The Curiosity (14 page)

“We may provide Subject One with counselors at a later date. Psychology is neither your background nor your responsibility. Your task is to gather data. We need to know, to measure, and to record.”

“As a result of my involvement, we now know a great deal more about the person we reanimated. I have not done anything wrong.”

With two fingertips, Carthage straightened a paper on his desk. “Dr. Philo, surely the degree of skepticism this project faces does not escape you. If we are ever to be believed, I need an unassailable record of everything we do. Therefore . . .” He cleared his throat, though there was no obstruction in there that I could hear. “Therefore any misconduct captured on camera, or any activity which occurs beyond the monitors' watchful eye, not only undermines my credibility, it jeopardizes the future of this entire effort to save humanity and alter something as massive as our definition of mortality.”

“If you check Gerber's records of our site traffic, you would see the numbers are always higher when Judge Rice is active. Which is to say when he is interacting with me. People are hungry to see him live and move.”

“Saturday-morning cartoons are popular, too, Dr. Philo.”

“Do you consider the news that Jeremiah Rice was a Massachusetts district court judge to be cartoonish?”

“Irrelevant,” Carthage shouted, rising to his feet. He took a deep breath to collect himself. “I am weary of your recklessness and insubordination. You have been warned repeatedly. You have violated the rules repeatedly.”

“I told her not to do it.”

It was Billings. I'd forgotten he was even there.

“Wow, Graham,” Dr. Kate said. “Way to throw me overboard.”

“Pardon me, Dr. Billings?” Carthage said.

“I'm telling you I stood in the way, at the chamber door, and reminded her what your rules are, and told her not to do it.”

I have always hated people like that, brown-nosers who will knife anyone just to save their own asses.

Carthage approached Dr. Kate. “Is this true?”

“Almost verbatim, and completely beside the point. If you measure my conduct by the outcomes, they indicate not that you should reprimand me, but that you should revise the rules. Maybe give me a raise.”

“Don't speak nonsense.”

“If I followed your regulations,” she continued, “this walking, talking man would still be unconscious. Meanwhile precious days would be going by. Or if you somehow woke him, he would still be unspeaking. Or if you somehow got him to talk, no one would understand him. Without me, all you'd have in that chamber right now is an expensive piece of muttering meat.”

Nice turn of phrase, I thought, though I was writing so fast I could not take the time to register Carthage's expression. It must have been something, because he did his usual dodge. When I looked up, he was over by the window, gazing down on the protesters. I swear he liked them. Somehow it fed his contempt, the fuel for his interactions with the world.

“Allow me to spare us both the turmoil of further bickering,” he told the window. “You are fired. Immediately and forever. Clean out your desk and surrender your security badge within the hour. Good riddance and good-bye.”

Dr. Kate studied the digital clock on the wall—it was synchronized to the one in the control room counting how long old Frank had been alive again, just like the one in the hall and a huge one down in the atrium. Only forty-one minutes till it hit fifteen days. But I could tell by how long she stared at the clock that she was using a ploy every bit as phony as Carthage's pose by the window. After a moment again there was that uncommon calm. “I refuse to go.”

“Pardon me?”

“I will continue to come here, Doctor, no matter what you say. If you order the security guards to stop me, I will alert the media so they can film you keeping me out. Who knows? I might even cry.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I will also invite Judge Rice, who is not the property of Erastus Carthage but rather is a free citizen of this nation, and increasingly my friend, to come live in my home. I have already retained an attorney who only awaits my instruction to seek injunctive relief against you imprisoning your ‘Subject One' for one more day. If you oppose me, I will sue you immediately for sexual discrimination in the workplace. While you spend a fortune defending yourself, funding will wither under the deluge of bad PR.”

She stared him dead in the eye. “Dr. Carthage, I am helping this project and this person. I am not your enemy. But if you fire me, it will make me one.”

I was in love. I mean, I'd worked for female city editors with less backbone, interviewed female homicide detectives with less pluck. Carthage was on his way to becoming the most famous scientist in the world—a Stephen Hawking, a Carl Sagan—and here this gumptious chiquita was going toe-to-toe with him. Her firing would make the papers, sure as Sunday. But this scene, this very moment, I would save for the book.

Meanwhile Carthage's face wore an expression like someone had farted. He scowled at his hand sanitizer. It was over on his desk, so that stall was unavailable to him. He cleared his throat. “Do you understand the legal consequences of blackmail?”

“Of course.”

“And it is not lost on you that this conversation has witnesses?”

“No more than it is lost on you, Dr. Carthage, I'm sure, what a jury would make of security and video records confirming that the one and only woman employed by the Lazarus Project is also the one and only person assigned to work nights, every night in fact, with no time off for three straight weeks.”

The phone rang. “Thomas, get that, please,” Carthage barked. Too quickly, I thought. She had him cornered. And here yours truly thought this was going to be just another goddamn workday. I flipped my notebook to a fresh page, ready for round two.

Instead Carthage regained his composure, and chuckled. “Following your logic, perhaps my error was in hiring a woman, no?” He crossed to the desk, casual as a car salesman. “I am well accustomed to people wanting to keep their jobs with me. Typically they beg. Or plead, or promise to do better. It's appalling. Sound scientists demeaning themselves, just to keep a job. No dignity. But this is the first time I've experienced professional fisticuffs. I must admit, I'm rather enjoying it.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Dr. Kate replied.

“Daniel, take note.”

“Sir?”

“Observe.” He squirted sanitizer on his palms, then rubbed them together. “Often in science we must remember Occam's razor, the philosophy which holds that the simplest explanation is also the likeliest. Thus I will keep my actions extremely simple.” He sat against the front of his desk and looked down at her. “Dr. Philo, your employment here is terminated.
T-E-R-M—
”

“Sir, it's the vice president.”

It was Thomas at the door. Carthage blinked, as though he needed to focus to recognize him. “What are you doing interrupting me?”

“Of the United States, sir. Gerald T. Walker. He called to say he's a great fan of the project, and watches every video update on our site.” Thomas wrung his hands. I had an image flash in my head of a kid who needs to pee. “He'd like to speak with you, sir. He wants to meet Subject One.”

“Truly?” Carthage was glowing, I swear, face like a coal. He circled behind the desk, his attention redirected, his pique evaporated. “Put him through, put him through.”

“Right away. Oh, and sir?”

“What is it, Thomas?”

“He wants to meet Dr. Philo as well. Insists upon it. Apparently this morning he saw the hug.”

“Gerber posted new video already? Without my authorization?”

“It's 12:15, sir. You've been in back-to-back meetings, and you did instruct him to release on schedule on days when you were unavailable.”

“Gad.” Carthage pointed at Dr. Kate. “The vice president of the United States, that grinning fool, saw her infernal hug?”

“He said he loved it, sir. Made him cry.”

I laughed, I couldn't help it. Carthage flashed me an annoyed look, then stood by his phone. “I am waiting for you to put him through.”

Thomas vanished and a moment later Carthage's phone rang. But he did not answer it on the first ring. “Dismissed,” he said, waving us all toward the door. “To be continued.” The phone rang again and he lifted the receiver to his ear slowly, savoring the moment. “Erastus Carthage.”

We crowded into the waiting area, Thomas behind his desk pretending to do something on his computer. I still had my notebook out.

“Listen, lovely,” Billings said. “I'll make it up to you.”

Dr. Kate snorted. “If it hadn't been for that lucky phone call, you would be making it up to an unemployed woman.” And she stared him down with daggers.

“You'll see,” he mumbled. “I'll think of something.”

Billings shuffled off, tail between his legs. Dr. Kate put her hands on her hips and gave me the high beams next. “Is there something more that you want?”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Just suddenly feeling very alone.”

Up close, her face overwhelmed me. The worry. No other way to put it: the beauty. I had to stare past, and there was freaking Gerber in the control room, headphones on, eyes closed, dancing slowly, probably as high as a seagull. What a place.

“Well, I think that was incredible,” I said. “Totally amazing. Was that all from the judge's advice? Do you really have a lawyer already lined up?”

“On the record?”

“Or off, whichever you want.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, calculating. “No comment.”

I laughed. “You were bluffing.”

“No comment, I said.”

Dr. Kate turned on her heel and continued on to the control room, delectability on parade. And you can bet I stood there and watched her go.

CHAPTER 14

The Chaperone

(Erastus Carthage)

T
en million, that's all you need. Not a nickel more.

Ten million dollars and you could recruit a stronger staff, hire a Web developer, employ a real scribe instead of playing ventriloquist with a hack whose ambitions outstrip his abilities. Who knows what you could accomplish with a full-time publicist? Exposure, credibility, fame. There is a prize they give out in Sweden for people like you.

And the lab? Of course you'd launch a second research vessel, to conduct hard-ice searches at both poles simultaneously. The flood of material they would find would predicate a second reanimation chamber. With ten million, you'd avoid any need to partner with those unseemly cryogenics people. You'd alleviate the concern of your existing income source as well. Oh, and then.
Then
you'd offer an intensive fellowship for top Ph.D.s, to share your discoveries and advance reanimation around the world. Yes, you are a generous man. Let them come and learn. The Erastus Carthage Academy for the Advancement of Humanity. Nice ring to it. Dignified. Perhaps Harvard would offer your academy a home. Or MIT. Which reminds you, did Thomas write the president of the university a thank-you note for those flowers? You can't recall signing it.

Are they looking tired now, days later, on your credenza, these roses of praise? Later today they'll go in the trash. For this morning, though, you need them to make an impression, to lubricate the request for ten million dollars. In good federal coin, no less.

Why shouldn't you ask? Isn't your project in every newspaper in the world? The
Times
put Subject One on the front page, byline Wilson Steele. The
Post
ran his face, in close-up, under a giant headline:
HERE COMES THE JUDGE.
Aren't the pundits crowing about the return of American supremacy in the sciences? Hasn't China, like some lumbering elephant outwitted by a clever mouse, hastily opened a lab to chase your theories? What riches they must be throwing at lesser scientists, to recruit them to join a copycat project. For the director, of all people, they hired the nobody you fired last month, the one who soiled your suit with tea. That lackey a research director? Thank you for the laugh. See if you catch Erastus Carthage in this lifetime.

China has done you a favor, nonetheless, by launching a new space race, the Sputnik of mortality. All you seek, in order to keep America ahead, is a mere ten million. It the bloated federal budget, it's a fraction of a fraction of a percent. In today's dollars, it's barely anything.

And who better to carry your request to Washington, who more ideally equipped to state your case, than Gerald T. Walker, a man mocked for excessive smiling, but nonetheless one heartbeat away from being leader of the free world? In less than an hour, this fan of the project and the videos, even that absurd hug, will be here. The mountain is coming to Mohammed.

The timing is ideal. Subject One is upright, speaking clearly. No one can predict how long that may continue. This is the now of all nows.

Walker's advance security has scoured the building. All morning you heard the protesters chanting below your window, TV cameras bestowing precisely the attention these souls so desperately seek. Who cares that they despise your work? Their passion is still a kind of worship. You cannot resist spying on them. Can you imagine any circumstance in which you would revel in your powerlessness, and flaunt it for all to see? No, six stories up is the place to be in this world, and in this life.

There is a soft knock at the door. You hurry from the window as though you'd been caught viewing pornography. It is the physician, and you greet him with a nod. “Dr. Borden, I hope you bring good news.”

“I bring the potential for good news.”

You sit at your desk, gesture him to a chair. “Tell me.”

He has a clipped walk, this short man with his pointed beard. Borden bustles to the chair, then does not so much sit on it as perch. “Here's what we know, day sixteen.”

The man always comes gratifyingly to the point. You nod. “Proceed.”

“It has something to do with salt. We're seeing all the expected signs of accelerating metabolism: heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, the gamut. If we did not intervene, he'd be lucky to make twenty-one days.”

“Based on body mass and the krill projections?”

“Yes. But our nutritional mix has brought mitigating effects. I'd say it's forty/sixty that it will work. Frankly, though, even if this succeeds I can't predict for how long.”

“Forty percent odds are better than none. And all because of salt? It's that simple?”

“Perhaps slow mitosis while frozen in ocean water alters cell chemistry in some permanent way. You'd need a mitochondria expert to tell you. But the implications are clear. For reanimated creatures, no salt means longer life.”

“How much longer?”

Borden places the fingertips of one hand against those of the other, as if he were holding an invisible sphere. “How speculative would you like me to be?”

“Best and worst cases.”

“Best case is that we've broken the code, and Subject One lives indefinitely. Subject to the usual diseases, ex-wives, gunshots, et cetera.”

“And worst?”

Borden tugs on his beard. “Five mornings from now, he doesn't wake up.”

In the moment you allow yourself to digest this news, the intercom on your desk buzzes once briefly. “Yes, Thomas?”

“Dixon time, sir.”

You'd instructed Thomas to keep him waiting in the outer office a neat twenty minutes. By now he will have reached the perfect simmer.

You rise. “Dr. Borden, you are doing an excellent job.”

“It's an honor to be part of this enterprise.” He stands, then bows, actually bows, before turning for the door.

Dixon, ever the awkward one, enters the doorway first, and they do a little hint and feint to get past each other. The reporter finally makes his way in, the heft of him somehow an unpleasant surprise, as if you'd forgotten, the soiled trousers, the sport coat with those crude leather patches on the elbows, a half-crumpled notebook in his hefty mitt. You wonder if he has ever lived one intellectually rigorous moment in his life.

“I am glad to see you,” is your greeting, and you force a smile.

He flumps into the chair Borden just occupied, then poises his pen over a legal pad. “You going to make a statement on the veep's visit?”

“No, no, Daniel.” You wave the idea away. “I didn't ask you here in your capacity as a journalist. You'll be present for the Walker meeting anyway. No, I just wanted us to have a little talk.”

“About?”

The man is incapable of recognizing a dramatic pause. Always he must interject some noise, some interruption of cogent thought. His mind is not weak, you consider, merely hasty. Also sloppy, very sloppy.

“About the future, Daniel. For you, for our valuable if impertinent Dr. Philo, and for our precious Subject One. No need to take notes just now.”

Dutifully he sets the pad aside, interlacing fingers across the middle of his girth. “Dr. C, I am all ears.”

“Yes. Well.” You collect yourself, folding your hands as well. “You see, Daniel, the result of our encounter with Dr. Philo yesterday is a fortuitous one.”

“How so?”

“Progress in one direction can sometimes cause a researcher to overlook opportunities in an altogether different avenue. And so it is with Subject One. His immense worth as an object of study had dominated my thinking, at the expense of recognizing his value in winning supporters to our cause.”

“You mean fund-raising?”

“I mean friend-raising, Daniel. To contradict the protesters, to avoid soiling ourselves with politics, and yes, to develop a population of interested parties who might enable this project's work to reach its fullest potential. That is where you come in.”

“I don't follow.”

Simply incapable of a pause. “Bear with me a moment, then.” You sigh, then press on. “My design is this: Let us give Subject One his liberty, so to speak. Let him experience America as it is today, a place transformed from what he once knew. As a tour guide, let us assign the feisty Dr. Philo. Let her show him around. Let them be seen. Let the public share in the story, and amplify the spectacle.

“And here is the genius of it.” You lean against the desk and bend toward him. “To chronicle their every adventure, let us dispatch Daniel Patrick Dixon.”

It is a professorial delight you experience at that moment, watching an idea dawn in a lesser mind. While he warms his mental hands before the fire of your proposal, you continue. “If they see marvels, you will tell us. If they are dismayed, you shall render it. If a private bond develops between them”—you pause and deduce by his nodding that he understands your implication—“you will inform the world. Who will not hunger for every new detail in their explorations?”

Dixon keeps nodding, eyes down now. He drums a pen on his thigh. “So I'm supposed to follow them around?”

“Sometimes overtly, sometimes less so. Thomas has cameras for you, still and video. Also recording devices.”

He lifts his gaze. “I am not going to be anyone's spy.”

“Of course not, Daniel. Remember, you are not in my employ. What you are is a reporter, doing his job, getting the scoop.” You swing a little gung ho fist for him.

“Dr. C, let me tell you something.” Dixon places his notebook on the rug beside the chair. You steel yourself for whatever sordid revelation is about to ensue. “When I was a kid, just fourteen, my family's house caught on fire. Both my parents died. I pulled them out but the smoke had already gotten them. So I started out with zilch. Literally, no clothes, no family, not even a toothbrush. I'm not saying life owes me anything, everyone has their share of misery. But if I have a shot at getting a little bit back, you know, enjoying just a bit of comfort and cushion, well, only an idiot would say no, is what it is.”

There. You survived without feeling an urge to laugh. Somewhat pitiful, truthfully. The orphan boy, starved for glory. But you nod slowly, a picture of empathy. “Possibly your whole life has been preparation for this moment.”

“Maybe so. Who knows?”

Thomas knocks at the door, right on cue. “Final checklist time, sir.”

“Yes, of course. Excuse us, please.”

Dixon stands, starts for the door.

“Daniel, you've forgotten something.”

He turns, spots his notebook, and hustles his big frame to fetch it.

“Be my eyes, Daniel. Be the eyes of everyone who wants to know about this incredible feat. Watch Subject One. Watch Dr. Philo. And tell the world what it desperately wants to know.”

Dixon pauses at the door. Is he choked up? “With all my heart, sir.”

Then he is gone, your wish come true. A tool, a puppet, a chaperone, all in one. And you don't even have to pay his wage.

Thomas comes to your desk with a checklist for review. It's all precaution, every
i
was dotted hours ago. As you scan the list your buzzer sounds again. “What is it?”

“Front desk security, sir. Vice President Walker has arrived.”

“Thomas, come with me to the conference room. I'd like you to see this.”

“I'd be honored, sir.”

Admit it, you feel a flutter. Now the Lazarus Project goes public. Even if Borden's life-span prediction is wrong, there will be time to make a valuable impression. If all goes well with Walker, you will begin a national publicity campaign first thing tomorrow. If the past sixteen days have stoked the people's fervor, now it is time for the bonfire.

“Send him up,” you bark at the intercom. “Let the games begin.”