Mount Dragon (9 page)

Carson nodded. He knew that viruses worked by inserting their own DNA into a host's DNA. That made viruses the ideal vector to exchange genes between distantly related species. As a result, most genetic engineering used viruses in this way.

“Here's how it will work,” Singer continued. “We insert the X-FLU gene into a flu virus itself. Use the virus as a Trojan horse, if you will. Then we infect a person with that virus. As with any flu vaccine, the person will develop a mild case of influenza. Meanwhile, the virus has inserted the bonobo DNA into the person's DNA. When he recovers, he's got the X-FLU gene. And he'll never get the flu again.”

“Gene therapy,” Carson said.

“Absolutely,” Singer replied. “It's one of the hottest things around today. Gene therapies are promising to cure all kinds of genetic diseases. Like Tay-Sachs disease, PKU syndrome, hemophilia, you name it. Someday, anyone born with a genetic defect will be able to get the right gene and live a normal life. Only in this case, the ‘defect' is susceptibility to the flu. And the change is
inheritable
.”

Singer mopped his brow. “I get pretty excited, talking about this stuff,” he said, grinning. “I never dreamed I could change the world when I was teaching at CalTech. X-FLU made me believe in God again, it really did.” He cleared his throat.

“We're very close, Guy. But there's one small problem. When we insert the X-FLU gene into the ordinary flu virus, it turns the ordinary virus virulent. Infinitely more virulent. And brutally contagious. Instead of being an innocuous messenger, the protein coat of the virus seems to mimic a hormone that stimulates the overproduction of cerebrospinal fluid. What you saw in the Fever Tank was the virus's effect on a chimpanzee. We don't quite know what it will do to a human being, but we know it won't be pleasant.” He stood up and moved to a nearby window.

“Your job is to redesign the viral coat of the X-FLU ‘messenger' virus. To render it harmless. To allow it to infect its human host without killing it, so that it can transport the X-FLU gene into human DNA.”

Carson opened his mouth to speak, then shut it abruptly. He suddenly understood why Scopes had plucked him out of the mass of GeneDyne talent. Until Fred Peck had set him to doing make-work, his specialty had been altering the protein shells that surround a virus. He knew that the protein coat of a virus could be changed or attenuated using heat, various enzymes, radiation, even through the growing of different strains. He'd done it all himself. There were many ways to neutralize a virus.

“It sounds like a straightforward problem,” he said.

“It should be. But it isn't. For some reason, no matter what you do, the virus always mutates back to its deadly form. When Burt was working on it, he must have inoculated an entire colony of chimps with supposedly safe strains of the X-FLU virus. Each time, the virus reverted, and, well, you've seen the grim result. Sudden cerebral edema. Burt was a brilliant scientist. If it wasn't for him, we'd have never been able to get PurBlood, our artificial blood product, stabilized and out the door. But the X-FLU problem drove him—” Singer paused. “He couldn't take the pressure.”

“I can see why people avoid the Fever Tank,” Carson said.

“It's horrible. And I have grave misgivings about using the chimps. But when you consider the benefits to humanity…” Singer fell silent, looking out over the landscape.

“Why the secrecy?” Carson finally asked.

“Two reasons. We believe that at least one other drug company is working along similar lines of research, and we don't want to tip our hand prematurely. But more importantly, there are a lot of people out there afraid of technology. I don't really blame them. With nuclear weapons, radiation, Three Mile Island and Chernobyl—they're suspicious. And they don't like the idea of genetic engineering.” He turned toward Carson. “Let's face it, what we're talking about is a permanent alteration in the human genome. That could be
very
controversial. And if people object to genetically altered veggies, what are they going to make of this? We face the same problem with PurBlood. So we want to have X-FLU ready to go when it's announced to the world. That way, opposition won't have time to develop. People will see that the benefits far outweigh any irrational outcry of fear from a small segment of the public.”

“That segment can be pretty vocal.” Carson had sometimes passed groups of demonstrators outside the GeneDyne gates on his way to and from work.

“Yes. You have people out there like Charles Levine. You know his Foundation for Genetic Policy? Very radical organization, out to destroy genetic engineering in general and Brent Scopes in particular.”

Carson nodded.

“They were friends in college, Levine and Scopes. God, that's quite a story. Remind me to tell you what I know of it someday. Anyway, Levine is a bit unbalanced, a real Don Quixote. Rolling back scientific progress has become his goal in life. It's gotten worse since the death of his wife, I'm told. And he's carried out a twenty-year vendetta against Brent Scopes. Unfortunately, there are many in the media who actually listen to him and print his garbage.” He stepped away from the window. “It's much easier to tear something down than build it up, Guy. Mount Dragon is the safest genetic-engineering lab in the world. No one, and I mean
no
one, is more interested in the safety of his employees and his products than Brent Scopes.”

Carson almost mentioned that Charles Levine had been one of his undergraduate professors, but thought better of it. Maybe Singer already knew. “So you want to present the X-FLU therapy as a fait accompli. And that's the reason for the rush?”

“That's partly the reason.” Singer hesitated, then continued. “Actually, the truth is that X-FLU is very important to GeneDyne. In fact, it's critical. Scopes's corn royalty patent—GeneDyne's financial bedrock—expires in a matter of weeks.”

“But Scopes only turns forty this year,” Carson said. “The patent can't be that old. Why doesn't he just renew it?”

Singer shrugged. “I don't know all the details. I just know it's expiring, and it can't be renewed. When that happens, all those royalties will cease. PurBlood won't see distribution for a couple of months, and it will take years to amortize the cost of R and D anyway. Our other new products are still stuck undergoing the approval process. If X-FLU doesn't come through soon, GeneDyne will have to cut its generous dividend. That would have a catastrophic effect on the stock price. Your nest egg and mine.”

He turned, beckoned. “Come over here, Guy,” he said.

Carson walked to where Singer was standing. The window offered a sweeping view of the Jornada del Muerto desert, which stretched toward the horizon, dissolving in a firestorm of light where the sky met the earth. To the south Carson could barely make out the rubble of what looked like an ancient Indian ruin, several ragged walls poking above the drifted sand.

Singer placed a hand on Carson's shoulder. “These matters shouldn't be of any concern to you right now. Think about the potential that lies just beneath our fingertips. The average doctor, if he's lucky, may save hundreds of lives. A medical researcher may save thousands. But you, me, GeneDyne—we're going to save millions. Billions.”

He pointed toward a low range of mountains to the northeast, rising above the bright desert like a series of dark teeth. “Fifty years ago, mankind exploded the first atomic device at the foot of those mountains. The Trinity Site is a mere thirty miles from here. That was the dark side of science. Now, half a century later, in this same desert, we have the chance to redeem science. It's really as simple and as profound as that.”

His grip tightened. “Guy, this is going to be the greatest adventure of your lifetime. I think I can guarantee that.”

They stood looking out over the desert, and as he stared, Carson could feel its vast intensity, a feeling almost religious in its force. And he knew Singer was right.

Carson rose at five-thirty. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and looked out the open window toward the San Andres Mountains. The cool night air flowed in, bringing with it the intense stillness of the predawn morning. He breathed deeply. In New Jersey, it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed at eight o'clock. Now, on his second morning in the desert, he was already back on his old schedule.

He watched as the stars disappeared, leaving only Venus in the cloudless eastern sky. The peculiar green color of the desert sunrise crept into the sky, then faded to yellow. Slowly, the outlines of plants emerged from the indistinct blueness of the desert floor. The wiry tangles of witch mesquite and the tall clumps of tobosa grass were widely scattered; life in the desert, Carson thought, was a solitary, uncrowded affair.

His room was sparsely but comfortably furnished: bed, matching sofa and chair, oversized desk, bookshelves. He showered, shaved, and dressed in white scrubs, feeling alternately excited and apprehensive about the day ahead.

He'd spent the previous afternoon being processed into the Mount Dragon workforce: filling out forms, getting voice-printed and photographed, and undergoing the most extensive physical he'd ever experienced. The site doctor, Lyle Grady, was a thin, small man with a reedy voice. He'd barely smiled as he typed notes into his terminal. After a brief dinner with Singer, Carson had turned in early. He wanted to be well rested.

The workday at GeneDyne began at eight o'clock. Carson did not eat breakfast—a holdover from the days when his father roused him early and made him saddle his horse in the dark—but he found his way to the cafeteria, where he grabbed a quick cup of coffee before heading toward his new lab. The cafeteria was deserted, and Carson remembered a remark Singer had made at dinner the night before. “We eat big dinners around here,” he'd said. “Breakfast and lunch aren't too popular. Something about working in the Fever Tank that really curbs your appetite.”

People were suiting up quickly and silently when Carson arrived at the Fever Tank. Everyone turned to look at the new arrival, some friendly, some frankly curious, some noncommittal. Then Singer appeared in the ready room, his round face smiling broadly.

“How'd you sleep?” he asked, giving Carson a friendly pat on the back.

“Not bad,” Carson said. “I'm anxious to get started.”

“Good. I want to introduce you to your assistant.” He looked around. “Where's Susana?”

“She's already inside,” said one of the technicians. “She had to go in early to check some cultures.”

“You're in Lab C,” Singer said. “Rosalind showed you the way, right?”

“More or less,” Carson said, pulling the bluesuit out of his locker.

“Good. You'll probably want to start by going over Frank Burt's lab notes. Susana will see that you have everything you need.”

Completing the dressing procedure with Singer's help, Carson followed the others into the chemical showers, then again entered the warren of narrow corridors and hatches of the Biosafety Level-5 lab. Once again, he found it difficult to get used to the constricting suit, the reliance on air tubes. After a few wrong turns he found himself in front of a metal door marked
LABORATORY C
.

Inside, a bulky, suited figure was bent over a bioprophylaxis table, sorting through a stack of petri dishes. Carson pressed one of the intercom buttons on his suit.

“Hi. Are you Susana?”

The figure straightened up.

“I'm Guy Carson,” he continued.

A small sharp voice crackled over the intercom. “Susana Cabeza de Vaca.”

They clumsily shook hands.

“These suits are a pain in the butt,” de Vaca said irritably. “So you're Burt's replacement.”

“That's right,” said Carson.

She peered into his visor. “
Hispano?
” she asked.

“No, I'm an Anglo,” Carson replied, a little more hastily than he'd intended.

There was a pause. “Hmm,” de Vaca said, looking at him intently. “Well, you sure
sound
like you could be from around here, anyway.”

“I grew up in the Bootheel.”

“I knew it! Well, Guy, you and I are the only natives here.”

“You're a New Mexican? When did you come?” Carson asked.

“I got here about two weeks ago, transferred from the Albuquerque plant. I was originally assigned to Medical, but now I'll be replacing Dr. Butt's assistant. She left a few days after he did.”

“Where're you from?” Carson asked.

“A little mountain town called Truchas. About thirty miles north of Santa Fe.”

“Originally, I mean.”

There was another pause. “I was born in Truchas,” she said.

“Okay,” Carson said, surprised by her sharp tone.

“You meant, when did we swim the Rio Grande?”

“Well, no, of course not. I've always had a lot of respect for Mexicans—”