The Ambassador (11 page)

‘Lisa, I’m so grateful to you. But I feel I’ve –’

‘Barely scratched the surface?’ She completed the sentence for him. Her face was wistful. ‘You’re more correct than you know.’

The remark left a powerful feeling of unfinished business between them. Strether took a chance. He mumbled, through the face-mask, ‘If I wanted to see you again, could I? Would that be unethical? I can leave you my vidphone number …’ He rummaged, found his powerbook and printed out a gold-crested card for her.

‘Thank you. Here.’ She bent and scribbled rapidly on her notepad, tore off the page and handed it to him. ‘This is mine. You should ring me and come out again for a drink. Or I can meet you in London – my family keeps an apartment there, so I’m not stuck in Porton Down the whole time.’

‘Thank
you
.’ Strether stuffed the piece of paper quickly into his pocket. The two of them emerged from the tiny office into the laboratory. As the door from the corridor opened he was once more fully robed and masked. He drew himself to his full height.

‘Dr Pasteur. Thank you. You have made things much clearer for me, and set my mind at rest. Please accept the gratitude of the people of the United States of America.’ She laughed good-naturedly, as if she understood his need for cover. ‘Mr Ambassador, it’s been an honour. Have a nice day.’

Her eyes met his. Strether was certain she was trying to say more to him, but did not betray the confidence. He hoped she had not been humouring him or merely being polite. He wanted to see her again, very much.

In the Maglev returning to London Strether needed to talk. As if anticipating him, Marius sat in the facing seat.

‘Impressed?’ the Prince inquired. That slightly mocking expression again, but it was
not unkind.

‘Who couldn’t be?’ Strether answered. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Mind-boggling.’

‘I’ll get you some material from the House of Lords library,’ Marius offered. ‘The debates are worth reading-the old fears, the refutations. The finance – the work is highly labour-intensive so it costs a packet. Estimates have to be agreed annually. Nothing goes through without the most intense scrutiny.’

Strether privately doubted that; few parliamentarians in any country had the skill to put sharp questions to scientists. He himself had floundered. Yet he was puzzled. Beneath her professional enthusiasm, Lisa’s evident discomfort at his probing would not leave his mind. Her parting shot was almost an admission that the programme might have holes in it. He had found more than he had bargained for – but what?

‘Dr Pasteur explained to me that there are two stages, one to take out defective material, and the second to insert … something better, I suppose. What I didn’t understand is what happens before that. She mentioned parental choice several times. What does it mean? How is it exercised?’

‘All, yes. That is not part of her duties, more the province of politicians.’ Marius had resumed his most urbane manner. ‘When a couple decides to have a child, they apply for a permit. What with the rapid increase in the numbers of elderly, this part of the world takes its population responsibilities to heart, though we can’t prevent unplanned conception entirely. Poverty, however, has a powerful disincentive effect. Long ago we abolished those perverse payments that encouraged single parents or unsupported families to reproduce willy-nilly. It still happens but is rare. And unknown among educated and upper-caste families.’

‘Go on. Who decides on the – permit? What are the criteria?’

‘Slow down, Strether – Bill. It’s similar to the old methods for adoption. Are they suitable? Is the partnership stable? The system prefers heterosexual married couples, but anti-discrimination codes mean nobody’s ruled out. Can they offer a child a good home? If the answer’s yes, they can proceed. Vanity usually dictates that they opt to use their own genetic material, egg and sperm, though we have spare banks of both.’

‘And if no?’

‘In law refusals do not have to be spelled out but I’ve handled cases like that through the Lords. Often there’s an obvious explanation – cruelty or abuse of a previous child or of a spouse, financial incompetence, or serious genetic problems within the family that can’t easily be corrected.’

‘You’re telling me you’d refuse a bankrupt?’

‘Not necessarily, dear chap. But no sensible government would give the go-ahead to a baby about to become a burden on the state. We’d certainly refuse a family with, say, Huntington’s disease unless they accepted genetic modification. It’s not the tussle you imagine. Most would-be parents are desperate to have healthy offspring.’

‘Yes, Lisa said the same,’ Strether mused.

‘Lisa? You’re well in there, Bill!’

‘No.’ Strether wriggled in his seat. ‘Don’t change the subject. She mentioned the choices available to medical families. What did she mean?’

‘That’s stage two, when abilities can be added. Not only the obvious improvements,
like disease resistance, say, or a facility with languages. Upper-caste families are offered enhancement of pre-existing tendencies, as long as there’s a statistical need for them. Loads of options, but certain categories are preferred. Doctors, researchers – most of the lab workers you saw today will have had enhancement at conception. They’re vital to the well-being of the state. So are mathematicians, or teachers, or creative writers. Up to quota, that is. So are politicians with a desire to serve the Union and not themselves, and a civil service which is sea-green incorruptible.’

‘You are kidding, of course.’ Strether gaped.

‘I’m not. Most of the people you’ve met so far, Bill, have had stage two enhancement, particularly of their intelligence. We add up to five points as a matter of course.’

‘God in heaven. What I’m getting at …’ Strether was struggling. ‘Who makes the rules? Lisa mentioned the Health Commission – is that part of the European Commission? Where do they fit in? Who decides that it’s OK to add a bit of IQ, or make a man creative?’

‘The would-be parents, of course.’ Marius seemed a bit huffy. With an obvious effort he recovered his equanimity but his eyes were cold. ‘Parliament. These matters are decided by the elected representatives of the people, no one else. The Commission are merely administrators, who respond in turn to the pressures exerted by those same parents. Millions of them. It’s circular, I grant you. But another way of describing it is
consensus
. It so happens, Bill, that the consensus over here favours harnessing knowledge to meet human need. We simply do not have the terror of scientific advance that paralyses your anti-Darwinian fundamentalist Congress. We are not starry-eyed. We’re not duped by quacks claiming to have the panacea to every ill. But where it works, we use it. Free of charge, if we can.
Because it is for the public good
.’

Strether lowered his voice. ‘You don’t think it’s against nature? Or God?’

Marius laughed without restraint, to such an extent that other passengers twisted around. ‘My
dear
Bill. The things you do come out with! It was God – or Mother Nature, if you prefer – who gave us these powers in the first place. You might as well declare that we should not use anaesthesia during surgery, or insecticides, or lasers, or fuel cells to fly planes, or rocket propulsion to go to the moon – or electromagnetic levitation to drive this train, for instance. We could still be living in wooden huts and using open hearths for cooking. How about it?’

Strether let his eyes rest coolly on his companion’s face. ‘And you, Marius. What was added to you? Do you know?’

Marius laughed again, more softly. ‘Not in so many words, no. I know that my mother Princess Io, who is of Japanese stock, opted for the Asian slit eyelids to be eliminated. That was when she married my father, a Hungarian royal, so I’d have probably looked half Western anyway. After that, it’s in my printout. I could find out more if I wished, but it becomes significant only when I want to marry and have children of my own.’

‘Your printout?’

‘I’ll show it to you some time. Children get a printout of their genetic map on their eleventh birthday. It’s quite an occasion. It means we know who we are. All part of growing up and becoming an adult.’

Strether gazed out of the window. His mind was in turmoil.

Everyone took it for granted that society’s well-being was being served, even Fred,
the ice-cream taster, and his wife. It was as if a better baby was regarded as a quality consumer product, an aspiration for those in the lower strata, an assumption for their rulers. Yet he had glimpsed enough, out in the street, at the games, in the tube, to think it possible that the system was being abused – or at least, deployed in ways that could not have official approval. Unless somebody was turning a blind eye.

Opposite him Marius waited. Once it was clear the discussion would not be resumed, the Prince calmly pulled out his powerbook and was soon engrossed in it.

Strether bit his lip. The doctrine was the creation of better human beings. Yet he had met at least one today: Lisa, with the honey-brown eyes and the fresh, healthy aura. He patted his pocket where her number was hidden. Then he dozed in a dreamy, uneasy reverie as the rich land outside slipped by.

He arrived back at the Residence late and weary. The housekeeper had long gone; he was alone. He poured himself a drink and sat lounging, his feet up. But it was no use telling himself to let a day or two lapse. It had to be done at once.

He dialled her home vidphone number and was relieved when her face appeared very quickly, as if she had been waiting for him. This time, however, she was in a blue sweater, and wearing small amber earrings which twinkled fuzzily on the screen. And lipstick. It made it harder for him to concentrate. But work came first.

‘Lisa – so many new questions. I don’t know where to start. Can I ask you anything?’

What emerged from the vidphone was almost a giggle. Perhaps she, too, had had a drink. ‘You can ask. I’m not sure how secure this line is, though.
Ambassador
.’ It was a warning. He readjusted his features, became immediately more serious.

‘Well, for example, you talked about stage one, when defects are tidied up. And stage two, when additions are made. Is there a stage three? I mean, when you’ve finished, you’ve got something unique, haven’t you? Or can you make … copies?’

Lisa pondered. ‘Under a microscope it would be straightforward. Remember I started with eight identical cells. I can repeat the modifications to the other seven, but that’s tedious and prone to mistakes. It’d be quicker to introduce the improved genetic material into a denucleated host cell, grow it to embryo size, split the new cells up and then implant the eight identical nuclei into more empty shells. That’s why they’re called NTs – nuclear transplants.’

‘How often could you do it – in theory, anyway?’

Lisa seemed uncomfortable with the query. ‘In theory, any number of times you like. Even with some failures, if the process were repeated three times – eight to sixty-four to 512 – you could have hundreds of identical embryos. You grow the chosen embryo to blastocyte stage then it’s implanted, in a surrogate, or the biological mother if that’s what’s been booked. Or in the laboratory, though that’s so tricky and dear it’s only done for top-caste families.’

‘Such as?’

‘The royals, obviously. Others – I’m not at liberty to say. People like me.’

‘Wait, Lisa,’ Strether said urgently. ‘It’s not the mode of pregnancy that I’m asking about. It’s how often you duplicate the – the ideal embryo you’ve created.’

Lisa averted her gaze. ‘We don’t. It’s not allowed. Can’t you see? It wouldn’t be in the public interest.’

‘Why not? Everything else about that goddamned programme is. It’s National Health Service money, isn’t it? Paid for by the taxpayer, every last cent of it?’

‘Mostly. The research certainly is,’ Lisa admitted. ‘I’m a grade six civil servant, that’s true. But the state only pays for the therapy under certain conditions.’

‘Oh? So who gets it free, and who doesn’t?’

Lisa now looked distinctly ill at ease. ‘If I had my way, everyone would, but that’d be astronomically expensive. So, all upper castes, of course. Any family with a history of defects. And anyone requesting preferred improvements.’

‘Including modifying the fat gene so they can eat as much as they like?’

Lisa frowned. Strether noticed that even when her expression softened a moment later, the frown mark remained. ‘No, not at present. They’d have to pay for that at a private clinic. The list is a matter of debate. It’s not for me to decide.’

‘But those who do decide are upper caste, I’ll bet,’ Strether thrust at her. ‘So how about it? If they said to you to go ahead, make six of these beauts the same, would you? Must you?’

She paused, a look of great anguish on her face. ‘Bill, don’t. It isn’t policy. That’d be cloning. Think about it – DNA’s used for many forms of identification. In criminal cases, suppose there were two hundred people with identical DNA, how could you ever get anyone convicted? Answer, you couldn’t. Access to cash machines, paying bills and the like: if lots of us were the same that’d be impossible. Everyday life as we know it wouldn’t exist. Now do you see?’

‘But is it forbidden?’ Strether insisted. The football match was still vivid – the stocky quartet of women players, the strikers linked to stars from history – but he held his tongue. He had to absorb the official version cleanly to understand it.

Lisa sighed. ‘No, not exactly. It isn’t encouraged, but it isn’t absolutely forbidden. At least, we don’t do it at Porton Down, and it’s stopped by the courts whenever examples emerge. Unless it’s under licence.’

She twiddled with the knobs and her image went briefly out of focus, then returned, still speaking slowly. ‘I know what troubles you, and it does me, too. When people look too alike, psychologically it’s extremely disturbing. Everyone is an individual – that’s Porton Down’s other motto. But genetically it could be disastrous. If clone copies started breeding then damaged genes we might have missed, or which mutated spontaneously, could cause havoc. We could have a race of idiots, or madmen, or worse. That’s why there’s the age-old taboo against incest. Why go to the trouble of putting things right if we can avoid a mess to begin with?’