The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (18 page)

Lane moves into a hallway and leaves the babble of the party behind him. It takes only a few moments to locate Dr. Bradford’s home office, with its big desk of chrome and glass and view of the hills. The wall to the left is the standard professional trophy collection: an undergraduate degree from Cornell, a medical degree from UCLA, numerous certificates of surgical achievement, and honors from several professional societies. Below these are various news clippings and hard copy extracted from the subnets along with pictures of the good doctor with several major film stars—most likely, grateful patients at one time or other. Is he connected to the Institute? Lane spots his computer, but thinks better of it. Too much exposure. He turns and heads back down the hall.

He is halfway back to the bar when he spots her. It’s Linda Crampton, head of the Institute, a good match for her photo on their website. She stands in a conversational cluster, wineglass in hand. A silvery dress features her handsomely engineered bosom. Probably a forty-two/sixty-one. He’s already getting the hang of it.

Her cluster stands next to a large stone fireplace, a cavern framed in massive blocks of granite and filled with the blue-and-orange flame of gas-powered logs. It gives him an excuse to loiter in their vicinity, so he crosses and stares down at the flames, as if somehow warming himself. It doesn’t take long. The group soon dissolves in a round of smiles and polite nods, and Crampton walks by him. She sports expertly colored hair folded in loose curls and diamond earrings of a tasteful caliber. Her dress originates from one of the upscale houses in Shanghai, probably Shi Li. Lane’s downtown lover from the high-rise, the one with the cop fetish, has sensitized him to such distinctions.

He preps himself to intercept, but doesn’t need to. Crampton fixes on him as she walks by. “Hello,” she purrs. The voice pours out as if from a slinking cat who’s unexpectedly crossed paths with a fat mouse. One look at her eyes and he knows why. The whites have a faint bluish cast. Concolor, the magic hormonal compound that blows midlife female embers back into an open blaze. Concolor was the scientific designation for the cougar family and this was the Cougar Pill.

Lane replies with a warm hello. Even knowing the circumstances, he can’t help but feel a little flattered. Such is the male ego.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says. Lane recalls her clever eyes from the Web photo. In reality, they appear even more so, like two hard diamond bits.

“Just moved in,” Lane replies. “I’m Allen.” He extends his hand and feels her warm, dry palm. “Allen Durbin.”

“Allen, so nice to meet you.” She lets her grasp linger before letting go. “And welcome. I’m Linda Crampton.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Crampton.”

“Is your wife here?” she probes.

“Actually, there are several Mrs. Durbins. But I’m afraid they’re all past tense.”

She reacts with a sultry smile. Whoever did her lips did a good job. “Oh well,” she shrugs. “It’s always better to live in the present. That’s what all the spiritual types say.”

“Yes, it is,” Lane agrees. “And what about you?”

She assumes a look of faux regret. “I hate to admit it, but I’m one of those people who’s married to their job.”

“And what kind of job are we talking about?”

“I’m the executive director of the Institute for the Study of Genetic Disorders.”

“Wow,” Lane says. “That may be a little more than I can digest in a single sitting.”

“It does take awhile,” she says sympathetically. Her eyes stray across the room to a young man of maybe thirty, who fidgets nervously by the bar. Her date, Lane surmises. She comes back to Lane. “Would you like to know more?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“Why don’t you come by the Institute tomorrow? We’re over in the Medplex. You can take the air hop at eleven. I have a little time in my schedule late morning. I’ll show you around and we can have lunch brought in. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“Good. See you there.” She glides off toward the anxious cougar bait and Lane turns back to the artificial fire. It almost seems warm.

Lane looks down on Pinecrest with a chaotic mix of fascination and horror. He hasn’t flown since he was a boy, and never in a helicopter. The aircraft is of advanced design, the latest from the Chinese—whisper quiet and turbulence free via compensatory artificial intelligence. He simply floats up and away in a soft leather seat while staring out the window on the side of the fuselage. Pinecrest recedes, the hillside houses, the upscale shopping village, the park with the ten-acre pond, the support buildings, and the cleared security strip on the outer periphery. No one notices but he. The other passengers watch the Feed on their personal displays.

The air hop settles on a landing platform atop the Medplex’s administration building in the hills above downtown Portland. It does so with the gentleness of an exhausted party balloon coming to rest. As Lane exits, a young man flags him down. This is James, Ms. Crampton’s personal assistant. He appears smooth, muscular, fashionable, and slightly dense.

He greets Lane with a practiced smile and silken delivery. “Is this your first time inside the Medplex?” he asks Lane.

“Yes, it is,” Lane replies. He’s been here as Lane Anslow, but never as Allen Durbin. The accounting practices of deception require constant attention to detail.

“If we had more time, we could go on a little tour, but we’re running kind of tight,” James says as they enter the elevator and descend to street level.

“Some other time,” Lane responds. He’s already had about enough of James. They board an electric shuttle, taking them up the hill to the Institute. James throws out a few more conversational trinkets, and finally takes the hint and shuts up.

The Institute’s lobby forms a canyon that ascends through all three floors to the building’s roof. Filtered light spills in through giant windows onto flooring of tiled stone. A giant Persian carpet sprawls over the waiting area with its couches of beige leather. A series of large pictures runs across the far wall. They depict doctors and children, scientists and children, mothers and children, and so on. Lane gets the idea. The Institute is supposed to be humanitarian in the extreme. After the requisite lobe scan by security, they take the elevator to the third story and emerge into a smaller lobby.

James leaves Lane with the receptionist, who assures him that Ms. Crampton will be out momentarily. Lane takes stock of the tasteful furnishings, original art, and framed awards of
excellence for this and that. Above the receptionist, a flat screen silently runs a video that surveys the Institute and its noble deeds. The Institute is generously funded, which means that it’s capable of momentous research, which means it will produce miraculous cures. But for whom? The video presentation doesn’t discuss the Institute’s location in the Medplex, or why it’s secured by uniformed skinheads shouldering automatic weapons.

“Allen, how are you?” Linda Crampton comes across the lobby with her arms extended for a hug of socially acceptable length. A perfectly tailored business jacket and skirt have replaced the party gown from the previous evening. Heels of moderate height extend from shoes fashioned of some exotic animal hide, probably from one of the new hybrids coming out of Korea.

Lane rises and reciprocates the hug, which lasts precisely one beat longer than the conventional prescription. “Let’s take a look around,” Linda suggests, “and then I’ll have a little lunch brought in.”

As they move to the elevator, she gestures down a long hall interrupted at regular intervals by doors framed in glass enclosures. “This is all administrative and IT up here. Nothing too exciting. The real work is downstairs on the other two floors.”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself last night,” she says in the privacy of the descending elevator.

“As matter of fact, I did.” What’s she referring to? The party? The pleasure of her company? Hard to tell.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “It seems like all we talked about was me. You got something less than equal time. We’ll make up for that at lunch.”

“There’s really not much to say,” Lane says. “I lead a pretty quiet life. The most exciting part is totaling up the dividend columns in my financial statements.”

Crampton smiles in amusement. “Let’s not be so modest. I’m sure there’s a bit more to you than that.”

The elevator door opens to a more spartan lobby, with a security desk barring the way down the hall. “Good morning, Len,” Crampton says cheerfully to the officer behind the desk.

The officer manages a slight smile. “Good morning, ma’am.” Lane gets the idea. She’s a benevolent dictator, an ideal blend of power and sexuality.

After another lobe scan, they start down the hall. “This floor holds all the labs and clinical facilities. We’re currently working on dozens of disorders.”

Each lab is fronted by floor-to-ceiling glass, and Lane looks in on spaces ordered pretty much like Johnny’s. Long counters, each with a jungle of glasswork, liquids, and tubing. Men and women in white lab coats spin, shake, stir, and annotate. Numerous computers digest the results.

“Are you making any progress?” Lane asks. A simple yet profound query.

Crampton gives him a sideways glance of heightened interest. “It depends on which disease you’re talking about. In some cases, we’ve increased survival rates and alleviated symptoms. In others, we’re still trying to define the targets to attack. A lot of these afflictions involve a complex interaction of multiple genes, sometimes hundreds.”

“Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

“Not in this business.”

They double back up the hall and take the elevator to the floor below. “We’re coming to the treatment facility,” she explains on the way down. “It’s really what we’re all about. This is where patients reside when they’re with us.”

“You mean they’re not here all the time?” Lane asks as they walk out into a lobby with a more comfortable, homelike décor. Instead of a security officer, a female receptionist sits behind a small counter.

“A lot of genetic disorders are progressive and gradual. Patients come here for treatment episodes and testing, and then return to whatever lives they may have. A lot of the patients here are children, still under the care of their families.” She looks over to the receptionist. “Hi, Denise. Could you tell us where we can find a vacant suite?”

“Number Twelve is open,” Denise answers with an accommodating smile, and they head down the hall. Closed blinds over glassed-in walls conceal the interiors of the intervening rooms. “We always respect the patients’ privacy,” Crampton comments. “Only family and staff are admitted.”

They reach the open suite, which appears much like an upscale hospital room. A standard array of medical instrumentation hovers around an adjustable bed. Several visitors’ chairs sit nearby, with a tiled shower and lavatory in the background.

“Most of what we do here is limited to intravenous infusions of various substances, so we don’t need anything very fancy. If surgical transplants are required, they’re done down the hill at the hospital. Once a treatment is administered, we do a lot of observation and testing. The results are processed in the labs upstairs.”

She backs out of the room. “Well, in a nutshell, that’s about it. Ready for a little lunch?”

“Sure.”

Executive Director Crampton occupies the power office in the power corner of the building, the one that looks out over the city below and the mountain beyond. She and Lane eat their catered lunches at a hardwood meeting table. Lane ordered a Waldorf salad and savors the crunch of the walnuts and apples.

“So, Mr. Durbin, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?” Crampton suggests. “Other than what’s pretty obvious.”

“And what’s that?”

A slightly lascivious smile crosses her lips. “You’re a very attractive man. You’ve aged quite well. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”

Goddamn it. He can’t help but feel the rise in his libido. In truth, he’s flattered to be thrown into the same arena with her boy toys twenty years younger. Still, he plays it cool and changes the subject. “I wish I had a tale like yours to tell, but I don’t. I’m just another guy who roams the world looking for things that can be bought low and sold high—without much time in between.”

“I see. What kind of things?”

“The usual stuff. Like a regional airline. Or a mining operation. Or a canning factory. Not very exciting, I’m afraid.”

“But profitable,” she adds.

“You always hope so. You’d better win more than you lose. Speaking of businesses, I’m curious about how yours works.”

“You know, Allen, I don’t think of it as a business. It’s an institution dedicated to eradicating a certain class of diseases,” she says with an air of nobility.

“I’m sure you’re right, but bottom line, everything is a business. Money comes in, money goes out. You keep some, you spend some. That’s the way it works.”

“What we have here is a process,” she explains. “We start with the science and research. We convert that into treatments, which we test and verify. Finally, we arrange to have private entities distribute them to the medical industry at large.”

“Do you do the basic science here?”

“No, we contract for that by funding various research projects. Part of our skill set is to identify the most promising science, and make sure it’s adequately funded until it pays off.”

Lane smiles. “I bet you don’t go down the street to the bank for the money.”

“The Institute itself is funded by numerous foundations from all over the world. I can’t go into names, but if I could, I’m sure you’d recognize some of them.”

“And I suppose they never expect a penny in return.”

“Under certain circumstances, they may realize some gain,” she says diplomatically. “When a treatment is perfected, we license it to various pharmaceutical companies. The revenue from licenses is funneled back into more research. Basically, that how it works.”

“Well then, I consider myself enlightened,” Lane concludes. He looks out the window at the view and spots an unexpected opportunity. The forest-green dome of Mount Tabor rises prominently from the cityscape in the distance. “You’ve got a great view from here,” he comments.