The Curiosity (15 page)
Authors: Stephen Kiernan
(Daniel Dixon)
C
arthage offered me the first question, a definite courtesy, but I did him one smarter and asked to go last instead. That way I would get to watch all the others file in, take their seats, the usual murmur of the ink-stained readying to do their first-draft-of-history business, all the while knowing that I was going to get the punch line. Not to brag, but I had my camera ready so I could get a shot of all those dropped jaws.
The chilliness with which the reporters greeted each other, curt nods and low banter, reminded me of watching a jazz group set up. Like they were all at the gig last night, so
cool
is the word, cat. Damn if you would see so much as a smile among them. Nor was there a single howdy-do in my direction, by the by.
Well, let them act so frosty. Yours truly already knew his closing question. Six words, and short ones at that. But I could flat-out guarantee that old Frank's answer would lead every news report worldwide.
A few correspondents pulled out the day's papers to brush up on the story, but it was strictly a head fake. Everyone knew the real news was the photo, shot by me, placed above the fold in every rag I'd seen that morning: Vice President Gerald T. Walker shaking the judge's hand, smiling that famous toothy smile so damn wide you would have thought he was meeting the pope. The veep, former governor of a cotton state, had never even been to Beantown before. Now he had made the editorial page, a caricature that turned his whole face into an idiot grin. Columnists were speculating that yesterday's photo op signaled his interest in the top job: Oval Office and
Air Force One
and my-fellow-Americans. Even if half the pundits were twits, a generous estimate given the ones I've known personally, it boggled me anyway: our old Frank figured in presidential politics before he'd done much more than wake up and scratch his belly.
Maybe the protesters helped, since they were increasingly headline-ready. There were more of them now, fifty or so, agitating around the building like flies outside a horse barn. Their energy was higher, too, which I attributed to Walker becoming our newest friend. Nobody gets powerful without making enemies. The protest group had a boss now, an organizer who made sure the signs were legible and who lined people up behind TV interviewers so the crowd looked as big as possible. This boss guy was movie-star handsome, with a Kirk Douglas kind of chin, and was forever toting a clipboard and bullhorn. I made a mental note to find out his story.
Carthage set the news conference up in the first-floor atrium. Through the tall windows spilled spring sunlight as pale as an underfed teenager. A blue curtain hung behind two podiums, framing a sign that read
THE LAZARUS PROJECT
, with yellow rays in all directions like a kid's drawing of the sun. Not the sharpest logo you ever saw.
However weak Carthage might be on PR, he'd been right to give me the book deal. It would tell the real story, the one nobody else knew. It would lift yours truly out of the pit of Arctic schlepping for a minor magazine and into the realm of author and authority. And by the way, Mrs. Washington,
ka-chinggg.
Meanwhile I watched the idiot-box crews set up. Pretty-face on-air talent gals stood beside the riser, holding white cards for cameramen to fix a brightness level. Funny thing about TV women: they all have skinny faces, cheekbones you could crack an egg on, but they carry big butts. Maybe all those hours in the anchor chair? Or maybe they're like chickens, how one kind is bred to give meat and another to produce eggs, and these made perfect talking heads but you'd never want to go wreck the sheets with them.
Such a goddamn philosopher I am. The red digital clock said we were an hour into day seventeen for our old Frank. But my watch said six after one, and the presser was supposed to start at one sharp. Not like Carthage to be tardy. The only explanation would have to be the surprise he had planned. I jiggled my leg in my chair till the guy next to me asked if I could please stop.
All right, I admit it: I was excited. This was one hell of a story, is what it was. I'd covered the space shuttle explosion, back in my cub days at the paper in Florida. I'd followed a seedy governor right into the arms of his mistress, so close on his heels I could see firsthand why he'd been tempted. Then I'd found research papers that fudged the side effects of a blood pressure drug, killing four women with clots and placing me forever after on the science-writing path. After that, I'd interviewed iguana taggers in the Galápagos, particle accelerator geeks in France, climate-change gurus at the edge of the Gobi Desert, trajectory physicists in mildewed bars at Cape Canaveral, nanotechnologists in California clean rooms, tectonic savants at the lip of volcanoes, metallurgists in roasting foundries, AIDS researchers in giant, silent labs, sky listeners at the foot of their array of massive creepy radio-wave tracking dishes, and none of them, not one, came close to the magnitude of this frozen-man yarn. I mean, what if we truly found a way to cheat death, to make it temporary? Jeremiah is good for a week of hot copy maybe, but what he represents is much greater. What if we did it? What if we genuinely did it?
Worthless musings deserve a hard interruption, and that's just what I received when the last reporter hurried in, “excuse me” here and “pardon me” there and in general calling as much attention to himself as if he'd used a foghorn. Wilson Steele, dammit, settling cozy in his seat like a duck on an egg.
No matter.
New York Times
or not, his opening paragraph tomorrow would still come from my six-word question.
The room went quiet like the hush in a concert hall before the curtain lifts, when the crowd somehow knows. I checked my watch. It was exactly six minutes after the scheduled starting time. Dr. Borden entered first, walking stiff-legged like a marionette. Carthage came next, looking as puffed up as one of those giant balloons in the Thanksgiving Day parade. A couple of techs tagged along for ballast, plus Thomas with a sheaf of papers. Gerber waddled into the doorway but moved no closer, rubbing a knuckle in one red eye. He couldn't possibly be stoned now of all times, could he?
“Let's begin,” Carthage said. He folded his hands chest-high, and it looked effeminate, plain and simple. But then I remembered his germ phobia, and maybe this was his way of not touching the podium. A few techs began moving through the aisles, handing out papers. The second podium stood empty, a hint of what lay ahead.
“My staff is distributing time lines,” Carthage said, “for any of you joining this story today. Also a summary of findings, biographies of myself and our staff, and a complete list of my publications. We've also updated our Web site this noon with current videos and data. With me today is Dr. Christopher Borden, and other staff as needed.”
Carthage adjusted his stance, as if it were possible to swagger while standing still. The lights were brightening him, the cameras pointing at him, reporters alternating between glancing his way and writing down every word he said. Carthage scratched his chin and shutters clicked by the dozen. In response to all of this attention, the bastard smiled. And I must admit, he had one of the sickest, fakest smiles ever: yellowed teeth, asymmetrical lips, the whole thing pulled back on one side like a sneer.
“I'd like to make a brief statement first.” He cleared his throat. “Five years ago a predecessor organization to the Lazarus Project found that cells which ceased metabolizing due to rapid freezingâa layman would say they had diedânonetheless contained energy supplies to live longer.” On he went, blah blah, history no one cared about. They would wait him out, though, indulging him so they could hear what they came for. Eventually Carthage veered back into their sights.
“The human being we have reanimated proves to be a man of intellect and judgment. He participates in our research with as much enthusiasm as his limited energy permits. We understand that some people question our motives. Our goal is not to generate controversy, of course, but to offer the promise of a greater life span for all of humanity. Now.” He opened his arms like a priest at the altar. “Your questions?”
Hands shot up all over the room. Carthage pointed. “Yes?”
“What kind of shape is the awakened man in?”
“Dr. Borden, if you please?” Carthage stepped aside and the short doc moved to the podium, pulling the mike down to his level. Carthage frowned at that.
“Overall his physical condition is remarkably good. All organs and muscle systems are functioning normally, or what would be normal for someone his age who hadn't been frozen for over a century.” Borden tugged on the tip of his beard. “The primary unusual thing is that his metabolism is spectacularly slow. Like a hibernating bear. He consumes fewer than eight hundred calories per day, and sleeps twenty hours out of twenty-four. After only mild exertions, his fatigue is enormous.”
“So he's not some sort of superhuman people need to be afraid of?”
Borden chuckled. “Judge Rice is as dangerous as a teenager who sleeps till noon.”
The group laughed along, more hands rose. Carthage chose a woman in the front. “Just how much is all of this costing? Is this judge a good use of research funds?”
“It's far too soon to know what our studies will yield,” Carthage said. He used the sleeve of his jacket to raise the mike again. That guy and his phobias, I swear. “As for the price tag, this facility cost a fortune to equip, and the polar research vessel is spectacularly costly to operate. Thus far . . .” and he leaned toward Thomas, who stood against the wall like a benchwarmer dying to get put into the game, “thus far all of our financing has been private, with no federal help. Though we did have an encouraging conversation with Vice President Walker. The better question, if I may, is what price you are willing to put on a recovered human life? Moreover, we hope and expect our initial investments to be spread out over many reanimations and many avenues of research. It's not as though we built all of this for Subjectâfor a single person.”
“A follow, please: how much have you spent so far?”
Carthage considered her a moment, seeming to weigh something, then reaching a conclusion. “To date, our expenditures have neared twenty-five million dollars.”
A murmur passed through the room. Gerber in the doorway whistled, earning him a glare from Carthage. Gerber just smiled.
The reporter had her hand up again. “One more, please. Can you tell us who your funding sources are?”
Carthage narrowed his eyes. The cameras clicked at that image, and I saw him notice, draw back, then force that sideways smile of his. “We are fortunate to have supporters who enable us to pursue our work unfettered by external interference. Should the government choose to assist our project, we intend to make our methods open-sourced so scientists the world over can build on our findings for the betterment of all mankind.”
“What do you make of the controversy around this project?” asked another reporter. “You know, people who say you are playing God?”
“I would say that any endeavor of this significance and potential is bound to upset people who are afraid of change. But controversy is not without merit. Healthy dialogue is necessary and even welcome. Remember, though, our caution is not like the secrecy around the Manhattan Project, for example, where the goal was to kill hundreds of thousands of people. Our work is for life, is all about life.”
“May I also say”âBorden stood on tiptoe, holding the podium for balanceâ“to the people who say we are playing God, that we are not playing anything. We do not play. This work is far too complex, the stakes far too high. These people who criticize us simply do not understand. They are ignorant.”
Oops, I thought. Sure enough, the room went quiet while every single reporter wrote those sentences down, or tapped them into a laptop, so many heads bent like schoolkids to their lessons.
“I think . . .” said Carthage, clapping his hands. Normally that brings a room to attention, but this time they were all still scribing. He clapped again. “I think the best way to express what is going on here, yes, is with a visual aid. Thomas”âhe turned stifflyâ“would you please fetch our visual aid?”
Thomas hurried from the room like a puppy sent for slippers. Borden returned to his place, and Carthage rubbed his hands together as if washing them under a stream of water. While the reporters remained silent I counted, waiting to see how long Carthage had told his team to let the anticipation build. There was no question he would have thought about that, calculating the ideal level of suspense. I had reached forty-eight Mississippi, an eternity for a crowd to wait, when the atrium side door opened.
Thomas came first, all efficiency, a little robot. Dr. Kate followed in a calm stroll. She wore a navy-blue dress, fitted like a hug of cotton from her collarbone to her knee. What a niblet.