The Immortality Factor (63 page)

“Has anyone corroborated your ideas with experimental evidence?” Arthur demanded.

“Not that I know of.”

“Not that you know of.” Despite himself, Arthur could feel the heat rising within him. This doddering old fool thinks he can knock me down with a few pages of numbers, does he?

“Can you tell me
why
no one has tried to do experiments based on your work?”

“It's too far ahead of them!” Potter said. “They're not smart enough to understand what I've accomplished! None of them are.”

Careful! Arthur warned himself. Don't appear to be bullying the old fart.

“Professor Potter,” he said gently, “when Einstein published his theories of relativity, those papers were pretty much ahead of the rest of the field, wouldn't you say?”

Suspiciously, Potter said, “I suppose so. I'm a biologist, not a physicist.”

“And yet, within a few years experiments were done that proved Einstein's theories were correct. Isn't that true?”

“I suppose so.” Grudgingly.

“Yet six years have gone by since you first announced your ideas and no one has even tried to do an experiment to see if your mathematics correctly predict the real world?”

“I told you, no one has tried.”

“Not one researcher has even tried to conduct an experiment based on your work?”

Rosen spoke up. “I think we've established that fact clearly enough, Dr. Marshak.”

“I agree,” said Graves.

Turning to the row of desks at the front of the chamber, Arthur said, “I
merely want to show the jury that Professor Potter's mathematical treatment is not regarded as significant within the biological research community.”

“But it is significant!” Potter screeched. “It's a fundamental concept, as fundamental as Heisenberg's uncertainty principle!”

Arthur almost laughed. From claiming he was no physicist, Potter was now equating himself with the heart of quantum physics.

“Is it truly?” he asked mildly.

“I have proved, mathematically, that it is impossible to alter the activity of the DNA in the cells of a functioning organism without incurring chaotic and unpredictable side effects.”

“Which means, if you're correct, that any attempts at regenerating organs within the body of a living organism are doomed to failure.”

“Certainly right.”

Arthur stroked his chin, as if thinking. “According to your paper,
any
attempt to alter the activity of the DNA is foolhardy?”

“Any,” said Potter firmly.

“Then gene therapy is a waste of time?”

“You mean inserting foreign genes into an organism? No, that's permissible.”

“But gene therapy changes the activity of the organism's original DNA,” Arthur said.

Potter began to shake his head.

“You're saying that gene therapy for treating, say, cystic fibrosis—such gene therapy will cause chaotic and unpredictable side effects?”

“If it alters the functioning DNA, yes.”

“What side effects have been caused in cystic fibrosis patients?” Arthur asked.

“How should I know? I'm not involved in that research.”

Arthur looked at the jury. Some of them were involved in gene therapy tests, he knew. “I searched the literature late last night,” he said. “I could not find any cases of chaotic and unpredictable side effects.”

“It's probably too early for them to manifest themselves,” Potter said.

“It's been more than five years since the first tests on cystic fibrosis patients were started. How long should it take?”

Potter hesitated. “I don't know,” he mumbled.

“If I read your paper correctly, the side effects should be immediately apparent.”

“Well . . . perhaps not.”

One of the women jurors was working on gene surgery, Arthur knew; replacing defective elements in a patient's gene so that it would function correctly.

“Are you aware, Professor Potter, of the work being done in the area of Tay-Sachs disease?”

“No.” Grudgingly.

Of course not, Arthur thought. That's the last area you'd be interested in, you anti-Semitic piece of shit.

He turned from the jury to stand squarely facing Potter, ready to destroy this doddering old fool, the man who had hounded him out of academia, the nasty backbiting Jew-hating bastard who had tried to ruin his life. Now you get what you deserve, Arthur thought. Now I'm going to destroy you just as you tried to destroy me.

But what Arthur saw was the shattered shell of the man he hated. Potter sat at the witness table, shriveled, half dead, yet still glaring defiantly. And out of the corner of his eye Arthur saw Graves leaning forward, hands clasped on the desktop, staring at Potter the way a doctor might gaze at a patient who is beyond all help.

Arthur's anger evaporated. Briefly he tried to summon it up again, to fuel his moment of vengeance. But blasting Potter would be like kicking a cripple. He couldn't do it.

“Professor Potter,” he asked softly. “Would you like to regain the use of the left side of your body?”

“Eh?” The question caught the old man completely off guard.

“If it was possible to repair the damage caused by your stroke, would you undergo such treatment?”

Now Potter glared pure hatred. “No,” he snapped. “Never!”

Arthur shook his head sadly. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
t took all my strength to send Jesse back to Washington. More than almost anything I wanted him with me, I wanted him to hold me, I wanted us to face this terrible ordeal together.

But I couldn't let him avoid facing Arthur. He would never be able to stand himself if he backed out of their confrontation at the trial. He would always wonder if he'd been cowardly. Or, worse, if I thought that he wasn't strong enough to face Arthur.

And above all I didn't want Jesse to think that I harbored some wild hope in my heart that Arthur could save our baby. It's strange, the twists that our emotions lead us into. In a way, I was almost making a choice between Jesse and the baby, sending him out to do battle against his brother so that Arthur would have no chance of helping our baby, ever. The realization was crushing. Jesse or the baby. Already the baby was threatening to come between us.

So I gathered what little courage I could muster and sent Jesse off to Washington. He could fly there in an hour or so and be in time for the trial's afternoon
session. He was reluctant, almost afraid, at first. But I insisted and soon enough he agreed that it would be best.

I watched from our apartment window as he trotted out to the taxi we had summoned. From my perch he looked almost like a schoolboy grudgingly heading off for his classes.

Jesse opened the taxi door, then looked up toward me. He waved, as he always did. But the expression on his face was absolutely grim.

I waved back and watched the taxi disappear around the corner. Then I sat in our living room, alone.

No, I'm not alone, I realized. The baby is with me. He'll always be with me, all the days of his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
never felt so mixed up in my life.

Just before I ducked into the taxi I looked up at our window and waved to Julia. Her face was so damned pale, white as a ghost. Even her answering wave was weak, faltering.

I should have stayed with her and to hell with the trial and Arby and everything else. But to tell the truth, I was glad of the chance to get away, even if it was just for the few hours of the afternoon. I'd be back in time for supper. I needed a few hours of fresh air, some time to think this thing out.

There's no way that Arby's work would ever be able to help our kid. It'd take years and years of experiments and human trials before there'd be any chance of reversing the damage done in a spina bifida case. I knew that. No sense fooling myself, no sense getting up false hopes.

Unless—unless our boy became one of Arby's test subjects. Assuming the trial recommends going on to human tests, and the FDA and all those other government agencies don't slow things down to a crawl.

No, I couldn't do that. Use our kid as an experimental subject? Like that chimp? Julia would die first.

But what other chance did we have? We're going to be tied to a helpless, hopeless lump of protoplasm for years and years and then he'll die and Julia's heart will break, if it isn't broken already.

She's hoping Arby will be able to save the kid; I know she is. Maybe she doesn't even know it, but that's what she's hoping. It's the only hope we've got.

And it'll look great, won't it? Humanitarian of the Year elbows out everybody else to put his own son first in line for this experimental treatment developed by his brother. Million-dollar treatment saves doctor's son while poor people wait in vain. Great story. The media'll love it.

And so will Arby. Soon as he knows about the spina bifida he's going to come at me all sincere and helpful and show me that
he
knows what to do, even if I don't.

By the time my plane landed at Reagan National I was so confused and shook up that I almost stayed aboard for the ride back to New York.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A
rthur felt strangely let down after the morning's session was gaveled to a close. He had finished with Potter and chosen not to recall Zapapas. Graves looked somewhat surprised.

“The next witness scheduled is Dr. Jesse Marshak,” said Graves. “But he is not present.”

A clerk came up behind the chief judge and handed him a slip of paper. Graves adjusted his bifocals and scanned it swiftly.

“Dr. Marshak has sent a message stating that he will be present for the afternoon session,” he announced. With a glance at the clock, he said, “We will break for lunch and resume at one-thirty.”

Pat made her way through the departing crowd to Arthur. “Where's your brother?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Arthur said. “Probably preparing for the cross-examination somewhere.”

“With Simmonds's people?”

Arthur scowled. “Most likely.”

Senator Kindelberger was a few feet away, chatting amiably with some of the reporters. He broke away from them and caught up with Arthur and Pat as they headed for the door. Arthur braced himself for a confrontation.

But the senator said, “Hope your brother can make it here for the afternoon session. Surely wouldn't like to stretch this hearing into next week.”

“Do you know where he is?” Arthur asked.

“He was back in New York last night,” Kindelberger said, his leathery face looking slightly concerned. “Some problem with his wife's health, from what little he told my aide.”

Arthur felt a flash of electricity surge through him. Julia! He reached for his cell phone as he said to Pat, “You go ahead to the restaurant and I'll catch up with you there.”

Pat saw the stricken look on his face. “All right,” she said, trying to hide the resentment that unexpectedly welled up inside her.

Arthur pulled up Jesse's number from the cell phone's data bank. Julia answered.

“Hello, Julia,” he said, lowering his voice. “It's Arthur.”

“Nothing's happened to Jesse, has it?” She sounded almost frantic.

“No, no,” Arthur said. “I'm calling to find out how you are.”

“Me? I'm . . . fine.”

She didn't sound fine in Arthur's ears. Julia sounded frightened, almost terrified.

“Why would you think something's happened to Jesse?” he asked.

Julia looked out her apartment window. The summer sky was clear and bright, what little she could see of it.

“Jesse's flying down to Washington. I always get a bit testy when he's flying without me.” It was a lie and she was certain that Arthur would recognize it as such but it was the best she could do.

He sounded suspicious. “Senator Kindelberger said you weren't feeling well. Is that why Jesse left the hearing?”

Don't tell him, Julia commanded herself. If he's got to know, let Jesse be the one to break the awful news to him.

“I'm fine, Arthur,” she repeated, holding back the flood of tears and words that she wanted to pour out.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she insisted. Actually, she was. It was the baby who wasn't.

“What time will Jess be here, do you know?”

“He took the eleven o'clock shuttle; he should have landed already.”

Arthur glanced at his wristwatch. Not quite twelve.

“I'll look for him,” he said into the telephone.

“Yes. Do.” Julia's voice sounded almost mechanical, as if she were deliberately holding back any hint of human warmth.

Arthur hung up, thinking, It's all over. Completely. Anything she might have felt for me is totally gone now. It's like talking to an answering machine.

In New York, Julia shuddered as she hung up the phone. I've got to get control of myself, she raged inwardly. I mustn't allow myself to go to pieces. If Arthur wants to help, he's got to do it through Jesse. I can't let Jesse think that I'm turning to Arthur instead of to him.

 

J
esse crawled into the dilapidated taxi. The dispatcher slammed the door shut and banged on the cab's roof.

As the driver pulled away from the curb he asked, “Where to?”

Jesse barely heard him. The driver glanced over his shoulder and asked louder, “Where to, mister?”

“What's the difference?” Jesse muttered.