by Robin Cook
“I’m not sure,” Deborah said. “I didn’t listen to too much of it.”
Maureen laughed. “I think you and I are going to get along just fine, girl. What do you go by, Georgina or what?”
“Georgina,” Deborah said. Using the alias always made her pulse quicken.
“My friends call me Mare, like a female horse,” Maureen said.
“Then Mare it is,” Deborah said. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get down to business. I’ve got a double-headed dissecting microscope set up here so we can be looking at the same field. Let me get some eggs from the incubator.”
While Mare was on her errand, Deborah pulled out her cell phone and turned it on. She saw she had a message, but rather than listen to it, she dialed Joanna’s number. Joanna picked up right away.
“Did you call?” Deborah asked.
“I did, but the message was just to call me.”
“How’s it going?”
“Boring but tolerable,” Joanna said. “The first thing that I did was try to access the donor files, but no go.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“The plan is, I’ll be taking a half-hour break at eleven. Can you meet me?”
“Where?”
“Let’s say that water fountain in the main hall near the door to the server room.”
“I’ll be there,” Deborah said. She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her shoulder bag. While she’d been talking she’d looked around the lab. There were only five other people visible in a work space that could have supported fifty. It was obvious the Wingate anticipated growing exponentially.
Mare returned carrying a covered petri dish that contained a small amount of fluid. To the naked eye the fluid was clear and uniform but in actuality it was layered. On top was a film of mineral oil and beneath was an aliquot of culture fluid containing sixty or so female eggs.
Mare sat on one side of the double-headed microscope and motioned for Deborah to take the stool on the other side. She turned on the source light and the ultraviolet light. Then both women leaned forward to peer through the eyepieces.
For the next hour Deborah was treated to a hands-on demonstration of nuclear transfer using micropipettes. The first part involved removing the nuclei from the eggs. The second part involved putting much smaller, adult cells just under the eggs’ outer covering. The process involved a certain amount of finesse but Deborah caught on quickly and by the end of the hour was doing it almost as well as Mare.
“That finishes that batch,” Mare said. She leaned back from the scope and stretched her tight shoulder muscles. “I have to say, you’ve caught onto this more quickly than I expected.”
“Thanks to an excellent instructor,” Deborah said. She stretched as well. The delicate operating of the micro-pipettes required such strict control that all muscles were kept tense.
“I’ll get you another petri dish that’s been set up when I take this group we’ve done to the fusion people,” Mare said. “I don’t see any reason you can’t be on your own already. Usually it takes a day or two, but you’re already doing it like a pro.”
“I think you are being overly generous,” Deborah said. “But tell me! What kind of eggs are we working with here? Are they bovine or swine?” Deborah had seen a few female gametes of different species either in photomicrographs or in actuality in the lab at Harvard. She knew they looked strikingly similar except for size, which could vary considerably. From the size of the eggs she was working with she guessed they were swine since it was her impression that bovine eggs were larger, but it was truly a guess.
“Neither,” Mare said. “These are all human eggs.”
Although Mare had answered Deborah’s question matter-of-factly, the information hit Deborah like a sledgehammer. In the entire hour she’d been working with the cells, the idea that she was working with human eggs had never even occurred to her. It made her tremble to think about it, especially since she’d been paid forty-five thousand dollars for one egg!
“Are you sure these are human eggs?” Deborah managed.
“I’m pretty sure,” Mare said. “At least that is my understanding.”
“But what are we doing here?” Deborah stammered. “Whose eggs are these?”
“That’s not for us to question,” Mare said. “This is one busy infertility clinic. We’re helping to get the clients pregnant.” She shrugged. “They’re clients’ eggs and clients’ cells.”
“But by doing nuclear transfer, we are cloning,” Deborah said. “If these are human cells, we’re cloning human beings!”
“Technically, perhaps,” Mare said. “But it’s part of the embryonic stem-cell protocol. In private clinics like the Wingate, we’re allowed to do stem-cell research on extra material not used for the infertility treatment and otherwise destined to be destroyed. We’re not getting any government funding, so anybody who is against this kind of work doesn’t have to feel they are paying for it through their taxes. And remember: These are extra gametes, and the clients who’ve produced these gametes have agreed for them to be used. And most importantly, the fused cells are not allowed to become actual embryos. The stem cells are harvested in the blastocyst stage before any cellular differentiation.”
“I see,” Deborah said with a nod, but she wasn’t sure she did. It was a situation she was not prepared for, and she was troubled.
“Hey, calm down!” Mare urged. “This is no big deal. We’ve been doing this for several years. It’s okay! Trust me!”
Deborah nodded again, although she wasn’t sure how she felt about all this.
“You’re not one of those religious nuts, are you?” Mare asked. She leaned forward to look Deborah in the eye.
Deborah shook her head. At least she was certain of that.
“Thank goodness,” Mare said. “Because this stem-cell research is the future of medicine. But I’m confident I don’t have to tell you that.” She slid off her stool. “Let me go get some more eggs,” she added. “If you’d like we can talk more about it when I get back.”
“Fine,” Deborah said, thankful for a moment to think. With her elbows on the lab bench, Deborah cradled her head. Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to imagine how the Wingate Clinic could produce so many extra eggs. She estimated that she and Mare had already gone through four or five dozen, and the morning was young. Knowing what she did about ovarian hyperstimulation, ending up with that many eggs for research was extraordinary. Usually only ten or so eggs resulted from a stimulated cycle and most of those were used for in-vitro fertilization.
“Ah, Miss Marks,” a voice said. Simultaneously there was a tap on Deborah’s shoulder. She looked up, and although she was sitting, she found herself eye to eye with Dr. Paul Saunders. “I’m glad to see you, and you look as lovely as you did yesterday.”
Deborah managed a smile.
“How are you finding the lab work?”
“Interesting,” Deborah said.
“I understand Miss Jefferson has been showing you the ropes,” Paul said. “She’s certainly one of our best technicians, so you are in almost as good hands had I had the opportunity to come over first thing this morning as I had originally planned.”
Deborah nodded. Such conceit reminded her of Spencer, and she found herself wondering if it were a universal character trait of infertility specialists.
“I suppose,” Paul continued, “I don’t have to explain to you how important this work is to our clients and the future of medicine in general.”
“Miss Jefferson told me the eggs on which we’d done nuclear transfer were human eggs,” Deborah said. “Needless to say I was shocked, knowing how scarce human eggs are.”
“Did she say she was certain?” Paul asked. His pale face darkened.
“I think her words were pretty sure,” Deborah said.
“They are swine eggs!” Paul said. Absently he ran his fingers through his hair. “We’re doing a lot of work with pigs lately. Do you know what the major thrus
t of our research is these days?”
“Miss Jefferson mentioned stem cells,” Deborah said.
“That’s part of it,” Paul agreed. “Very definitely an important part, but not necessarily the most important. Right now my major focus involves how the oocyte cytoplasm reprograms an adult cell nucleus. That’s the basis for current animal cloning techniques. You know, the way Dolly the sheep had been cloned.”
“I’m aware of Dolly,” Deborah said. She leaned back. As Paul spoke, his ardor magnified as evidenced by a suffusion of color in his otherwise pale cheeks. Progressively, he thrust his face toward Deborah so that she could feel the wind as he pronounced hard consonants.
“We are at a fantastic crossroads in biological science,” Paul said, lowering his voice as if imparting a trade secret. “You’re in luck, Miss Marks! You’ve joined us at a most exciting, revolutionary time. We’re on the brink of a number of huge breakthroughs. Tell me! Did Helen Masterson explain our employee stock-option plan?”
“I don’t think so,” Deborah said. She was now leaning back as far as she dared without jeopardizing her balance on the lab stool she was sitting on.
“We in management want everybody to benefit from the coming gold mine this area of research is about to be,” Paul said. “So we’re offering stock options to all our valued employees, particularly those on the laboratory side of the operation. As soon as the first breakthrough occurs, and we announce, probably in Nature, we’ll go public. Wingate Clinic will go from a narrowly held private company to a publicly traded one. I suppose you can guess what that will do to the value of the stock options.”
“I guess they’ll go up,” Deborah offered. Paul was now so close she could see directly into the black depths of his pupils. It occurred to her why his eyes looked so strange. Not only were the irises slightly different colors, but his inner canthi covered enough of the white sclera to make him appear mildly cross-eyed.
“Through the roof!” Paul said, slowly pronouncing each word separately. “Which will mean everybody will be a millionaire; everybody, that is, with stock options. So the important thing is that it all stays quiet.” Paul put a finger to his lips in the classic gesture for silence to emphasize his point. “Secrecy is of paramount importance. That’s why we encourage our people, particularly our lab personnel, to live on the premises, and why we discourage loose talk with anyone outside the organization. We liken this effort to the Manhattan project when the atomic bomb was created. Am I making myself clear?”
Deborah nodded. Paul had moved back slightly although he still had her locked in his unwavering, unblinking stare. She was able to right herself on the stool.
“We’re trusting you not to talk with anyone about what we are doing here,” Paul continued. “It’s for your own benefit.” He hesitated.
“I’m a very trustworthy person,” Deborah said when she sensed he was waiting for her to respond.
“We don’t want another organization to beat us out,” Paul continued. “Not after all this work. And there are a number of institutions working on the same problems right here in the Boston area.”
Deborah nodded. She was well aware of the local biotech industry, especially since she was scheduled for an imminent interview with Genzyme.
“Can I ask a question?” Deborah said.
“By all means,” Paul said. He put his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels. The pose, combined with his shock of dark hair, reminded Deborah of Helen Masterson’s nickname for him: Napoleon.
“I’m curious about the Nicaraguan workers. They all look pregnant to the same degree. What’s the story?”
“Let’s just say for now that they are helping,” Paul said. “It’s not that big a deal, and I’ll be happy to explain it in more detail at a later date.”
Paul broke off from staring into Deborah’s eyes to cast a quick look around the lab. Reassured that no one was paying them any heed, he returned his attention to her. This time his line of sight rapidly scanned the long, hosiery-clad legs and the plunging neckline before snapping back to Deborah’s face. It was a fleeting visual inquisition not lost on Deborah.
“I’m glad we’ve had the opportunity for this little chat,” Paul said, lowering his voice. “I enjoy talking with someone with whom I feel equivalent intelligence and with whom I have strong common interests.”
Deborah suppressed a sardonic laugh. Distinctly she remembered the same inane common interests comment from Spencer, and intuitively she sensed it was going to lead to the same end. She wasn’t disappointed. In the next breath Paul said: “I’d love to have the opportunity to describe to you all the exciting research I’m doing, including the contribution from the Nicaraguans, but it would be best in private. Perhaps you’d like to have dinner tonight. Although the Wingate is unfortunately out here in the sticks, there is a fairly good restaurant you might enjoy.”
“That wouldn’t be the Barn, would it?” Deborah asked wryly.
If Paul was surprised Deborah knew the name of the restaurant, he didn’t let on. Instead he launched into a glowing description of its food and romantic decor and how he’d enjoy sharing it with Deborah. He then went on to suggest that after dinner they could return to his house where he’d show her the protocols for some of the major breakthrough experiments he currently had underway at the Wingate.
Deborah suppressed another laugh. Being asked to Paul’s house to see research protocols sounded like a variation on the come-see-my-etchings ploy. Deborah had no interest in going out with the nerd, despite her keen curiosity about the Wingate’s research. She declined his invitation using Joanna as an excuse just as she’d done with Spencer the day before. To her surprise Paul’s reaction was almost identical to Spencer’s with the same suggestion about Joanna entertaining herself while they dined. Deborah now wondered if megalomania was a requirement to be an infertility specialist or if the job evoked it. Emphatically she declined again.
“What about later in the week?” Paul pleaded. “Or even over the weekend. I could drive into Boston.”
Mare’s return saved Deborah from Paul’s deepening desperation. She brought a petri dish over to the lab bench and set it in on the microscope’s stage before deferentially acknowledging Dr. Saunders’s presence.
“So how is our new employee doing?” Paul asked, reverting with surprising agility to his usual condescending manner.
“She’s doing terrific,” Mare said. “She’s a natural. She’s ready to be on her own as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s good news,” Paul said. He then asked Mare if he could have a word with her in private. Mare agreed and the two withdrew several lab benches to be out of Deborah’s earshot.
Deborah pretended to be interested in the fresh petri dish but watched Paul and Mare converse out of the corner of her eye. Paul did all the talking. He was obviously agitated as evidenced by his emphatic gesticulations.
The monologue lasted less than a minute after which they returned to Deborah.
“I will talk to you later, Miss Marks,” Paul said stiffly prior to leaving. “In the meantime, carry on!”
“I’ll get you started with this new group,” Mare said, taking the seat opposite Deborah.
Deborah put her eyes to the microscope, and for the next few minutes the women worked in tandem organizing the oocytes for Deborah to begin extracting the DNA. Moving all the eggs to one side had been the way they’d begun with the first group. Earlier Mare had explained it was to avoid missing any. When it was finished, Mare leaned back.
“There you go,” Mare said, uttering the first words since Paul’s departure. “Good luck! If you have any questions just yell. I’ll be over on the next bench doing another batch.”
Deborah couldn’t help but notice the new coolness in the way Mare treated her. As the lab tech stood up to leave, Deborah cleared her throat: “Excuse me. I don’t know how best to say this . . .”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t,” Mare said. “I’ve got to get to work.” She s
tarted for the neighboring lab bench.
“Have I somehow put you in an awkward position?” Deborah called after her. “Because if I have, I’m sorry.”
Mare turned around. Her face softened to a degree. “It’s not your fault. I was just wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
“These eggs,” Mare said. “They’re pig oocytes.”
“Oh, right,” Deborah said. “Dr. Saunders already told me.”
“Good! Well, I’ve got to get to work.” Mare pointed toward the other microscope she’d set up earlier. She smiled weakly, then continued on.
Deborah watched the woman for a moment as she settled herself in preparation for work. Deborah then leaned her face forward to her own microscope’s eyepieces. She peered in at the field, whose left side was chock-full of tiny, granular circles each containing a fluorescing clump of DNA, but for the moment her mind wasn’t on the task at hand. Instead she was thinking about the eggs’ species. Despite Paul and Mare’s allegations to the contrary, Deborah believed she was looking at a mass of human oocytes.
A half hour later Deborah had enucleated more than half the eggs beneath her microscope’s objective. Needing a rest from the intensity of the work, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes forcibly. When she opened them, she started. With her degree of concentration she’d not heard anyone approach and was surprised to find herself staring up into the contrite face of Spencer Wingate. In the background she could see that Mare had looked up as well, and her face registered similar surprise.
“Good morning, Miss Marks,” Spencer said. His voice was more gravelly than it had been the day before. He was dressed in a professorial long white doctor’s coat, a crisp white dress shirt, and a demure silk tie. The only outward evidence of the previous night’s inebriation was red, road-map eyes.
“Could I speak with you for a moment?” Spencer asked.
“Certainly,” Deborah said with a degree of uneasiness. Her first concern was that he’d come to ask about his blue card, but she instantly dismissed the idea as unlikely. She slid off the stool, assuming that Spencer meant for them to step away. A glance in Mare’s direction revealed the woman was watching them with rapt attention.
