by Jerry
Alden stirred. His small fist grabbed the fluttering edge of the blue blanket, and he pulled it toward his mouth, uncovering his tiny feet, encased in delicate white socks. Ro grabbed the blanket and pulled it down, covering him again.
“What does the clinic get out of this?” Gil asked.
Dr. Wyatt shrugged. “A percentage. Small, actually. It amounts to one percent of the total fees paid your family.”
“Plus all the payments for the additional medical care,” Gil said. His anger was becoming plain. His voice was rising.
“What—?” Ro asked, loudly enough to cover him. He shot her a warning look which she ignored. “What does this mean for Alden?”
“Financially?” Dr. Wyatt said. “It means that he’ll—”
“No,” she said. “What will happen to my baby? Are there tests? Will he have to leave us?”
“No,” Dr. Wyatt said. “At his checkups, we’ll take an extra vial of blood, and send it to whichever lab ends up with his case. He won’t notice a thing.”
“Those are his genes, right?” Gil asked. “Do we have to give consent every time they’re used?”
Dr. Wyatt looked at his long, manicured hands. “If you do this,” he said, “Alden’s genes will no longer be his. They will belong to the firm that buys them.”
“Meaning they could do anything they want with his genes?” Ro asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Wyatt said.
“Will he be prevented from using his genes?” Gil asked.
“They have a waiver for reproduction,” Dr. Wyatt said. “But if he wanted to donate sperm or give blood, he would need permission. And he would need their permission if he wanted donate an organ or grow one for a family member who couldn’t for some reason.”
Ro shuddered. Such a decision. She had expected to make one today, but not like this.
“Would they clone him?” she asked.
“Cloning is illegal throughout the world,” Dr. Wyatt said.
“But we’ve heard rumors—”
“No reputable company would clone anyone,” Dr. Wyatt said, “although they might use a section of his DNA as a template for some infant’s flawed DNA.”
“How much would we get paid?” Gil asked.
“For Alden?” Dr. Wyatt shrugged. “The usual bid starts at two million dollars. It can rise from there.”
“And how long would they control his genes?”
Dr. Wyatt’s mouth formed a thin line. “For life,” he said.
***
They did not have to make a decision right away. All they did was ask Dr. Wyatt to wait before informing any of the companies about Alden. Dr. Wyatt agreed. They were to see him again in two weeks.
During that time, they spoke to everyone they knew. Their friends had split opinions: some felt that Alden’s gift should be used for the greater good; others believed that to give Alden’s DNA away would be to tamper with God’s plan. Their more sophisticated friends worried about the legalities. Their families worried about the restrictions.
Gil hired a lawyer who specialized in medical contracts. The lawyer believed she could negotiate a more favorable document that gave less power to the biotech company and more money to the family. She would take the case on a contingency, agreeing to work for a percentage of the final take. Gil had been satisfied with her, but Ro hadn’t. When they had gone to the lawyer’s office, she hadn’t done more than give Alden a cursory glance. No questions about him, no gentle touches, and when he woke grumpy after a long nap, she requested that he either get quiet or be taken to the daycare center thoughtfully provided by the legal firm.
It was starting to become about money. Two million dollars would pay off all their debts, including their tiny one-story home in a distant suburb. It would pay for Alden’s college, his graduate work, and, if they invested wisely, give him a nest egg, an investment that might help him as he grew older.
Ro walked through her tiny house with its unwieldy ’90s kitchen with the island that always got in her way and the hooks for the cooper pots that no one had anymore, and imagined it updated, with modern appliances. She fed Alden in the living room, always chilly because of its cathedral ceiling, and wished that she could carve the space into two rooms-one of them a playroom for her beautiful son. Gil mentioned in passing, as he always did with things that were important to him, that perhaps they could consider buying a bigger house with a real yard, close to schools and public transportation. They allowed themselves to contemplate a different life.
And through it all, they fed Alden, changed him, played with him, and held him. They carried him from room to room as they dreamed their small dreams. Sometimes he giggled. Often he slept. And sometimes he cried so hard that Ro thought his heart was breaking. During those times, she couldn’t understand what he needed, and she wished, oh how she wished, she could ask him what he wanted.
Because their decision would affect him in a thousand ways. It would affect everything about him, from simple acts of charity such as donating blood to large things such as his financial future. Ro did not even think about the added offer, the way that the companies would pay for more children, the way that all of this would affect their lives.
She studied everything she could find, became familiar with genes and DNA and experiment processes. She learned that Alden was one of a select group. Less than point one-one hundredth of all the children born since the human genome project had been finished were categorized as medically perfect. Of that small percentage, only a few were born in the United States each year. There was no information on families who had chosen the options she and Gil had been offered, except short mentions in various papers that people had taken those offers. Nothing about the parents, about how they made the decisions, about how they felt later.
***
Two nights before she and Gil were to talk again with Dr. Wyatt, she sat in Alden’s room. The room smelled of talcum and baby, and was silent, except for Alden’s even breathing.
They had remodeled the walk-in closet beside the master bedroom as the nursery, thinking that later they would give Alden a room farther from theirs. The nursery was small but bright, with a balloon mural on the wall that Gil had painted and matching pillows all over the floor, sewn by her mother. White baby furniture completed the look. They had modern smarthouse equipment in here and in the master bedroom, an expense that Ro had insisted on when she became pregnant. No old-fashioned baby monitors for her. She wanted the very walls to listen to her child, to make sure he was all right every moment of every day.
Still, she sat often in the rocker her grandmother had given her and watched Alden sleep. Ro did her best thinking when Alden slept. She remembered her fear of becoming one of those mothers, with a diseased child, a woman who clung to her baby hoping to give it life.
Alden had life. He had more than life. He had, genetically speaking, a life that would be healthy and full. He was the opposite of those children.
Something in that thought held her. She had come to it over and over again in the last ten days. She was approaching her child because of what he had instead of who he was, and she had always thought that wrong.
Alden was a joyful baby. Everyone said that. And they said how lucky she was. He could have been naturally cranky or energetic or listless. He could have been so many things, but he was not. He was born with a mind and a personality all his own. It was up to her-her and Gil-to help him develop those things.
She stood slowly, then walked to the crib, bent over, and kissed her sleeping child. He stirred slightly, confident in her touch. Knowing it was a light touch, a secure touch, a loving touch. He trusted her, especially now, when he could not do anything for himself. He trusted her to do the best thing for them all.
* * *
Dr. Wyatt’s office door was open, and he was waiting for them. He bent over one of his tea roses, his long fingers working a particularly delicate trim. Ro watched him, seeing the gentleness, now knowing that was only a part of him.
Gil held Alden’s carrier. They agreed that Ro would do most of the talking. It had been her idea, after all.
Dr. Wyatt smiled when he saw them and took Alden’s carrier as he had done before. They took their places in front of the desk.
“Well?” Dr. Wyatt asked as if he already knew the answer.
“We have decided,” Ro looked at Gil, who nodded at her to continue. “To let Alden make this decision when he turns eighteen. We agree with the waiver we signed. This is not a decision we should make for our child.”
Dr. Wyatt frowned. “It would be better not to wait.”
“Better for whom?” Ro asked. “The companies? Yes, it would. And perhaps for a few patients, too. But we are locking my son into an agreement for life, which is something medieval. We don’t believe in such things, Dr. Wyatt.”
“I’m sure some clauses can be waived. Perhaps you could even get a temporary agreement, something that would be nonbinding on him when he became an adult.”
Ro shook her head. “This is not an emergency, Doctor. We are willing to be contacted on a case-by-case basis in the event of an emergency, when someone actually needs Alden’s help. What we are refusing is a business arrangement. We want our son to be a child first, and a commodity only if he chooses to be.”
“He wouldn’t be a commodity,” Dr. Wyatt said.
She stared at him for a long time. “Maybe not to you,” she said. “But the biotech company who bought his genes wouldn’t know him. To them, he would be something that would enable them to make a profit. To other patients, he would be another tool. To us, he is a person already. And people make their own choices, and their own commitments. We’re sorry, doctor.”
She stood. So did Gil. Finally Dr. Wyatt did as well. He ran a hand along Alden’s small face. “He is a perfect child.”
“No,” Ro said. “He’s not. He’s got good genes. That’s all.”
“That’s plenty,” Dr. Wyatt said. “Promise me you’ll tell him of this opportunity when he’s grown.”
“You will,” Gil said. “Or someone in your clinic will. We will stipulate that. We have an attorney who can draw up a document.”
“It was kind of you,” Ro added, “not to mention the money.”
Dr. Wyatt took Alden’s tiny hand in his own. “You realize how rare and precious he is.”
Ro smiled. “Yes,” she said softly. “We do.”
TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE
Arthur C. Clarke and Stephen Baxter
None of us had intended to hold a reunion. But here we were, a reasonable cross-section of the old crowd, brought together at a small convention held by the students’ science fiction club at King’s College.
After dinner we counted heads: myself; David Kyle dapper in his red blazer; gentlemanly James MacCreigh over from America; John Christopher complaining as ever about the eternal iniquity of the publishing profession. Ken Slater was here too, nobly flogging our yellowing old books to yet another new generation of readers. Even Charles Willis was present, in spirit at least, courtesy of a postage-stamp-sized image beamed around the world to the mobile phone wielded by his loyal brother Bill: our student hosts called Charles their virtual guest of honour.
And the flesh-and-blood guest of honour himself, Benjamin Gregford, at sixty-six a sprightly youth compared to the rest of us, showed an intelligent curiosity (for a colonial) about post-war pub culture. He was also, however, eager to show off his latest acquisition in an appropriate setting. An ardent collector of antiques, all day long he had been caressing his seventeenth-century pewter tankard, purchased that morning from a dealer in the Portobello Road.
Serendipity has always been one of my favourite words.
Perhaps it was serendipitous that we had all come together in that place, so close to our old watering holes. But it took Harry Purvis to make it happen. It was Harry, now an astonishing and redoubtable ninety-something, who yelled, “We are quorate!”, Harry whose immense wheelchair was our icebreaker through the crush of the college bar, Harry who shepherded us through the watery light of a London summer evening towards the good old “White Hart”. We had never really expected to see Harry again—but this is the twenty-first century, and even a Mrs Purvis can’t hide from students armed with search engines.
A few of our hosts from the King’s convention had agreed to accompany us. Our progression down the road was hardly a Mardi Gras; Harry was comfortable in his gleaming chair, while Ken Slater and Bill Willis gamely argued about the proper collective noun for walking sticks: a clatter, perhaps? We were glad of a bit of youthful company. But, in a radical departure from the nineteen-forties, well over half of these smart young science fiction fans were of the female persuasion.
And one, a physics undergraduate called Beth and our guide for the day, was fascinated by Harry’s chair. A lot more impressive than the general motorised type, it was a sleek chrome hull that fit snugly over Harry’s lower half, concealing all propulsion units and power sources. It was whimsically fitted with the number plates from Harry’s much-loved old Austin Seven: CGC 571. Harry claimed it was a souvenir of his time in Australia. Now, as Harry glided imperturbably along, Beth ducked down. “I can’t see any wheels under there. In fact, you seem to be hovering, Mr Purvis.”
“And how do you imagine that is possible, young lady?” Harry shot back.
“Well—”
He turned a sharp left and rolled effortlessly up the street leading to the “White Hart”.
“And how is he steering the thing?” Bill Willis asked. “I suppose there could be some sort of direct connection to his nervous system—”
“Impossible!” cried young Ben Gregford.
“Tell that to Professor Hinckleberg!” Harry snapped.
That was Harry for you. Hinckleberg had upstaged him once, in the “White Hart” more than fifty years ago, but Harry had never let it go.
“And what about the power?” James MacCreigh asked. “I can’t hear a thing coming from that chassis. Even if you’re using batteries they must be pretty lightweight.”
“There would be little point in telling you,” Harry said, “as everybody knows cold fusion is a scientific impossibility—”
But he was interrupted as we came to the door of the pub.
We colonised a table in our old cornet, and graciously allowed Beth the privilege of youth in buying the first round. It didn’t surprise any of us when a tray slid out from the chassis of Harry’s chair, complete with beer mat. Bill Willis set up his phone so that his brother’s distinguished visage peered out at the rest of us, and Beth, thoughtfully, placed a glass of iced pineapple juice before the phone for Charles. Young Ben Gregford poured his beer lovingly into his antique tankard. He showed us its patina of age, and certificate of authentication. It did indeed look centuries old—though I for one would never have spent so many of my dollars on such a thing.
And when we had settled down, we spent a moment remembering those who had brightened up our Wednesday evenings, every week between six and eleven, and who could no longer join us: John Wyndham, Eric Maine, George Whitley, good old Bill Temple, even John Brunner whom many of us remembered as a wide-eyed teenager, ferociously talented, gone in an instant.
Harry raised his glass: “To absent friends.”
“I wonder what happened to Drew’s visitors’ book,” said Bill Willis. “That would be worth a look.”
Beth looked into the distance, and murmured something which sounded like: “eBay . . .”
Of course if we weren’t quite what we had been, the “White Hart” wasn’t what it used to be either. The old place hadn’t changed its decor much, and I would have sworn that some of the crustier-looking bottles ranked behind the bar had been there since the nineteen-forties. The deep vibration of the Fleet Street printing presses had long dissipated, but we found ourselves sitting under an immense plasma screen across which a football match was played out at tremendous volume.
David Kyle remarked, “Remember when we first showed up at the
“White Hart” after the war, and they’d put in a juke box for the benefit of the GIs? Shutting that down for good was the first thing we did, as I remember—”
Right on cue the plasma screen popped and turned a bright blue, blank save for an incomprehensible error code. The rest of the customers groaned.
Harry Purvis sipped his beer innocently.
“Come on, Harry,” said Ken Slater. “How did you do that?”
“That’s a calumny and a slur.”
“But you’ll tell us anyway,” said David Kyle.
“I suppose I could. But first I ought to answer James’s question about my chair’s power source—”
“Leave me out of it!” said James.
“Or,” Harry Purvis went on, “you might like to hear a rather more interesting tale about what a butterfingered Australian engineer turned up during the development of that power source, purely by accident. As soon as I’m sure I won’t be disturbed by the delivery of another beer in mid-flow—”
That was the cue. We turned to Harry as one, save for Beth who purchased the great man’s second beer. It was a Pavlovian reflex that still operated, I was mildly shocked to observe, five decades later. Bill Willis even made sure his brother’s televisual image was turned that way.
Harry began, “This was during the time of my own assignment at this particular institute—”
“Which is where, exactly?” asked young Ben. “I know Australia pretty well; maybe I’ve been there.”
“Oh, Australia is such a big place.”
“And is this,” growled the telephonic Charles Willis, “the same institute where you once claimed antigravity was discovered in an accident with a fission power plant? By a scientist you decided to call Cavor, as I recall.”
“That would be a remarkable coincidence, wouldn’t it? But it was through a not dissimilar accident with a new generation of fusion reactor, during a set of experiments by a researcher I will call, let me think—Wells seems appropriate—that an entirely unexpected effect was achieved, a modification of the rate of temporal flux by a distortion of a magnetic containment field—”
