Prizes (25 page)

A strange expression crossed Jerry’s face. His eyes grew unfocused and he mumbled quietly, “No. Not with Darius.”

“But I thought—”

“It’s a long story—and I’m not so sure you’d enjoy hearing it.”

“Try me.”

The moment he began, it was clear Jerry had been longing to tell her.

“Darius Miller was a year ahead of me at the Manchester School for so-called Gifted Children. He was a mathematical genius—had his first paper accepted by
Random Structures and Algorithms
when he was barely twelve. And even while it was being set in type, he gave a piano recital at the Arts Center in Walnut Creek.

“Would you believe a ‘scout’ from the Hollywood Bowl invited him to play at one of their summer concerts? But his parents, who were also academics, didn’t like the idea of him wasting time on rehearsals.”

Jerry grew increasingly agitated as he continued. “
Wasting time,
Isa. Can you imagine such a concept when you’re just twelve years old?

“I was his only friend—and had no illusions why I got through the barbed wire of his parents’ disapproval. Not only was my dad who he is, I was such an astronomy freak, they knew we’d sit around discussing blue dwarfs and red giants instead of—God forbid—
wasting time
talking about girls or baseball.

“Only I was also wild—and hooked on sports. Obviously I couldn’t play tennis with Darius. Still, one day when he was at my house I introduced him to roller skating. He wasn’t exactly an athlete, but he loved it—got so carried away that he fell and broke an arm.

“You can imagine his parents’ reaction. They were so ticked off they forbade him to play with me again—even at his house.

“Anyway, I’m not saying it was all my fault—though God knows I do feel guilty—but six weeks before his fifteenth birthday, Darius killed himself.” Jerry smiled sadly. “I guess he couldn’t bear the thought of growing old.”

Isabel shuddered. Not only at the tale itself, but at the pain in his eyes as he told it.

“You must have been devastated,” she whispered.

He nodded. “And angry—very angry. They held a memorial service for him at the school. All the teachers eulogized his brilliance—what a loss it was to science and all that crap. Foolishly, they asked me to speak too.

“Admittedly, I was absolutely out of control, but at least I told the truth. I said that wherever he was now, Darius might be the one thing he never was when he was alive—
carefree.
I wanted to say ‘happy,’ but Karl—who’d gone over the speech with me before-hand —thought that was going too far. After all, Dr. and Mrs. Miller were really hurting.”

He stopped, visibly shaken by the summoning up of nightmares past. For a moment it seemed as if he would burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, Isa,” he muttered. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you—”

“No—I understand why. The shoe almost fits,” she conceded, “but not quite.”

“But I was also trying to explain myself. I want us to be friends, and we can’t be if you think I’m a senseless weirdo. It’s just that right after … what happened to Darius, I dropped out.”

“How did your mom and dad feel?”

“They weren’t exactly jumping for joy. But I guess they figured it was better for me to leave school than leave them. So I became a tennis bum. It got my mind off things.

“I banged the ball all day long—and watched the stars all night. Anything but serve the system that had crushed Darrie.” He paused, worked up the courage and added, “He left me the telescope. It’s in my dad’s backyard.”

Isabel was consumed with sadness—both for Darius and Jerry.

Suddenly they were interrupted.

“Isabel, do you know what time it is?”

Both youngsters were shocked. They had lost all track of time, and it was, as Raymond’s presence now attested, well past her curfew.

Totally nonplussed by Ray’s unexpected appearance, Isabel could not help admiring Jerry’s poise.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. da Costa,” he said contritely, rising to his feet. “It’s all my fault. May I expiate by asking you both to join me for a quick lunch?”

Isabel cast an imploring glance at Ray. But he had other ideas.

“I’m sorry,” he declared sternly. “We’ve had enough frivolity for one weekend. Isabel’s got a full schedule of homework—including a very important seminar paper.”

Jerry was nothing if not resilient. “If you’re thinking of her report for my dad, she delivered it last week.”

“Oh,” Raymond remarked icily, “does your father always discuss the details of his courses with you?”

“No,” the young man conceded. “Especially since I’m usually bored to tears by the theoretical stuff he teaches. But he admired Isa’s paper so much he mentioned the possibility of getting it published.” And then, congratulating his tennis pupil, he said, “By the way, nice going, Isa.”

“Published?” Ray murmured half to himself. He turned to his daughter. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Because this is the first I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it exciting?”

“I’m sure there’ll be many others,” Jerry interposed. A glance at Raymond’s stern face stopped him from saying more. “Well, I don’t want to stand in the way of scientific progress,” he announced, beginning to retreat. And then, looking at Isabel, he added nervously, “Maybe you can stay for lunch next week, huh?”

“Thanks Jerry,” she said noncommittally. “I had a really good time.”

“I’m glad. I only hope our conversation wasn’t too much of a downer.”

Raymond turned and began to lead the way toward the parking lot.

“What was that conversation he referred to?” he asked as they were driving home.

“I understand Jerry better now. I mean, why he dropped out.”

“What do you mean?”

“His best friend committed suicide.”

“Any particular reason?”

Isabel hesitated for a moment, and then said quietly, “Because he was a genius.”

24
 

Sandy Raven was in the right scientific specialty. At the right time. At the right place.

Neighbors in the MIT lab where he was toiling for his Ph.D. included both once and future Nobelists in Medicine or Physiology. They had been drawn, through various detours, from the four corners of the earth, and included Salvador Luria, originally from Torino, Italy, as well as Har Grobind Khorana from Raipur, India. Not to mention a few local prodigies.

By the mid-1970s, scientific information was proliferating at the astonishing rate of two and a half million articles a year. Not even the most brilliant minds could absorb it all. Teamwork became essential, and lab groups would hold weekly meetings during which, munching on sandwiches, they would listen to colleagues reporting in depth on projects in their particular fields of interest.

Moreover, these groups were remarkably heterogeneous—a patchwork quilt of personalities. To begin with—and this was something the older and exclusively male faculty especially noticed—there were now almost as many women as men. And a veritable crazy salad of nationalities, united by their passion.

The natural world suddenly became a great treasure hunt with secrets buried everywhere. The search sometimes required expensive hardware, and the quest an infinite supply of patience.

“Can you imagine,” Sandy remarked to Kanya Wansiri, a cell biologist from Thailand. “You can get the stuff of life delivered right to your door. They even have 800-numbers you can dial.”

He picked up a telephone and mimicked an order: “Hi there, guys. We’re going to need 350 micrograms of pure genomic DNA, ten blood maxikits, and the usual Proteinase K reagents and buffers. Then how about a few flavors of actual DNA—a kilo each of bovine, chicken, mouse, and human. Also, while you’re at it,” he grinned, “two pastramis on rye.”

He hung up, looked at her and commented, “Who’d have believed we’d see the day when we had ‘take-out life’? Wild, huh?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” she agreed. “By the way, what’s ‘pastrami’?”

Sandy was so dedicated that he did not mind associating himself with a figure generally respected as a “good loser” in the scientific community.

To his credit, Gregory Morgenstern did not share the allergy to students that characterizes most scientific giants. Everybody seemed to want him as a thesis adviser.

His lifelong project had been a search for a genetic means of defeating cancer of the liver, a disease that is more extensive in Southeast Asia than in the industrial world. And it is the most common type of cancer among men in huge areas of tropical Africa. These were not potential markets that aroused much enthusiasm among the large pharmaceutical companies.

Morgenstern was therefore obliged to be a constant commuter from Boston to Washington, hat in hand to seek federal funding. Meanwhile, nearly every team in his lab was investigating different aspects of the problem.

During the weekly report meetings of the various groups, Sandy caught his attention, for what the professor
could only describe as “pathological altruism.” The Raven boy reminded Morgenstern of himself at the same age—seeking not recognition or advancement, but
answers.
The young man’s appetite to learn was insatiable.

Sandy’s horizons were broadening both intellectually and socially.

Instead of remaining in the dormitory, he accepted his lab partner Vic Newman’s invitation to join him and two others in sharing an apartment near Central Square. What startled Sandy at first was Vic’s casual description of their potential roommates as “a couple of girl grad students from Penn.”

Girls?
Females? Members—whatever their elevated credentials—of the opposite sex? The very idea of living in close proximity to a nubile woman made Sandy weak at the knees.

“How do you manage it, Vic?” he asked, both frightened and excited. “I mean, suppose they walk around in their underwear or something?”

Newman laughed. “I guess you’re not a man of the world, Raven. There’s nothing like living twenty-four hours a day with girls to turn
off
your hormones. I mean, after the first few minutes they seem just like guys—except that Stella and Louise are incredibly bright. The only thing that’ll excite you is their brains. Otherwise, it’s strictly brother-and-sister time.”

“Okay, I’m game,” Sandy responded, not without some inner qualms.

“Oh, by the way,” Vic asked casually, “can you cook?”

“No—an egg maybe. But what’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, I already agreed that would be our share of the chores. So I suggest you hasten to the Coop and digest a few health food cookbooks. Oh, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you—the girls are vegetarians.”

They also turned out to be astonishingly adept electrical engineers. For since the night skies not only teemed with stars, but also man-made satellites, their choice of televised entertainment had increased vastly. Although commercial firms could have done so for a fee, no self-respecting MIT type would stoop to pay for what his or her ingenuity could obtain gratis.