CRO-MAGNON (3 page)

Salomon turned to Blaine. “And does this work?”

“
At first, the new mouse appears disoriented,” she said. “But soon, it regains mental function. Tests show that it remembers.”

“
Everything?”

“
As near as we can tell. We’ve had the world’s best—”

“
And you expect to extend this process to humans?”

“
We envision someday storing dying people’s memories, growing healthy new bodies, and reinstalling their minds.

“
Dying people.” Salomon stared at the rim of the extinct volcano again. “Why not—”

“
Other ill people?” Blaine tried to suppress a frown. “Unfortunately, we must operate the magnetic resonance machine at the highest available power, which destroys the brain’s information content as we scan. So, the present process can only be used on someone who is dying.”

Salomon looked thoughtful. “Or already dead?”

Something about the question bothered Blaine, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “As you know, within minutes of death, the brain begins to decay, and the synapses are destroyed.”

“
Sounds as if you’re playing God, Dr. Blaine. With my money.” Salomon regarded her quizzically. “Do the moral implications bother you?”

She scowled. “If my seeking to combat sickness and death treads on someone’s moral twinkle toes, they can sue me.”

Salomon matched her scowl. “Your explanation seems simplistic.”

She wondered how she was supposed to explain a cutting-edge concept in “layman’s” terms.

“
To go further, Henrik would have to get into quantum mechanics.”
We could lose him here.
Reluctantly, she nodded at Volker.

Salomon held up a manicured hand, glancing from at Golub and Volker. “Have your staff send me a detailed explanation over the secure network. One that other neuroscientists will be able to comprehend.” His black eyes lasered hers again. “Be sure it includes a feasible timeline and an accurate cost estimate. Have it on my desk in a week.”

Yes, sir,” Blaine said, heaving a sigh of relief that he wasn’t closing the project outright. “I’ll get right on it.”

“
I said, have your staff do it.”

“
But I’m the geneticist. It’s my—”

The owner of Salomon Industries gestured to her still-wet hair. “I understand you’re a scuba enthusiast, Dr. Blaine.”

“
Yes, sir,” she said, puzzled by the change of subject.

“
There is a man named Rolf Mathiessen. I believe you attended a paleoanthropology conference that he sponsored. You presented a genetically-based theory of human evolution.”

Uh-oh!

“
Mr. Salomon, I assure you that I have never spent a dime of company money or a minute of company time on my hobby.”

“
There’s a reservation in your name at the Green Mountain Inn in Burlington Vermont.”

Salomon reached into his back pocket, handed her a small folder. She saw that it enclosed an airline ticket.

“
Mathiessen will be there this Saturday,” he said. “You will meet with him. You will accommodate his wishes.” He turned to the door and opened it. “You will not return to the brain-scanning project until I tell you.”

Blaine stood holding the ticket, flummoxed by the abrupt non sequitur, fear overriding her thoughts.

“
But sir, this is my life’s—”

But with a magical economy of movement, Laszlo Salomon was out the door.

Chapter 2

Ian Calder estimated his pulse at 180 as he skate-skied up the hill in the second loop of the standard biathlon course at Burlington, Vermont. The special cross-county skis bit into the powder, but the .22 caliber rifle was bouncing against his shoulder again. He’d have to adjust the harness for the sprint this afternoon, where his chief competition would be the younger Lee Kyllonen, who was sure to win a slot.

Topping the hill, he dug in his chin-high poles, shoved off the crest, and charged down into the shooting corridor. His 36-year-old heart, released from the uphill burden, raced out of control, and he fought to rein it sufficiently to complete his five shots.

It was fortunate that northern Vermont had experienced an early snowfall, unlike Maine where the trials would have been held. Otherwise they would have had to wait, and that might have caused him to over train on the cross-country course back in Iowa. There were only a few positions on the Olympic team for coaches Bo Lundgren and Emil Essenmacher—both of whom were near his own age, he thought wryly—to fill this year, and without this chance to strut his stuff he knew he wouldn’t win one. As he’d told Lamb, it would be his final chance for an Olympic gold. Next time the winter games rolled around, he’d probably be too timeworn to undergo the yin and yang of sustained effort on the course and fine muscle control at the target range.

Her comment—accusation, really—about his motivation had rankled ever since. Sure, his Olympic aspirations involved his ego, but they had nothing to do with lack of progress in his profession. Of that, he was convinced.

His mind was set on the one space currently open for the 20-kilometer individual event, but he knew he’d also settle for a spot in the 10-km sprint or even on the relay team. Despite a good showing on last year’s World Cup circuit, including a third-place photo-finish at Lake Placid, he needed a good result this weekend to show the U.S. Biathlon organization that he hadn’t lost a stride.

He was counting on this Olympics to climax an athletic career that had started as a teenager, when he became interested in the biathlon after watching a TV movie about the abduction of World Championship bronze medalist Kari Swenson by a crazed mountain man. His enthusiasm had ratcheted when American Josh Thompson stunned the biathlon world, dominated then as now by Europeans, by taking a silver at the 1987 World Championships.

Since then, ski-and-shoot competition had been his sport, ahead of scuba diving which was more of a hobby. Those incidents, plus his own bronze, had constituted the only notable publicity by the American media, he thought bitterly, although the biathlon was the most popular Winter Olympics sport among European television viewers. He wanted to correct that.

Now he skated up to the prone-shooting range, reached back for his specialized rifle, and flopped down, his pulse pounding in his ears. Spreading the short skis for stability, he hooked his arm sling into the firing cuff on his upper arm and sighted across 50 yards at the first of five silver-dollar sized targets. Sweat blurred his vision as he waited for his runaway pulse to slow to 120. This was a critical point of conditioning. He needed to steady himself enough to fire cleanly on the five targets; because for each miss during the competition he would have to ski an extra 150-meter loop, though in this trial he merely had one minute added to his time. And although thirty-six was hardly old by most standards, he knew he no longer had the stamina to make up for lost time.

Snugging the holed metal stock, he centered the bead on the black disk, waited for the quiet between heartbeats, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped, and when he centered the sight again a small white disk had replaced the black. Drawing a steadying breath, he moved the sight to the next target . . .

Skiing toward the next station, his lungs on fire, he wondered again what Rolf Mathiessen could want from an overworked anthropology professor. He thought about Hannah Lamb’s inference that his employment situation was his own fault.

Was that true? Could he be using the Olympics to fill a void?

He’d gone from a part-time anthropology instructor, with summers spent on digs, to a fulltime classroom professor so gradually that he hadn’t noticed. At least not until he found himself enmeshed in a quest for tenure, which he had so far failed to secure. This year’s chance would probably be his last.

And what would that bring, assuming he managed to thwart Lamb and win out over Alec Diesen? A lifetime of classroom work, though hopefully slanted more toward the graduate realm. He yearned for . . . what? To be a shovel bum, living romantically from hand to mouth? He was too old for that.

Slogging uphill, he felt his pulse race out of control. He fought to steady it. He guessed he shouldn’t complain. In this era of tight budgets, there weren’t that many secure jobs in disciplines as far removed from everyday life as paleoanthropology. At least, he thought, he was still part of the profession.

A few minutes later, as he lunged into an all-out sprint for the finish, he could see Emil Essenmacher standing with his stopwatch. Beside him stood a silver-bearded figure. Blinking away a dollop of sweat, he recognized Dr. Rolf Mathiessen, head of the Institute of Human Evolution.

Damn! Any other time he’d have been thrilled to meet with the most eminent man in paleoanthropology.

But not right now. If he traipsed to Central Asia, his biathlon training would take a nosedive, and with it his chances for a gold medal. And by the time he got back to the university, Alec Diesen would likely have usurped his professional future.

A hump of ice turned his left ski, and he lurched.
Please, not now!
His poles helped him recover. Struggling to hold pace, he lowered his chin and drove for the finish.

#

Caitlin Blaine snuggled in her long-unused parka against the late autumn chill, nursing a paper cup of coffee on the narrow balcony of Rolf Mathiessen’s room at the Green Mountain Inn. Below, the small city of Burlington clung to the steep slope above Lake Champlain. A gust rocked the flimsy cup, and she steadied it. She lifted her gaze. Beyond the glint of pale sunlight off snow-covered roofs, the dark blue lake sparkled with whitecaps.

Upon registering at the inn, she had been handed a note from Rolf Mathiessen requesting her to wait in his room. The bellhop had let her in and she’d been pleased to find a small Mr. Coffee.

The bracing breeze off the lake was a pleasant change from the balmy air of Maui. Although if she had to make a permanent choice she’d take the islands, where she could surf year-round. The thought of Maui brought the memory of Laszlo Salomon’s visit, and she frowned.

What business could the industrialist have with Rolf Mathiessen that would be urgent enough for him to take her away from the genetic regeneration project? She wasn’t even involved in human evolution, except as an amateur.

She sipped at her coffee.
You will accommodate his wishes.

With what? When she heard the click of the hallway lock, she stepped back into the room and closed the slider. Now she’d get to the bottom of this.

Rolf Mathiessen’s tall frame filled the doorway. Rugged-looking for a man in his early sixties, he sported a mane of silver hair above a craggy face. Behind him she could see a man of average height.

Mathiessen smiled and stepped aside, revealing a man a few years older than Blaine with brown eyes and dark windblown hair graying at the temples.

She bristled as she recognized Ian Calder, the multiregional evolution proponent who had tried to refute her presentation on the out-of-Africa replacement hypothesis—no, full-blown theory as far as she was concerned—at Mathiessen’s human evolution symposium. What was he doing here? Under a parka he wore some kind of black and red Lycra racing suit, and she remembered hearing on the radio about an Olympic biathlon trial.

“
Caitlin Blaine?” Mathiessen said, his long fingers touching her own. “I enjoyed your paper at Albuquerque.” He gestured at his companion, who had shrugged out of his parka to reveal a whippet build.

Blaine knew that Calder, in addition to being a stuffy anthropology professor, was supposed to be a biathlon athlete of Olympic caliber. But professionally, he was still a relict. One she wanted nothing to do with.

“
I believe you know Professor Calder,” Mathiessen was saying.

“
He’s the stone-and-bone man who called my genetics paper irrelevant.” She gestured, almost spilling what was left of her coffee. “He’s … he’s—”

“
Now, now.” The IHE director stroked his argent beard. “I realize that you two are, in a sense, rivals. But you are also the end result of a hasty and confidential search for two complementary scientists.”

“
Complementary?” Blaine felt her lip curl. “This man and I are poles apart. How could we possibly—”

“
I have a remarkable tale to tell.” Mathiessen glanced from her to Calder. “I believe that when you hear it, you will set aside any differences.”

“
I doubt it,” Blaine said.

Mathiessen continued, “Last week, a woman named Gulnaz Fitrat phoned me. She’s director of antiquities in Tajikistan. She wanted to consult me on a discovery in the Pamir Mountains.”

Uh-oh. Blaine felt a surge of annoyance. If Laszlo Salomon thought she was traipsing off to Central Asia at a critical point in the regeneration project . . . She glanced at Calder, who looked equally displeased. In the ensuing silence, Mathiessen poured two cups of coffee, handed one to Calder.

“
In case you two didn’t already know, the entire southern Central Asian region lies in a seismic belt. The Pamir range, in particular, is subject to earthquakes.”

Blaine regarded him warily, and saw Calder do the same. Was he also being coerced?