by Chris Troman
window, next to which stood an orderly observing the patent. The man inside was in a strait jacket, and bound to a chair. The chair itself and the table in front of him were clearly bolted to the floor.
"He believes he is in hell, it's his fate and only wishes to kill himself to escape it." "Interesting" Dr. Natas observed. Extracting a key his guide Dr. Monroe unlocked the heavy steel door, motioning his guest inside. The wretch that stared back from the other side of the table, was lost in a world of sorrow, then he suddenly became aware of the new arrival. The eye focused on the plush red waistcoat under his pristine white doctors robes, the goatee beard neatly trimmed below expansive cheeks, and on up to meet him eye to eye.
"That pen in your top pocket would make a fine hole in my neck. It would only take a moment, and I would be free of this horrible fate." He twitched in his restraints, but they held true. The bigger man smiled with a warm glow, that couldn't be mistaken for anything but friendship. Leaning in to confide, the doctor spoke in a clear and friendly tone.
"You are among friends now Mr. Duncan." Turning to his fellow practitioner the doctor called out. "I think Mr. Duncan should do well under my care. See to it he is transferred to a safe ward, and now if you may leave us for a while. I would like a nice chat with Sam here." The other nodded nervously, and withdrew locking them both in. Doctor Natas turned once more to the man across the table. "Now" he began with a reassuring tone "wouldn't you like to tell me why you’re in hell?" So with slow recollecting sentences Sam Duncan began his tale.
Sam sighed and turned to his charts, yet another useless lead, another wasted day. He had got his doctorate in genetics barely a year ago. Now with a moderate research grant, Duncan had knuckled down to find new insights into the code of life. With most genes being mapped there were few advances to be made in the field, but still there were sequences that made no sense, that had no apparent function. Duncan had managed to isolate many of these sets that seemed to have no apparent use.
Noted down in long lines of the four components annotated as A,C,T,and G. He clutched the sheets and paced up and down beneath the neon tubes. Then click and he was cast into darkness. "Damn it, that idiot in the next lab." He'd done the same yesterday, blown a fuse. When it had happened then Duncan had to grope for the door. Thankful of the windows in the corridor, he had made his way to the maintenance department. All they would say was lab 102 had blown the fuse, some computer set up. That had cost him the afternoon's work.
Enraged that it had happened again, he found the door and was soon banging on the lab marked Dr. J Dawcy. It flew open and a disheveled figure thrust his head through. "What do you want?" came the abrupt reply to Sam’s knocking. "What's wrong with your lab, you've blown the fuse twice in as many days?" Just then the lights flickered back on. Duncan he saw a set of computer banks, and some very heavy duty cooling equipment. Not to be put off, he pushed his way in past the other man's protests.
"That's one of those new quantum computers isn't it, don't they cost a fortune?" "Yes so don't touch it I've only got it set up yesterday." Duncan whirled round still fuming. For now he had the additional axe to grind, that this fools research grant must be a hundred times his own. "Will you be interrupting my work constantly with your infernal power cuts, that machine is a menace." He waved his sheaf of notes like a baton behind him to illustrate. Indignant the other defended his project, "No, the other day was a fault of the building maintenance, they hadn't installed a sufficient power supply for my requirements." Duncan snorted "and today?" "That was the apparatus starting up, and the additional generators kicking in. From now on it will run constantly. There will be no further disruption" Dawcy sneered.
"Now if you can kindly leave I have work to be done." Glowering at this dismissal, Sam stalked out murmuring over his shoulder. "Good day." The rest of the day was spent gathering more D.N.A. samples; his mind was too fogged with the argument for serious work. As he made it round the local clinics, Duncan mulled over how he could only get a pittance compared to this pipsqueak. "Not old enough to shave I bet", he grumbled to himself driving home.
The next day with a box of samples in his arms, Sam came in through the outer door to the laboratories. He caught sight of his adversary of yesterday marching in his direction. Duncan was not keen for another encounter, to remind him of his financial deficiencies. What he could do with the fund Dr. Dawcy commanded, it had preyed on his mind all night. But the other seemed determined to repeat the experience. He was staring strait at him with a stern look in his eye. Storming strait up to Sam, Dawcy let of a tirade of abuse. "Damn fool wasting a whole nights work on your foolish texts, was it Latin? I didn't take you for a religious nut." Dawcy slammed some notes on top of the box the stunned Duncan was holding, as he swept past out into the open air.
When he had snapped out of the shock of this sudden attack, Sam looked down. The papers now sitting inches from his nose consisted of a computer printout and, he blinked, his notes from the day before. Had he dropped them in the argument perhaps? Sam's lab was always locked when he left for the day. Shrugging he entered his lab.
Discharged of the weighty samples on a bench he took up the notes, there on his sheets were the lists of codeing. Patent 37-3BX5, and the long string of code in the familiar permutations of A, T, G and C's. He looked at the corresponding top line on the printout. There was the patient 37-3BX5, but instead of the genetic fingerprint, he saw English text. "The Lord smiles on ye for living a good life. You shall live long and want for nothing all your days." The next patient had a different line, "you shall toil unceasing and yet see none of your dreams fulfilled for you have prayed on others thus so. The Lord has spoken."
Flinging the sheet down, he cursed Dawcy "the moron." If he had nothing better to do than play practical jokes. Brooding he had worked through his new batch of samples, there had to be some correlation, he just had to get a break through. Thoroughly disheartened he locked up for the night, and slouched home where he drank himself to sleep.
Groggy from the night before, Sam crawled from his bed, and shuffled through the post on his way to the kitchen. An official letter caught his eye, and curious he tore it open. Dear Doctor Duncan we look forward to your six-month report on your progress made. Sam let his hand fall, was it six months already? He scratched his stubble and groaned. How was he going to get enough positive results to justify a continuation, they would drop him like a lead balloon on what he had. This was serious, and that git Dawcy was sat on a fat wad of grant money playing jokes.
He paused in front of the mirror, was it a joke? Pretty poor delivery, just raged at me, and stormed off. Wouldn't he have dropped in that same day for the pay off? Sam was clutching at straws, but with little else to show, he decided to go with the mad idea forming in his mind. After all it was his only lead, but what if was a joke? I'll go and see him, confront the moron and if and if. Sam let the thought trail off, too much was at steak. If he lost his grant money, he felt sick.
A brief breakfast and spruce up saw Sam dashing to the lab. Vague possibilities formed in Sam's mind, if it wasn't a prank. He had to stay calm be polite, a lot rested on it. Outside Dawcy's lab door he checked himself, and knocked politely as possible. It swung in, and the neutral expression on the Dawcy's face turned down. "What do you want God boy?" Biting back his anger Sam smiled and began.
"Good joke you played yesterday", but Dawcy cut across him. "Did Miller put you up to this? Giving me fake codes, well?" "Never met the fellow", replied Sam wrong footed. "Well tell him from me, he'll never be half the quantum cryptographer I am." Then Dawcy slammed the door in his face. "Well unless he's the best actor I've seen, I'm onto something." A smile slowly spread across Sam's face, as he retired to his lab to form a plan of action.
First verify the initial results. Then I'll win Dawcy over. "Or with something this big, the powers that be could force the git to work for me, that would show him." Duncan broke into a laugh.
With a spring in his step, he headed to the clinic his earlier sampl
es had come from. Technically patient confidentiality meant he could not get the identities of his samples donors. With this much at steak, Duncan would have to draw on most of his scant resources for a cunning plan. Grinning like a wolf, he kicked himself to calm down.
It was eleven when he sat down in the dinner across from St Patricks’ mission and medical practice. It was middle of the range surgery, which was visited by a wide cross section of society. His two weapons for this campaign were; a wad of dollars that had seriously depleted his funds, and a key piece of knowledge. Nurse Stacy Jones shared the receptionist job in the morning, and John Williams in the afternoon. Ms. Jones had a propensity for the letter of the law; she would rather die than leak a patient confidentiality. J.W. as his friends knew him, and close association in the line of his work had brought Sam into this disreputable clan, was more inclined to persuasion.
At five to noon his prey strolled in to the clinic, and ten minutes later the prim Ms. Jones dashed out. As usual glad to be away from the encounter with her counterpart. Time to strike, Sam paid the bill and casually made his way across the street. The glass door
