First Horseman, The (9 page)

A small man in a white coat came out of the office. ‘Ah, Professor,’ he said, in heavily accented tones. ‘Such a nice surprise to see you, we weren’t expecting you.’

‘Good morning, Dr Ramos. This is an associate come to see our work.’

Ramos shook Jim’s hand. ‘Very good to meet you, sir,’ he said.

Jim wondered where Ramos was from. The Philippines? ‘Good to meet you too,’ he said.

‘Follow me,’ said Cardini, striding to the door. ‘Time is not my friend today – or, for that matter, on any other day.’

Jim and Dr Ramos marched after Cardini.

The reception desk was empty and looked as if no one ever manned it. Cardini’s thumbprint opened the door beyond. They followed him through and he unlocked another door.

Dr Ramos grabbed a white coat off a peg and handed it to Jim. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘It’s not necessary but it looks correct.’

Jim put it on. It felt kind of good to be a man in a white coat, like he’d been granted some added level of intelligence.

They went into the lab. Two white-coated people were at a desk, monitoring screens, and through the window in front of him Jim could see huge steel vessels and piping, filling the space beyond. The white coats rose and stood to attention. They looked as if they might be Filipinos, like the doctor. They were smiling deferentially and inclining slightly forwards.

‘Very good. Please carry on,’ boomed Cardini.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ they chimed back.

‘Let us continue,’ said Cardini. The door ahead of them clicked open for him as he applied his thumb.

‘This,’ said Cardini, impressively, ‘is where we process the blood. We smash the cells into tiny fragments in these three large tanks. Smash them chemically. During each stage of the process, the chemical units that make up the feedstock are decomposed into small component pieces.’ He seemed invigorated by the idea. ‘By molecular standards the chemical pieces are still gigantic, but in comparison to the cells they come from they are tiny. The infinitesimal compounds we seek are among the vast soup of biochemistry, like flecks of gold in a mountain of gravel. Over here, we effectively distil the result,’ he waved his hand to suggest the metaphor was not very accurate, ‘in the same way that you might separate a fraction of oil in a refinery or a paper mill.’

He looked at Jim as if he had judged him and found him wanting. ‘Did you know vanilla is extracted from the paper-making process?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, when you distil a tree it breaks down in much the same way as a barrel of oil. One fraction may go to make a newspaper while another will become the flavouring in your coffee. If only the extract we seek was so prevalent.’ He fell silent, then took a sharp breath and continued. ‘That is the kind of process we are using here to find our extract.’ Cardini gestured at a series of pipes. ‘The resultant output is separated into three distillation fractions plus an output of waste. The waste we dry by reverse osmosis and the solids are then burnt or donated for research to others. The remaining pure water is ejected as effluent. The three fractions are then reacted together. The output of this is a complex soup of molecules, none of which we can hope to construct by themselves, mixed together to create a complex of compounds. Come.’ He opened another door.

Jim smelt pears as he went into the room, which contained a large machine, rather like a giant printer.

‘Here,’ said Cardini, ‘the resultant combinations of molecules are laid down on absorbent paper and as it dries the different molecules spread out.’ There was a buzzing from the machine and something inside the huge contraption moved its length, buzzing and grinding along a hidden assembly. A brief silence followed. Then he went on, ‘This is a unique machine built for our project. I admit to being particularly proud of it.’

Jim recognised a kind of giant paper feed coming from a large cylinder above the rear of the machine. It resembled a twenty-foot-wide toilet roll. There was another grinding, buzzing noise as more paper went in.

‘As the molecular printout dries, the machine feeds the result along this bed and downstairs, where the paper is cut to separate the vital fraction. This fraction is removed from the paper and through here the molecule is separated by machine. Follow me.’

‘Atomic force microscopes,’ said Dr Ramos.

‘Microscopes?’ said Jim.

‘Come, come,’ said Cardini. They followed him into a dimly lit room filled with silent white-enamelled machines. Only the breath of air-conditioning gave any indication of activity.

Jim scanned his surroundings. Twenty-five machines were laid on the floor, cables and fine piping snaking away from them. Faint light glowed from their controls.

Cardini waited for Jim to turn to him. ‘There are three floors like this,’ he said proudly. ‘The resultant mix of compounds that comes from the initial distillation process contains a very little of the molecule we require and we have no chemical way of extracting it. What is worse, it has an isomer, that is to say a photographic twin, which is a mirror image of the molecule we want but has no efficacy. The only way to extract our target is by microscopy. A computer-imaging system coupled with these microscopes identifies the compound and the system extracts it with the same tiny element used to see it. The chemical is picked out of the fraction, one molecule at a time. Fortunately, as the size and distances involved are so small, the system itself can work very fast.’

‘Millions of operations an hour,’ said Ramos.

‘Quite so, quite so,’ agreed Cardini. ‘So, with our array, we can make a milligram or two a day.’

‘How much does one of these microscopes cost?’ asked Jim.

‘Many millions,’ said Cardini. ‘Well, they were many millions when we started, now they are a million or two. I’m not sure whether that’s because we have bought so many or simply the march of technology, but they have become cheaper. In any event they are still a very expensive component of the process. They are also somewhat fiddly.’ He threw a look at Ramos. ‘But the doctor here keeps the machines at work as much as is possible. Our efficiency is a remarkable achievement.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said the doctor. ‘A machine is a machine. It does all it can within its man-given parameters.’

‘So there you have it,’ said Cardini. ‘Our little refinery in all its finery.’ He smiled, but not at Jim.

Jim looked at the doctor and then at Cardini. He was bubbling over with questions but knew he couldn’t ask any of them until he had Cardini alone. ‘Amazing,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s get going.’

As Jim swung the car round, the tyres squealed and spun a little. He took his foot off the accelerator. ‘Well,’ he said, as he drove gingerly down the long, thin lane, ‘I’m gobsmacked.’

‘And?’ asked Cardini.

‘Remind me why you need me.’

‘Because, Jim, I need to invest a great deal to make this process commercially viable – or, rather, viable for the masses. I cannot open a Pandora’s box by going public. I am caught in a trap. I need a huge investment to make the necessary breakthroughs and the time to do it without setting off a chain reaction of disaster.’ Cardini shifted uncomfortably in his cramped seat. ‘I cannot simply make more serum in the way I am making it now. I must find a donor young enough to give me the ten years I need to discover the answers required. To bring the compound to mass production, I require more resources. I can spend your donations on research rather than production. If you can fund me I have solved my final challenge.’

‘How much do you need?’

‘One hundred million a year?’

‘Ouch,’ said Jim. ‘A hundred million pounds a year?’

‘Dollars, Jim, happily not pounds.’

‘A billion dollars over ten years?’

‘Yes, until the process is perfected. Then the market will fund all that is needed and more, of course. Can you afford that, Jim?’

As he pulled out on to the public road, Jim threw Cardini a glance. ‘I can afford about a century’s worth at that rate.’

‘That’s impressive,’ said Cardini. ‘Almost as impressive as my compound.’

‘No,’ said Jim. ‘My money is not impressive. It’s just bits of paper with ink on them. What you’re doing is so big I can’t get my head around it. My mind’s boggled.’

‘I’m going to see my patron this afternoon to treat him,’ said Cardini. ‘If you come with me, you will see him, the treatment process and the transformation. Then you will understand. Will you accompany me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I am flying from Cambridge airport to the east coast of America by private jet,’ said Cardini. ‘Can you be ready for around three?’

‘Hold on,’ said Jim. He pressed a button on the dash. ‘Stafford,’ he said.

‘Good day, sir,’ came Stafford’s voice over the speaker.

‘Stafford, can you run my passport up to Cambridge airport? I’ve got to go Stateside for a couple of days. Need it by three.’

‘Certainly, sir. Is everything in order?’

That was Stafford’s way of asking if he was in trouble. ‘Peachy.’

‘Very good, sir. Please call nearer the time and I shall meet you.’

‘I’ll be at the private jet terminal, I guess,’ said Jim.

Cardini nodded.

‘I’ll call when I’m ten minutes out.’

Jim parked under the shade of a tree outside Cardini’s lab. In the direct summer sun, the blue Veyron would heat up like a greenhouse. He got out and scrabbled for his phone. He’d better tell Kate that lunch was off.

Kate’s phone bleeped. She glanced away from her screen to it. In a little speech bubble it said ‘Jim: Cant.’ Her heart sank. She opened the message. ‘Cant make it today, got to dash to the states. Lets do pizza when I get back.’

Where’s the sorry? she thought. ‘Sorry, Kate,’ she muttered, ‘got to go and see one of my millions of gold-digging girlfriends.’

She wasn’t going to reply, she decided. Then she typed, ‘OK,’ and sent it to Jim.

As they entered the building the phone vibrated in Jim’s pocket. He glanced at the reply. ‘I’ve got to do some social re-engineering,’ he said. ‘This trip means I’ve got some grovelling to do.’

‘By all means go ahead.’

‘Sorry,’ Jim typed awkwardly, as he walked after Cardini, ‘I’ll make it up to you. How about extra toppings on that pizza?’

Kate looked at the message. Why didn’t he just call? It was obvious: SMS meant he wasn’t serious. A call would suggest there was a chance he wasn’t messing her around and they might actually meet again.

‘Extra toppings it is,’ she replied. She was deflated. For a few short hours, she’d felt she’d met someone special and that something special might come of it. In fact, she knew she’d met someone special: he had a funny look in his eye that made her want to sneeze – always an early warning that a boy was about to get under her skin, then break her heart.

She sighed. He wouldn’t get worked up about her, a simple student. She was no glamour-puss stalking the beaches of Monaco or wherever guys like him hung out. Why would anyone fall for her, let alone a mega-successful guy with the world at his feet? She had been doomed from the get-go, she told herself. And it was probably a lucky escape, she thought, paging back through the messages. At best he’d toy with her.

Jim looked up from Kate’s message. He’d blown it. ‘I’m in trouble,’ he said to Cardini.

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘A girl.’

‘Never mind,’ said Cardini. ‘Can’t be helped.’

Jim heard dismissive contempt in Cardini’s voice, which rankled. It can be, he thought, looking at his mobile’s screen. ‘Got to make a call,’ he said, hanging back as Cardini went into his office. He dialled.

‘Hey,’ he said, as she answered. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’

‘Sorry about blowing our lunch out, but something’s come up and I‘ve got to fly out at three.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘Sounds exciting.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘very. I’ve also got to get some work done before I go, so that’s put a spanner in the works too.’

‘When do you get back?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Thursday or Friday, I should think. I’ll keep you posted.’ He hesitated. ‘Fancy doing something this weekend?’

Clearly she hadn’t expected that. ‘Yes,’ she said, after a short silence. ‘What?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Whatever you like. How about a day out in London?’

‘That sounds nice.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up.’

‘I can get a coach.’

‘Coach?’

‘The bus station is practically by my front door.’

‘I’ll come and get you.’

‘No, really, it’s very easy for me to get the coach. Think of the time and carbon dioxide saved.’

He wanted to protest but didn’t. ‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘Look, I’ve got to rush, got to get back into my meeting. I’ll inbox you. Sorry again about lunch.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘’Bye,’ he said.

‘’Bye,’ she said.

‘’Bye,’ he said again.

‘’Bye,’ she repeated.

Jim wanted to get the last goodbye in but stopped himself. That was odd, he thought. He normally hung up on people abruptly, a bad habit picked up on the trading floor that he was trying to break. What had all those ’byes been about?

Kate felt as if something was fizzing up inside her. She could see his face in her mind’s eye as she sat grinning. She looked out of the window: it was a beautiful day. She got up and made for the kitchen. It was time for a lunchtime soup.

Jim walked into Cardini’s office.

‘I want to show you something,’ said the professor.

Jim snapped away from Kate to the present. ‘What have you got?’

‘See this?’ said Cardini.

Jim went behind his desk and looked at the computer monitor. There was a picture of a jellyfish on the screen.

‘This is
Turritopsis nutricula
,’ said Cardini, ‘the best example of an immortal creature we know. This animal has an infinite ability to repair itself, to such an extent that it can start again as a polyp.’

Jim automatically pulled a face as if ‘polyp’ didn’t mean anything to him.

‘It can return to being a baby jellyfish, if circumstances require it to,’ Cardini explained, perhaps a touch impatiently. ‘My compound is a key part of this process, an ability to refresh the cells during these processes. Yet with further understanding I will be able to begin to turn back the overall biological clock of an organism to set its age at whatever point is required. Now I can merely regenerate the cell and refresh it. If I can learn the next secret of this creature I will be able to reset the very clock of life.’