Mount Dragon (13 page)

“He also said that you are trying to deprive countless people of the medical benefits of this new science. Like a cure for Tay-Sachs disease, for example.”

Levine held up his hand again. “That is a more serious charge. I'm not necessarily against genetic engineering. What I am against is
germ-cell therapy
. You know the body has two kinds of cells, somatic cells and germ cells. Somatic cells die with the body. Germ cells—the reproductive cells—live forever.”

“I'm not sure I understand—”

“Let me finish. With genetic engineering, if you alter the DNA of a person's somatic cells, the change dies with the body. But if you alter the DNA of someone's germ cells—in other words, the egg or sperm cells—the change will be inherited by that person's children.
You've altered the DNA of the human race forever
. Do you understand what that means? Germ-cell changes are passed along to future generations. This is an attempt to alter what it is that makes us human. And there are reports that this is what GeneDyne is doing at their Mount Dragon facility.”

“Professor, I'm still not sure I understand why that would be so bad—”

Levine threw up his hands, throwing his bow tie seriously askew. “It's Hitler's eugenics all over again! Tonight, I'm going to receive an award for the work I've done to keep the memory of the Holocaust alive. I was born in a concentration camp. My father died a victim to the cruel experiments of Mengele. I know firsthand the evils of bad science. I'm trying to prevent all of you from learning it firsthand, as well. Look, it's one thing to find a cure for Tay-Sachs or hemophilia. But GeneDyne is going further. They're out to ‘improve' the human race. They're going to find ways to make us smarter, taller, better-looking. Can't you see the evil in this? This is treading where mankind was never meant to tread. It is profoundly wrong.”

“But Professor!”

Levine chuckled and pointed. “Fred, I'd better let you ask a question before you pull a muscle in your armpit.”

“Dr. Levine, you keep saying there is insufficient government regulation of the genetic-engineering field. But what about the FDA?”

Levine scowled impatiently, shook his head. “The FDA doesn't even require approval of most genetically engineered products. On your grocery-store shelves, there are tomatoes, milk, strawberries and, of course, X-RUST corn—all genetically engineered. Just how carefully do you suppose they've been tested? It's not much better in medical research. Companies like GeneDyne can practically do as they please. These genetic-engineering firms are putting
human
genes into pigs and rats and even bacteria! They're mixing DNA from plants and animals, creating monstrous new forms of life. At any moment they could accidentally—or deliberately—create a new pathogen capable of eradicating the human race. Genetic engineering is far and away the most dangerous thing mankind has ever done. This is infinitely more dangerous than nuclear weapons. And nobody is paying attention.”

The shouts began again, and Levine pointed at a reporter near the front of the crowd. “One more question. You, Murray, I loved your article on NASA in last week's
Globe
.”

“I have a question that I'm sure we're all waiting to hear the answer to. How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“To have GeneDyne suing you and Harvard for two hundred million dollars and demanding the revocation of your foundation's charter.”

There was a short, sudden silence. Levine blinked twice, and it dawned on everyone that Levine had not known about this development. “Two hundred million?” he asked, a little weakly.

Toni Wheeler came forward. “Dr. Levine,” she whispered, “that's what I was—”

Levine looked at her briefly and put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it's time that everything came out, after all,” he said quietly. Then he turned back to the crowd. “Let me tell you a few things you don't know about Brent Scopes and GeneDyne. You probably all know the story about how Mr. Scopes built his pharmaceutical empire. He and I were undergraduates together at U.C. Irvine. We were…” He paused. “Close friends. One spring break he took a solo hike through Canyonlands National Monument. He returned to school with a handful of corn kernels he'd found in an Anasazi ruin. He succeeded in germinating them. Then he made the discovery that these prehistoric kernels were immune to the devastating disease known as corn rust. He succeeded in isolating the immunity gene and splicing it into the modern corn he labeled X-RUST. It's a legendary story; I'm sure you can read all about it in
Forbes
.

“But that story isn't quite accurate. You see, Brent Scopes didn't do it alone.
We did it together
. I helped him isolate the gene, splice it into a modern hybrid. It was our joint accomplishment, and we submitted the patent together.

“But then we had a falling-out. Brent Scopes wanted to exploit the patent, make money from it. I, on the other hand, wanted to give it to the world for free. We—well, let's just say that Scopes prevailed.”

“How?” a voice urged.

“That's not important,” Levine said very brusquely. “The point is that Scopes dropped out of college, and used the royalty income to found GeneDyne. I refused to have anything to do with it—with the money, the company, anything. To me, it's always seemed like the worst kind of exploitation.

“But in less than three months, the X-RUST hybrid patent will expire. In order for GeneDyne to renew it, the patent renewal must be signed by two people: myself, and Mr. Scopes.
I will not sign that patent renewal
. No amount of bribes or threats will change my mind. When it expires, the rust-resistant corn will fall into the public domain. It will become the property of the world. The massive royalties GeneDyne receives every year will cease. Mr. Scopes knows this, but I am not sure the financial markets know it. Perhaps it is time analysts took another look at the high P/E ratio of GeneDyne stock. In any case, I believe this lawsuit isn't really about my recent article on GeneDyne in
Genetic Policy
. It's Brent's way of trying to pressure me to sign that patent renewal.”

There was a brief silence, and a sudden hubbub of voices.

“But Dr. Levine!” one voice sounded over the crowd. “You still haven't said what you plan to do about the suit.”

For a moment, Levine said nothing. Then he opened his mouth and began to laugh; a rich, full laugh that reached to the back of the lobby. Finally, he shook his head in disbelief, took out a handkerchief, and blew his nose.

“Your response, Professor?” the reporter urged.

“I just gave you my response,” said Levine, stowing the handkerchief. “And now I believe I have an award to receive.” He waved to the reporters with a final smile, took Toni Wheeler's arm, and headed across the lobby toward the open doors of the banquet hall.

Carson stood before a bioprophylaxis table in Lab C. The lab was narrow and cluttered, the lighting almost painfully bright. He was rapidly learning the countless nuisances, minor and major, of working in a biohazard environment: the rashes that developed where the inside of the suit rubbed against bare skin; the inability to sit down comfortably; the muscular tension that came with hours of slow, careful movement.

Worst of all was Carson's growing feeling of claustrophobia. He had always had a touch of it—he assumed it was growing up in the open desert spaces that made him susceptible—and this was just the kind of constricted environment he couldn't stand. As he worked, the memory of his first terrified elevator ride in a Sacramento hospital kept surfacing, along with the three hours he had once spent in a subway train disabled beneath Boylston Street. The Fever Tank emergency-procedure drills were a regular reminder of the dangerous surroundings, as were the frequent mutterings about a “terminal fumble”: the dreaded accident that might someday contaminate the lab and all who worked in it. At least, Carson thought, he wouldn't be confined to the Fever Tank much longer. Provided, of course, that the gene splicing worked.

And it had worked perfectly. He had done it many times before, at MIT, but this had been different. This was no dissertation experiment; he was involved with a project that could save countless lives and, perhaps, win them a Nobel Prize. And he had access to finer equipment than even the best-equipped laboratory at MIT.

It had been easy. In fact, it had been a breeze.

He murmured a few words to de Vaca, and she placed a single test tube into the bioprophylaxis chamber. At the bottom of the tube, the crystallized X-FLU virus formed a white crust. Despite the elaborate safety measures that constrained his every movement, Carson still had trouble comprehending that this thin film of white substance was terrifyingly lethal. Sliding his hands into the chamber through the rubberized armholes, he took a syringe, filled it with viral transport medium, and gently swirled the tube. The crystallized mass gently broke up and dissolved, forming a cloudy solution of live virus particles.

“Take a look,” he said to de Vaca. “This is going to make us all famous.”

“Yeah, right,” said de Vaca. “If it doesn't kill us first.”

“That's ridiculous. This is the safest lab in the world.”

De Vaca shook her head. “I have a bad feeling, working with a virus this deadly. Accidents can happen anywhere.”

“Like what?”

“Like what if Burt had become homicidal instead of just stressed out? He could have stolen a beaker of this shit and—well, we wouldn't be here today, I can tell you that.”

Carson looked at her for a moment, thought of a reply, then shelved it. He was rapidly learning that arguments with de Vaca were always a waste of time. He uncoupled his air hose. “Let's get this to the Zoo.”

Carson alerted the medical technician and Fillson, the animal handler, through the global intercom, and they started the slow journey down the narrow corridor.

Fillson met them outside the holding area, glaring at Carson morosely through his visor as if annoyed to be put to work. As the door swung open, the animals began their piteous screaming and drumming, brown hairy fingers curling from the wire mesh of the cages.

Fillson walked down the line of cages with a stick, rapping on the exposed fingers. The screaming increased, but the banging of the stick had the desired effect and all the fingers vanished back into the cages.

“Ouch,” said de Vaca.

Fillson stopped and looked toward her. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“I said ‘ouch.' You were hitting their fingers pretty hard.”

Uh-oh
, thought Carson,
here we go
.

Fillson gazed at her for a few moments, his wet bottom lip moving slightly behind his visor. Then he turned away. He reached into the cabinet and removed the same pump canister Carson had seen him use before, shuffled over to a cage, and directed its spray inside. He waited a few minutes for the sedative to take effect, then unlocked the cage door and carefully removed the groggy occupant.

Carson came forward for a look. It was a young female. She squeaked and looked up at Carson, her terrified eyes barely open, half-paralyzed by the drug. Fillson strapped her to a small stretcher and wheeled it to an adjoining chamber. Carson nodded to de Vaca, who handed the test tube, encased in a shockproof Mylar housing, to the technician.

“The usual ten cc's?” the technician asked.

“Yes,” said Carson. This was his first time directing an inoculation, and he felt a strange mixture of anticipation, regret, and guilt. Moving into the next chamber, he watched as the technician shaved a small round area on the animal's forearm and swabbed it vigorously with betadine. The chimpanzee drowsily watched the process, then turned and blinked at Carson. Carson looked away.

They were joined, silently, by Rosalind Brandon-Smith, who gave Fillson a broad smile before turning, stony-faced, toward Carson. One of her responsibilities was tracking the inoculated chimps and autopsying those who died of edema. So far, Carson knew, the ratio of inoculations to deaths had been 1:1.

The chimp didn't flinch as the needle slid home.

“You realize you need to inoculate two chimps,” Brandon-Smith's voice sounded in Carson's headset. “Male and female.”

Carson nodded without looking at her. The female chimp was wheeled back into the Zoo, and Fillson soon returned with a male. He was even smaller, still juvenile, with an owlish, curious face.

“Jesus,” said de Vaca, “it's enough to break your heart, isn't it?”

Fillson glanced at her sharply. “Don't anthropomorphize. They're just animals.”

“Just animals,” de Vaca murmured. “So are we, Mr. Fillson.”

“These two are going to live,” said Carson. “I'm sure of it.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Carson,” said Brandon-Smith, with a snort. “Even if your neutralized virus works, they'll be killed and autopsied anyway.” She crossed her arms and looked at Fillson, receiving a smile in return.