want to go
you-know-where?”
“Sure.”
I parked my car on 50th
we walked the couple blocks to “you-know-where.” There was a new jauntiness to
Darren’s step.
Babs was the night manager that
evening. She opened the door for us and waved us to the sofa.
“Are you going to let the girls
know we’re here?” I asked her.
“They know,” she answered.
Paula entered the room and stood in
front of Darren. She took his hand and wordlessly led him out the front door to
one of the apartments.
Lana appeared soon afterward.
“Stand up and turn around,” she ordered.
I complied. She clamped her arms around
my neck and pulled herself up piggyback.
“Out the door and down the hall to your left,” she said.
I went where directed and opened
the door to the empty studio apartment. Closing the door behind us with a foot,
I hurried across the room and let Lana tumble over my head onto the bed.
Our session was as pleasant as
usual.
“Lana?” I spoke up afterward.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Would you like to have dinner with
me?”
“We’re not allowed to date
customers.”
“Does that mean no?”
“No. That means don’t tell anyone
about it.”
“Deal.”
“I’m pretty busy for the next
couple weeks. Some of the girls are away. I have to cover them.”
“When are you free?”
Lana smiled.
“I mean when are you available?”
“How about two weeks from next
Friday?” she suggested.
“Date. Where shall I pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you someplace.”
“Manhattan
“Fine. Eight o’clock. How about
bringing Darren? Paula actually likes him,” she said.
“Really? Well, OK, if Darren is agreeable.”
“He will be.”
Darren was slow and methodical in
his methods, so I decided to accelerate matters by conducting some experiments
of my own. I bought lab mice, pilfered some of his DNA modifiers from the
basement lab, set up a secondary rudimentary lab in my kitchen, and injected
juvenile mice with laced E. coli.
The next day, I discovered that my
cat, Boss, had gotten into one of the cages and eaten two of the mice.
The results on the surviving mice
at the end of two weeks were encouraging. A few became notably aggressive. Two
lost so much fur that they looked like little opossums. The rest looked and
acted fairly normally.
My cat was acting strangely by this
time. He seemed healthy enough but had a wild look to his eyes that hadn’t been
there before. One night he somehow managed to kill a goose and pull it through
the cat door.
I chose not to reveal my
experiments to Darren yet.
On the night of our double date,
Paula, Lana, Darren and I shared a table at the Manhattan Grill. Darren, in between mouthfuls of pork, talked at
length about abnormalities in the rotifers and tadpoles which he found
exciting. Paula worked her way through an enormous lobster. Lana had a notable
fraction of a cow on her plate. I was the lightest eater with lamb chops larger
than my hands. A Himalayan range of fried zucchini, creamed spinach, onions and
potatoes occupied the remainder of the table.
“How can you stay so thin with your
appetite?” I asked Lana.
“The Bernanke diet.”
“Hmm?”
“I eat only when someone else
pays.”
“Good diet,” observed Paula. She
had acquired an increasingly distinct frown throughout Darren’s ramblings.
“Now let me get this straight,” she
said. “You and Andre here are trying to make money with Roto-what?”
“Rotifers.”
“Rotifers,” she intoned.
“And tadpoles.”
“Tadpoles! You two are the worst
excuses for criminal masterminds I ever met!”
“Well, ‘criminal’ is a harsh and, I
hope, inaccurate description.”
“You don’t think your employer
would object to you working for Andre?”
“They might, if they knew, I’ll
concede, but that is civil, not criminal.”
Paula gave Darren a surprisingly
hard whack to the side of his head.
“Ow!”
“If you want to make money with
potions and powders and don’t mind not playing by the rules, there are far
simpler ways for a competent chemist. What does the word Ecstasy mean to you?”
“Happiness?”
Paula put a hand to her forehead.
“Let’s try again. How about methamphetamine?”
“Jail?”
“Only if you get caught. Come here,
genius!”
Paula grabbed Darren by the arm,
pulled him up from the table, and led him out of the room. A moment later
through the window I saw them on the sidewalk as Paula hailed a taxi.
Lana and I looked at each other. She shrugged, smiled, and scooped
potatoes into her plate.
More for us.”
I suspected my partnership with
Darren was over. I stuffed myself morosely.
After eating as much as I could manage, I sat back and
unconsciously licked my left thumb. Lana playfully grabbed my right hand and
licked the other one. It was then that I wondered how thoroughly I had washed
my hands after working with the E. coli
a few hours earlier.
Darren moved out of my rental house
soon after and told me to keep the security deposit.
I learned through Lana a few months later that Darren had
quit Nucleicorp. Paula also had quit her job, though Lana still talked to her
on the phone. Lana said Darren and Paula bought a condo in Manhattan . For whatever reason, they have no
shortage of cash.
In my basement lab, Darren kindly
had left of list of recommended procedures in case I wanted to pursue our
project on my own. However, as Professor Zee pointed out, I am a dilettante.
Despite the interesting results I already had produced, without a collaborator
to do the donkeywork, I wouldn’t produce anything valuable or publishable. I
terminated the project. I don’t have compunctions about using experimental
animals and I am an untroubled carnivore; nonetheless, I prefer not to kill
animals without any cause. So, I released the mice into the back yard. I dumped
the tadpoles into the small stream bordering my property. I disposed of the E. coli by spilling them onto the grass.
I figured it was safe to do so. I figured without a supply of antifreeze the
bacteria would die and without a supply of DNA modifiers they couldn’t infect
other plants and animals.
It turns out I was wrong about
that. About six months after these events. My cat Boss charged through the cat
door into the house and hid behind the couch. I heard a growl outside. I looked
through the glass in the door and saw a cat that was too large to fit in the
cat door. Some people say there are still are a handful of wildcats in New Jersey , and I
guessed that this was what it was. It saw me and sauntered away. I can’t swear
to it, but it sure looked to me as though the back legs were slightly shorter
than the front; I thought I saw saber-like teeth overlapping the lower jaw.
Out of curiosity, I decided to
sample the grass where I had dumped the E.
coli months earlier, just in case there was some connection. To my
surprise, the bacteria were still present. They somehow had evolved to
synthesize my antifreeze and Darren’s modifiers out of substances in the
natural environment.
How many changes will the bacteria
effect on local fauna and flora? I’m hoping not many. Most changes are likely
to be unhealthy and therefore self-limiting. We’ll have to wait and see. Will
the effects spread beyond the immediate locale? We’ll have to wait and see
about that, too.
Neither Lana nor I have been
adversely affected by our accidental exposure to the E. coli. True, she has developed a wild look to her eyes that
reminds me of my cat and she seems somehow more feral. I rather like it. I have
noticed no change in me other than something that I’m sure is just
psychological. Every now and then I have an overwhelming urge to climb a tree.
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