Prizes

by Erich Segal

  She sat down on the same couch.

  “You have the figure of a young girl,” he whispered.

  She smiled and took his hand. “If you say so, Sandy.” And then she added, “I must tell you I feel very shy.”

  “That’s two of us,” he confessed. “Only I feel more than that.”

  She put her finger on his lips. “No,” she cautioned. “This is right, Sandy. We both know what we are doing.” She hesitated and added, “And we both want to.”

  Thus began the most important project of rejuvenation Sandy had ever undertaken.

  His own.

  Two months later Sandy struck gold—literally and figuratively. He identified a group of genes that promoted aging in skin cells, and during various trials succeeded in reversing the degeneration. It may not have been permanent, but it looked as if the process could be repeated indefinitely.

  Though he had tried to avoid all sensationalism by publishing the details of his discovery in an article in a recondite journal, the beavers of the wire services translated his findings into laymen’s language. Overnight, Sandy Raven became a household name.

  It was then that the editors of Time magazine made the first contacts that would ultimately lead to a cover story.

  The media touted him as the creator of the ultimate—and especially Hollywood—dream: a chemical that held out the promise of eternal youth.

  His placid and comfortable life was suddenly invaded from every quarter. Calls, faxes, letters—a few desperate people even turned up unannounced at his lab; it would not be long before they found the estate.

  Sandy was so harassed by the three-ring circus that he fled with his father to Lake Tahoe, where they rented a bungalow under the name of Smith.

  The first few days were idyllic, as they took long walks in the pure, serene mountain air.

  In the comfort and isolation of their Tahoe chalet, the two men watched a carnival of avarice as the auction for Sandy’s discovery reached dizzying heights.

  When Corvax beat out Clarins and Yves St. Laurent with an advance against royalties of fifty million dollars, Sandy was not gratified—he was outraged.

  “Think of it, Dad. You can’t get these guys to give a million bucks for a cancer lab. But the prospect of being able to make old women look a little younger can get them to cough up fifty million without even batting an eyelash.”

  “Listen, don’t knock the dough,” Sidney answered philosophically. “It’s the only drug in the world you can’t overdose on. And, as Liz Taylor said in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, ‘You can be young without money, but you can’t be old without it.’ ”

  In their tranquil retreat, the two had many heart-to-heart conversations lasting well into the night.

  “You may be a big-time scientist now, sonny boy, but you’re not too old to take advice from your dad.”

  “Of course not. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” the elder Raven began his homily, “let’s start with your life.”

  “What about it?”

  “Look at you,” Sidney scolded. “You live in your private lab with your private assistants, surrounded by your private electronic surveillance gizmos. I’ve never known anyone more devoted to the betterment of mankind and more careless with the betterment of himself. Take it from your old man, all the money in the world ain’t worth more than a hug and a kiss from a good woman. Am I making sense?”

  “Yes.” His son smiled.

  “Kiddo, there’s nobody been more disappointed than me by the female gender. Love is more dangerous than Russian roulette—’cause five of the chambers got bullets. Still, there’s always that chance you’ll come up with a winner. As the song goes, ‘It’s a many-splendored thing.’ ”

  Sandy looked at him sheepishly and murmured, “You know, don’t you?”

  Sidney smiled back. “Was my Hong Kong guess on target?”

  “Well, you’ve got the right hemisphere—she’s Japanese.” Sandy grinned. “Only how did you—”

  “I’m not Sherlock Holmes, sonny boy. I just kinda guessed that the rental of this joint didn’t include the picture in your bedroom of the Oriental gal and her two kids. Is she as nice as she looks?”

  “Nicer,” Sandy replied, his affection showing. “I mean, I feel very comfortable with her, with all of them.”

  “I’m a little old to start learning Japanese. Do the kids speak English?”

  “Better than you and me.”

  “Good,” Sidney commented. “I like the sound of this more and more. I especially like the look on your face when you speak about …”

  “Kimiko.”

  “Kimiko Raven.” He tried it out. “It sounds different.”

  “Well, she is different,” Sandy asserted.

  Sidney looked at his son’s face and saw new life. “I love her already,” he said with feeling. “I love her for what she’s done for you.”

  On Thursday afternoon of the week in which Cal Tech had straightforwardly broken the news of Sandy’s discovery, a gaggle of journalists and photographers burst into the lab where Olivia Raven, now a freshman at MIT, was trying to concentrate on that week’s experimental assignment in first-year physics.

  She had been dodging them for days, but now they had her cornered. They surrounded her, snapping photos from every conceivable angle to show the great man’s daughter at work.

  Exasperated, she burst out, “Will you leeches get the hell off my case?”

  The commotion caught the attention of her instructor—herself no stranger to the predators of the press. By sheer force of personality, she ordered them out and locked the door.

  The teacher then took the dazed and disoriented young girl to her office, made her a cup of tea and tried to calm her.

  “Olivia, what you just saw was the ugly side of science. The newspapers are absolutely carnivorous when it comes to stories of so-called laboratory miracles. Imagine what they would have done if they could have interviewed God after He split the Red Sea?”

  Olivia laughed lightly and the muscles of her face relaxed.

  “Well, I guess if anyone should know, it’s you, Dr. da Costa,” she commented.

  Isabel nodded. “If I could get some of my students to apply themselves as doggedly to their lab exercises as these clowns do to their photographs, we could probably have found a cure for AIDS. And please, Olivia, just call me Isabel. We’re practically the same age. Anyway, I think it’s safe enough for you to go back and finish your acoustics experiment.”

  Only when they were back in the street did one perceptive reporter realize in frustration, “Holy shit, I just remembered—the broad in the white coat was the girl physics genius. Did any of you guys get shots of them together?”

  For once the press did not win. Despite their global resources, the paparazzi were unable to find Sandy Raven. They looked in Paris, Rome, even Tokyo. But they did not think to scour the numerous tourists visiting the Buddhist temples, Shinto shrines, gardens, and traditional houses of Kyoto, the cultural center of Japan.

  For Sandy was here, visiting one of its twenty universities—privately.

  In a journalistic sense, it was a pity. For it would have made an ideal photograph for People magazine: the famous American scientist, a ravishing Oriental girl, and twin Japanese boys.

  All very happy.

  56

  ISABEL

  Isabel da Costa cursed the many times she had almost taken driving lessons, but foolishly changed her mind, thinking them a waste of time away from her research. She phoned for a cab, and minutes later when it arrived, the driver buzzed so aggressively that the noise woke her father.

  Ray shuffled, confused, into the living room just as she was heading for the door.

  “Are you leaving?” he mumbled drowsily.

  Flustered, Isabel tried to explain quickly so she could make her escape.

  “I—I’m going to the airport—”

  “Eloping with Jerry, are you?” he asked half seriously.


  “No, Dad, don’t be silly. In fact, he’ll be here at eight. Tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She hurried out, leaving Ray standing lost in the midst of an invisible fog.

  Muriel, exhausted from lack of sleep, was scarcely able to believe her eyes when she saw her daughter at the airline gate.

  “How did you find out?” she asked, her worried tone in contrast to the strength of her embrace.

  “Never mind that. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Isabel countered. For a split second the little girl in her came close to blurting out her own good news. But she suppressed the selfish urge.

  Muriel was caught off guard and struggled to fabricate a plausible excuse.

  “Well, I know you’re in your office all day, so I was just going to shoot up there and surprise you right after my appointment.”

  “What appointment? What the hell is going on?”

  Muriel held her daughter’s hand in both of hers and, forcing back the tears, tried to find the words.

  “Edmundo’s ill—very ill.” She paused, gathered the courage and then uttered the words, “Huntington’s disease.”

  “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. But I still don’t understand why you didn’t call me.”

  Muriel interrupted her daughter. “There’s a professor at Mass. General who’s developed a radical cure. But it’s still in the final stage of FDA trials—and I’ve come to see if there’s any way I can get him to try it on Edmundo anyway.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Isabel insisted.

  “No. Believe me, this is something you want no part of,” Muriel objected with startling severity.

  “If you put it like that, Mom, there’s no way on earth I’m going to leave you alone for a minute.”

  Muriel shook her head in defeat and then realized that, for form’s sake, she had at least to murmur, “Thank you, Isabel.”

  With time to kill, mother and daughter had breakfast in a crowded coffee shop near the hospital. The bleary-eyed, white-clad customers were obviously going off duty. The livelier ones, about to enter into the fray, were exchanging the essential news that encompasses a Boston doctor’s life: red cells and Red Sox.

  Despite her mother’s obvious reluctance, Isabel could not withhold a torrent of questions.

  “Mom, I don’t know anything about this disease.”

  “Let’s put it this way. It’s a kind of neurological time bomb. Ultimately everything falls apart.”

  “Aren’t there any chances for recovery?”

  “One hundred percent fatal,” Muriel stated emphatically. “There’s no cure.”

  “But you say this guy at MGH has something?”

  “A genetic link. They’ve got a drug that works on rats,” Muriel said bitterly, “and several other laboratory animals. The only thing they don’t have is approval to try it on people.”

  “Is there any hope they might make an exception?”

  “Well, the government sometimes allows things on ‘compassionate’ grounds. I’m just praying to God that this doctor is strong on compassion.”

  He was tall and broad-shouldered, his black eyebrows flecked with gray.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Zimmer,” he said in a heavy Russian accent, holding out his hand. “I am Professor Avilov. Would you come in please.”

  Isabel rose at almost the same time. “I’m her daughter. May I come too?”

  “Her daughter?” Avilov reacted with startled interest. “Well, I should think—”

  “No,” Muriel said emphatically. “I don’t want her involved.”

  “But, my dear Mrs. Zimmer,” he answered with exaggerated courtesy, “by the very nature of the disease, is she not very much involved?”

  “No, Edmundo’s not, I mean … her father’s Raymond da Costa,” Muriel protested.

  The Russian scrutinized Isabel’s features and a sudden glow of recognition crossed his face. “Ah, are you not the famous physicist?”

  Isabel nodded wordlessly.

  “Let me tell you what an honor it is to meet you,” Avilov pronounced with deference. “I greatly admire your achievements.”

  Then turning again to her mother, he said, “I had no idea, Mrs. Zimmer. But the fact that you have such a world-respected person in your corner, so to say, might help with the wretched bureaucrats in Washington.”

  He stared at Muriel, waiting for a reply.

  “Will you not reconsider allowing Dr. da Costa to accompany us?”

  Though emotionally battered and physically exhausted, Muriel could still sense that this pompous professor, whose assistance she so desperately needed, would not be satisfied unless Isabel joined them.

  “Very well,” she sighed in capitulation.

  They followed him into his large office, which was decorated with diplomas in many languages. He seemed to be a member of every academy of science in the universe.

  “Please, ladies, sit down.” He gestured gallantly as he positioned himself behind his massive wooden desk. Occupying center stage was a large color photograph of his blond wife and three children, all smiling like a toothpaste ad.

  Avilov eyed his visitors and then pronounced, “Well …”

  Neither woman could fathom the significance of this portentous monosyllable.

  The great man then launched into a kind of lecture, punctuated with patronizing repetitions of, “as I am sure you already know.”

  “Huntington’s is, as I am sure you already know, one of the real ‘nasties.’ No cure. No remission. No hope. Nothing. Up till a few years ago they did not even know where in the human genome it was to be found.”

  He addressed Muriel with groveling condescension.

  “All of this must be very familiar to your daughter. But if there is anything you wish me to explain, do not hesitate to ask.”

  “No, no,” she replied softly. “Please go ahead.”

  “Work done in this very lab by my distinguished colleague Professor Gusella determined that the Huntington’s disease gene resides on a strip of Chromosome Four. It was the first time in history anyone had used DNA markers to figure out roughly where a gene was located when they had no other clue.

  “From this auspicious beginning, a cooperative effort was organized, including some participants from Dr. da Costa’s own MIT. Our strategy hinged on a new type of DNA marker called Restriction Fragment Length Polymorphisms—or RFLPs, as we refer to them in the lab.

  “After our painstaking explorations, we now had the Huntington’s gene, so to say, in our clutches.

  “It was here that I myself, a minor player in this great drama, stepped briefly into the limelight. I was fortunate enough to clone the offending gene, and by using recombinant DNA, produce a protein which seems—at least in the laboratory—to restore the structure of Chromosome Four to its normal healthy state.”

  He ceased emoting to the world and once again addressed Muriel. “This, I take it, dear lady, is the reason for your visit.”

  “Yes, Professor,” she answered as deferentially as she could, aware that the way to this man’s heart was through his ego.

  Avilov propped his chin up on his right hand. He emitted one of his random “Well’s” and began to ponder. A moment later he became voluble again.

  “As you must realize, Mrs. Zimmer, you are not the first … petitioner I have received. Huntington’s is a dreadful malady, and my heart goes out to the many sufferers whom I hope someday to help. Yet imagine the irony when I, as a former Soviet citizen, say I am strangled by what is here called ‘red tape.’ Unfortunately it is true.

  “I am certain my restructured gene would work as well with humans as it has with mice. But in the past, our appeals have fallen on deaf ears.”

  Muriel lowered her head.

  “And yet,” Avilov boomed suddenly, “I see here a potential advantage.”

  “What, Professor?” Isabel asked, breaking her long silence.

  The Russian suddenly pointed his finger at her and uttered yet another single syllabl
e: “You.”

  “I don’t understand,” she responded.

  “Perhaps, Dr. da Costa, you are not aware of your own eminence. But the outside world regards you as a scientific giant and—speaking proudly as a newly naturalized American—a national hero. If the authorities in Washington were led to believe that you were in fact Edmundo Zimmer’s child, they would surely consider this appeal with new—and dare I say—favorable eyes.”

  Muriel dissolved into tears. Isabel embraced her mother while continuing to address the eminent scientist.

  “But that’s absurd, Professor Avilov. Anyway, how could they see his life or death as being relevant to me?”

  Muriel’s sobs now became more audible.

  “But surely, Dr. da Costa,” Avilov replied with raised finger, “you are aware of the genetic dimension?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Well, let me put it to you in the proverbial nutshell. Huntington’s is one of the primary autosomal dominant disorders. Affected individuals have a one in two chance of passing it on to their offspring. Were it known that a scientist of your magnitude were in such jeopardy, I am sure we would get, so to say, the green flag to treat the patient.”

  “My God,” Isabel whispered, and then asked Muriel, “Do Francisco and Dorotea know about this?”

  Muriel nodded. “They both insisted on being tested. I tried to persuade them not to. Francisco was lucky, but now Dorotea knows she’s living out an inescapable death sentence.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible,” Isabel gasped.

  Avilov could not keep from smiling inwardly at what fortune had so unexpectedly brought to his office—not only a surefire method of accelerating government approval, but a world-famous patient to publicize its success.

  “Dr. da Costa, if this therapy were sanctioned, you would be helping not only your stepfather and stepsister, but countless others who could be saved if it proved efficacious.”

  Isabel clutched Muriel by the shoulders and said passionately, “Mom, I’ll go along with it. It’s our one chance to save them.”