Prizes (33 page)

It took Sandy much longer to realize that Judy’s feelings were, to an enormous extent, influenced by her father’s admiration for him. Greg Morgenstern had never felt so strongly, spoken so rhapsodically, of a scientific mind—even a senior colleague’s. It was never mentioned specifically, but it was clear beyond any doubt that the greatest gift she could give her father was Sandy Raven as a son-in-law.

Independence Day became a double celebration on their calendar: not only the declaration of American autonomy,
but the anniversary of the first meeting of Sandy and Judy, who by this time were living together in Cambridge without benefit of clergy.

At first, when they discussed the possible housing arrangement, Sandy was worried about the effect it might have on his professional relationship with Greg. But she reassured him.

“The other day he told me he loved you so much, that if we hadn’t gotten together, he would have adopted you.”

If Gregory Morgenstern possessed a flaw, it seemed to be an almost fanatic sense of honesty. When a high-powered biotech company lured away his second-in-command, he insisted upon going through an elaborate selection process—even soliciting letters from other faculty members—so he could make the choice with his head, not merely his heart.

When Sandy finally received the seal of approval, he felt at once honored and exasperated. Greg was so maddeningly egalitarian that every paper coming out of their lab listed its authors not in order of rank, but alphabetically. It was almost as if Morgenstern had an aversion to eminence.

Sandy theorized that this was what drew Greg to the urgent yet scientifically unpopular scourge of liver cancer: he would be left alone.

The liver is the largest—and the busiest—organ in the human body. Not only does it metabolize carbohydrates, fats, and proteins, it also detoxifies the blood, filters its impurities, produces helpful clotting factors, and destroys exhausted red blood cells. Clearly, since it does so much, if it should be impaired, the body would be in grave danger.

There were many theoretical “cures” for hepatic cancer, the most obvious being transplants. But this was obviously impossible on a large scale, especially in areas where the disease had reached epidemic proportions.

Greg was leading a biochemical quest into uncharted territory. Since cancers occur when the usual checks and balances of cell growth cease to function, he hoped to produce an artificial protein that would restore the damaged gene to normal functioning.

Their “patients” were mice. More specifically, humanoid rodents developed in Max Rudolph’s laboratory at Harvard.

“Dad never explained to me why you guys always use little Mickeys and Minnies instead of more grown-up species,” Judy remarked over dinner.

“I know it doesn’t seem to make sense,” Sandy replied. “But a quirk of nature made those creatures’ systems more like ours than some primates’. By contrast, guinea pigs are completely different. Did you know that if they had been chosen for the first penicillin tests, we might never have had antibiotics? Because—for some strange reason—at certain times of the year, even small doses can simply
kill
them.”

“Wow,” Judy reacted. “That was a close call. Now, how about you guys—is it a state secret or are you near anything resembling paydirt?”

“It’s funny, I’m so close to the stuff, I find that question impossible to answer. But if it’s any indication, a film crew from ‘Nova’ is visiting the lab tomorrow. Maybe they’re getting some vibes.”

“Super, be sure to wear your lenses. Would it be okay if I came and watched? I really like the way Dad fields all those difficult questions and explains them so ordinary people can understand. And I can be sure your hair’s properly combed.”

“Great,” Sandy enthused. “You could even do my part of the interview, since you’re so much better-looking.”

By the time Judy arrived the next morning, a large WGBH van was parked in front of the lab, two wheels up on the sidewalk, its cables reaching through the front door like electronic tentacles.

Inside, separate film crews were at work. One camera was set up in Morgenstern’s office, interviewing Greg as he spoke of his altruistic motives in attacking the liver cancer problem. Meanwhile, Sandy was leading the other camera on a tour of the rest of the plant, introducing the teams and the technology.

As he spoke, various techs could be seen in the background, performing different tasks like loading up the PCR machine, a device that “photocopied” individual segments of DNA in a heated test tube, and scurrying to and fro to check the contents of petri dishes under the various microscopes.

Though he too had an office, Sandy preferred to sit at a desk where the action was. “I like to be as close as possible to my hardware.” He smiled to the lens.

From off camera the producer, a frizzy-haired girl in jeans, fed him questions.

Sandy first tried to explain to the lay audience how DNA carries the genetic code. Then how they were working with it.

“There’s also a particular protein that acts something like a traffic cop. It supervises the cell division, and if something begins to go wrong, it can stop it immediately.

“Now, little mutations happen all the time, but they’re usually not dangerous. The one thing we worry about is if the duplication goes crazy and starts to grow cancer cells.”

“What exactly are you and Dr. Morgenstern doing?” she asked.

“We’ve analyzed tissue from different cases of liver carcinoma and found that in every instance a specific area of this protein was damaged. Obviously, if we can fix it, we might repair the disease.”

“You make it sound so easy, Doctor.”

“Oh, there’s nothing radical about the
theory
—it’s the actual realization that’s so tough. We have to evolve a
drug that will cause the ‘folded’ parts to flip back so the cell can resume its normal shape and function.”

At this point, he had reached a large computer monitor at the SUN computer work station. The camera zoomed to a close shot of the screen as Sandy continued to explain.

“Our X-ray crystallography unit is helping us to determine the makeup of the protein. We have a multiwire proportional chamber that sends the structure pattern straight to the computer. Someday we may get our solution quite literally on television.”

“Are you optimistic, Dr. Raven?” the producer asked.

“Let’s put it this way. When you’re searching for a molecule in a mountain, you’ve either got to be very optimistic—or very crazy. I’d say I was a little of both.”

“You were cool,” Judy declared when the filming was complete and they were walking arm in arm to lunch. “And I’m really happy Dad’s finally getting some recognition for all his unsung labor.”

“Yeah,” Sandy agreed. “And if this thing pays off, I’m afraid Greg will be inflicted with honors, probably even a Nobel. Do you think he’d like that?”

She looked at him with a gleam in her eye. “Not as much as the other project you’ve helped develop.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about being pregnant.” She smiled. “By the way, does that make you happy?”

“Yes and no,” Sandy answered, his cheeks flushed. “I mean, I love babies—but I don’t believe in unwed mothers. Are you willing to do something about it?”

“Oh, what the hell,” she replied blithely. “I’ll bow to convention and go legal. What about high noon tomorrow at City Hall? That’ll give us time to get the blood tests.”

“As a matter of principle, your father never takes a lunch break,” Sandy warned.

“Yeah,” Judy acknowledged, “but I somehow think in this case he’ll make an exception.”

34
 

In the past, Adam had always succeeded in discharging his duties as a parent by tearing himself away from the lab to be at home for dinner. There, he showed a genuine interest in his daughter’s homework and waited until she was planted at her computer—and a telephone—before returning to work.

Knowing Toni would herself be buried in her upstairs office at least until the eleven o’clock news, it had long been Adam’s practice to call about ten-thirty to give her some indication of whether he was running out of strength, or had been sufficiently inspired to spend an all-nighter.

Lately his inspiration seemed to be in high gear. Not only did Adam stay out till dawn, he was sometimes too carried away to phone and forewarn his wife.

Charlie Rosenthal, the innocent if concerned bystander, thought Adam was “living like an ostrich.”

Adam lowered his head. “Maybe,” he murmured. “I just need time to work things out.”

“Come on, I think you’ve been living on borrowed time already. Do you honestly believe Toni doesn’t suspect? I mean, suppose she suddenly dropped into the lab and saw Anya working there?”

“She’s never seen Anya,” Adam interrupted quickly.

“Well, considering the girl hangs around you like a
necklace, it wouldn’t take her more than fifteen seconds to figure out what was going on. Besides, Adam, you’ve never screwed around before. Adultery just isn’t your scene. Something in you wants this to come out in the open.” Charlie’s voice took on an almost conspiratorial tone. “Have you got any contacts in Hawaii?”

“What?”

“I’m serious. Let’s get a copy of the
Medical Directory
and see if we can come up with somebody who might give Anya Avilov a job.”

“But why?” Adam protested, trying a new strategy to evoke his friend’s sympathy. “Have you ever thought of
her
feelings?”

“Yes,” Rosenthal admitted. “But when you consider that one of your options will definitely mess up at least three people’s lives—and since I know how crazy you are about your daughter—I’d say you have to go for the greater good.”

“You’re talking like a cold-blooded scientist,” Adam snapped.

“And you, my dear professor, are talking like a hot-headed moron. Of all the times in your life, this is when you should be most objective and analytic.
Let Avilov go.
Let her go where she really has a shot at starting over.”

He paused and then, with a tinge of suspicion, added, “Or are you also starting to feel possessive about her research talents?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on—you yourself told me she’s learning immunology like a whiz kid. Even coming up with ideas of her own. If you didn’t keep leaning on her to work in the lab, she’d have more time to study and requalify as the doctor she already is.”

“Dammit, you’re implying that I’m a selfish shit.”

“You are,” Charlie stated curtly. “And you’re on the slippery slope to disaster.”

Adam had been jolted by Charlie Rosenthal’s blunt admonitions. During the weeks that followed, he exercised superhuman self-restraint. Though they resumed their Wednesday night telephone conversations, he did not visit Anya. He did not even invite himself along when she went with other members of the staff to the cafeteria for a quick lunch. And yet he sensed that with every look at her, his resistance was eroding.

Anya, herself consumed with guilt, was convinced that she deserved no more. And accepted that though her moments of intimacy with Adam had been the happiest of her life, they were now definitely at an end.

It had been nearly two months since Anya Avilov had begun working in Adam Coopersmith’s immunology lab. Naturally, she had started with tasks as menial as washing test tubes, preparing animals, and the like. But she was a quick study and assimilated scientific material at an astonishing pace. In less than a month she was promoted to the data section, collating the results of various experiments on a computer that would thereafter be hers alone.

It was nearly seven o’clock on a Wednesday evening, in the depth of winter darkness, when Adam noticed her closing up for the day, shuffling papers into a folder to work on that night. In an instant he was at her side, his own coat draped over his arm.

“How are you getting home, Anya?” he asked as casually as he could.

“The usual way,” she replied. “Number sixty-six to Harvard Square, and then the seventy-one, which takes me practically to my doorstep.”

“That sounds worse than a forced march to me,” Adam remarked. “Why don’t you let me give you a lift? It’s practically on my way. Besides, it’s dark and cold and the streets are icy.”