Prizes (23 page)

What seemed to be holding back his social life in Cambridge? The conclusion was all too painfully clear. Here, being the son of a Hollywood producer was no big deal. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor handsome. But he resolved to change as much of that as he could.

To expand his physique he bought a set of weights, although—to his embarrassment—he had to enlist the help of two other undergraduates to haul the equipment up to his room from the lobby, where it had been delivered. Meticulous scientist that he was, he studied the exercises recommended in the pamphlet and embarked on a program that he supplemented with ingestion of protein powder, to speed muscle growth.

They were an odd fraternity, those MIT boys—fiercely competitive, yet tolerant of one another’s idiosyncrasies. Barry Winnick not only endured the bizarre grunting and groaning emanating from Sandy’s cubicle in the wee hours of the morning, but even agreed to
serve as a safety man when Sandy lay on his back to do bench presses.

“I tell you, Raven,” Barry commented as he supervised his neighbor’s exertions, “if this works for you, I’ll try it too. I haven’t been that lucky with girls myself. I can see where you’re getting stronger. But how exactly do you intend to achieve the triple goal you outlined to me? Especially the tall part. Are you going to try and stretch yourself by hanging for hours in your doorway?”

“Winnick,” Sandy protested, “do I look that stupid to you? Anyway, even though my plan’s classified, you’ve been such a good pal that I’ll let you in on it. The dark and handsome part is going to come from a sun lamp I’m buying at Lechmere. These weight exercises will increase my shirt size, which’ll add to the impression of power. But the real secret will be if Dr. Li heeds my appeal.”

“You mean Professor Cho Hao Li from San Francisco?”

“Yes, the one who’s used recombinant DNA techniques to synthesize the human growth hormone—”

“Right, hGH—otherwise known as somatotrophin. It’s a single polypeptide with 191 amino acids. Anyway, it’s for curing dwarfism in children. What good could it possibly do for you?”

Sandy sat up and wiped his face with a towel. “I’ve written to Li, making an appeal to inject me on compassionate grounds.”

“
What
‘compassionate grounds’? You’re average height, about five-foot-nine.”

“Yeah,” Sandy acknowledged, “when I stand up straight. But that’s nowhere enough. I’ve asked the professor if he can get me as close to six feet as possible.”

“My God, that much hGH might kill you. Why the hell do you want to be so tall?”

Sandy looked at Barry and shook his head as if to say, You ignorant asshole, isn’t it obvious? He needed
no words to reply. He simply pointed to the many pictures of Rochelle pasted around the room, by now so numerous they almost qualified as wallpaper.

“Jeez, are you
still
hung up on her? I’d have thought you’d gotten over her by now.”

“I don’t wanna get
over
her,” Sandy replied. “I wanna
get
her. And I’ve read in the gossip columns that she goes for hunk Hollywood types.”

Barry looked at his classmate for a moment and muttered, “Gosh, Raven, I used to think you were normal—I mean, relative to the other weirdos around here. But now I think you’re really off your tree.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” Sandy countered. “Don’t expect an invitation to the wedding.”

“I never did,” Barry retorted. “I’m not tall enough.”

Sandy waited impatiently for Dr. Li’s reply. When the second week passed and his mailbox remained empty, he gathered his courage and called San Francisco. He actually got through to the great man himself.

“Yes, I received your letter,” the professor acknowledged in a kindly tone of voice. “But I couldn’t possibly reply to the immense number of appeals I get, even from genuinely serious cases. Besides, as far as we know now, the drug is only really effective if administered before puberty. And I assume if you’re at MIT …”

“Yes, Doctor, I am. I understand. Thanks for your time.”

That night he shared the bad news with Barry.

“Well, at least it’s over,” his neighbor consoled him. “So you can start thinking about other more important things.”

“Yeah,” Sandy replied, “like learning enough genetic engineering to make a
super
hGH.”

Unfortunately, Sandy was not able to become hunk enough for Rochelle—at least this time. In the checkout line at the supermarket the following week, he flicked
through one of the tabloids and found the announcement of her forthcoming marriage to Lex Federicks, one of her classmates at the Fox Academy who had graduated to feature roles and become something of a teenage idol.

Predictably, the wedding was an outdoor affair at Malibu. Before a crowd of the ritziest and the glitziest, the couple exchanged vows, kissed, and then ran into the water.

The news broke the day Sandy received word he had been accepted into the MIT doctoral program in biochemistry. Otherwise his spirits might have sunk even lower and he might have contemplated hurling himself into the Charles.

His summers in Hollywood had made him aware that Lex was not only a dimwit, but the owner of a nasty temper whose physical expression did not even respect the female gender.

During the weekly telephone call with his son, Sidney made a Herculean effort to cheer the boy up.

“Hey kiddo,” he commented, “I know how much you liked her. But believe me, marrying an actress is like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. It’s exhilarating for the first few minutes, but pretty quick you’re gonna hit the ground with an awful thud.”

“I know how stupid it sounds,” Sandy confessed openly for the first time. “And she’s used me for a doormat since we were kids, but I love her. It’s—how can I put it, Dad? Like some sort of disease.”

“Just wait awhile, son,” his father reassured him. “I promise you your time will come. A starlet is like the Roman Empire. Sooner or later everything falls. The boobs. The ass. The ratings. In the long run the broads who once took your breath away let the plastic surgeons take their dough away.”

Sandy may have been a step or two behind in the Hollywood social rat race, but he was a front-runner in his
choice of speciality, for arguably the most important achievement in the late twentieth century study of the body was the discovery and cataloging of the genes that composed it. As James Watson, the DNA pioneer, stated, “If you’re young, there’s really no option but to be a molecular biologist.”

There were already genetic tests that could reveal the absence of abnormalities in a growing fetus. On the far but visible horizon was the possibility of discovering which chromosome carried which diseases—the different cancers, brain tumors, even Alzheimer’s.

If the specific gene were found, its defects could be studied and, with time, scientists could build the equivalent of a better mousetrap—a new, improved gene, that, like an unmanned spaceship, would automatically do its repair work inside the body.

Just how far these studies could be carried was a matter of heated debate. There were still many who believed genetic engineering was mere science fiction. But in laboratories all over the world medical researchers were busy transforming fiction into fact.

As usual, Hollywood both exploited and trivialized the medical trend.
The Six Million Dollar Man
may have been a potboiler, but its basic thesis—that various replacement parts of the human apparatus could be manufactured to order—was, at the laboratory level at least, truer than its creators could have imagined.

And in this real-life drama Sandy Raven was determined to become a hero.

The MIT graduation day was doubly festive for Sidney Raven. Not only was his son receiving a Bachelor of Science degree with Honors, but his latest release of the soon to be legendary
Godzilla Meets David and Goliath
was in its sixth week among the top twenty grossers around the world.

Sandy was allowed to book any restaurant for his celebratory lunch. Without hesitation he chose Jack and
Marian’s in Brookline, which served gargantuan sandwiches for gargantuan appetites.

It took only a few outsized bites before the conversation got around to Rochelle.

“She’s going to be huge, Dad, isn’t she?”

Sidney replied with evasion, “Mmmmm …” feigning a full mouth.

But Sandy waited.

“Listen kiddo, let’s not spoil the day.…”

“What do you mean? Is something wrong with Rochelle?”

“No—she’s fine.” He paused and then added, “It’s just that her career’s dead. The studio didn’t pick up her contract.”

“But why? I don’t get it,” Sandy asked, heartbroken. “She had so much going for her.”

“Yeah, maybe,” his father acknowledged. “But she did lack one small thing—talent.”

“Isn’t there any way you can help her, Dad?”

“Listen, I’ve already gone out on a limb for her lots of times. You gotta realize one thing—Hollywood isn’t a charitable institution. But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll see if I can get her some kind of job with the studio.”

“Oh, thanks Dad, thanks,” Sandy whispered affectionately.

“No problem,” Sidney murmured, and then asked cautiously, “What exactly is it with you and Rochelle, Sandy? I mean, you’ve been in Hollywood. There are broads just as beautiful as her serving hamburgers on roller skates. I could understand it when you were just a wet-eared kid, but you’re a big boy—good-looking in your way—and there’s all kinds of women who’d be tickled to know you. So what the hell’s so special about this gal?”

Sandy shook his head. “I don’t know, Dad.”

The elder man was silent for a moment, and then asked tactfully, “Isn’t part of it that she never gave you the time of day?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s most of it.”

A week later Sidney telephoned his son in Boston. “Okay, sonny boy,” he announced. “I moved heaven and earth, called in all my markers, made all kinds of promises I shouldn’t have—but your secret love won’t be booted off the lot after all. Starting Monday, she’s an assistant editor in the story department.”

“Oh,” Sandy said. “You’re really terrific, Dad. How did Rochelle take the news?”

“Well, she took the job like a shot. She’s got a lot of spunk, that girl. As we were walking out of the interview, she swore to me that in a year she’d be
running
the whole department.”

“Gosh,” Sandy rhapsodized. “That’s wonderful. Uh, did she, um, mention me at all?”

“Sure, sure,” Sidney replied as convincingly as he could. “She sends her … love.”

22
 

Anya’s driving instructions had not been precise, and Adam had some difficulty in locating her house after going through Watertown Square. At last he found it, and for once agreed with an opinion of academician Avilov’s: if the peeling paint on the wooden porch was any indication, the place indeed qualified as “a dump.”

It had occurred to him that the canny Russian scientist might have already planned on leaving Anya and deliberately remained in this wretched place so he could conveniently bequeath it to her as their home.

In any case, Dmitri had done his real estate shopping well in advance of his announced departure. He was already established with the future mother of his child in a comfortable apartment in Charles River Park.

Adam climbed up to the porch and rang the bell to the upstairs flat. Anya buzzed, and he entered to find a cold and narrow stairway.

To his astonishment, when she opened the door she was wearing a parka.

“Are you planning to go out at this hour?”

“On the contrary,” she answered. “I am intending to stay in, and, as you will soon see, it is much colder in here than outside. You had better keep your coat on as well.”

The apartment was spare. The only source of real warmth seemed to be an electric heater—and Anya’s personality. What furniture there was looked old and tired. The single new item was a metal bookshelf—conspicuously empty.

“They were all his?” Adam asked.

“Yes,” she conceded with quiet resignation. “We were going to a Genetics Congress in London. Dmitri thought the authorities might get suspicious if they saw … too many obstetrical books.”

As he flopped into the chair, the springs twanged like ruptured banjos, making them both laugh.

“Well,” Adam observed, “I must admit that this apartment is even shabbier than you described. Doesn’t it depress you?”

“It’s not that much worse than the Russian medical school dormitories. But to what do I owe the honor of this personal visit?”

“I just wanted to look straight into your eyes. It’s the only way I can tell if you’re really happy.”

“I am really happy.” She beamed. And both of them understood that she meant it was because he was there.

They spent the next few minutes in idle chatter about their respective laboratory activities. Then Adam took
the opportunity to find out more about his Russian friend.

“I know this is a stupid question,” he began. “But how did a nice girl like you ever get mixed up with an oaf like Avilov?”

“Do you insist on all the gory details?”

“I’m fascinated by gory details,” Adam replied.