Embryo 1: Embryo

by JA Schneider

  “’Fraid you’re overruled,” MacIntyre said mildly. “Arnett has dibs on her first.” He held up his watch. “Fact is, Jill, you’re late. If you miss ol’ Cliff’s sequel then he’ll be mad at Tom. You wouldn’t want that, would ya Tom?”

  Jill stared at MacIntyre as if she were seeing him for the first time. He looked back at her and cocked his head imperceptibly. “Better hurry,” he said.

  Ganon glared at both of them. “There are other ways to handle this,” he snarled.

  Without a word, Jill walked away, glancing up at a wall clock. Not really late, she thought. That Sam, what a surprise. She estimated how long Arnett’s lecture would take.

  Good, there will be time. She knew what she was going to do.

  She opened the door to a stairwell. On the landing she breathed at last, and in a burst of resolve ran up the stairs.

  At 9:18 a man in a black Honda pulled into the hospital receiving area. There were already three ambulances parked by the platform. A police car, empty, was parked off to one side. The Honda slid into place next to the last ambulance on the other side, and a young man got out and walked toward the emergency entrance.

  “Hey, mister!”

  The young man turned, and blinding July sun flashed on his sunglasses.

  A security guard approached him. “You’re not supposed to park there.”

  The young man hesitated. He was gaunt-faced, but nicely dressed in chinos and a button-down shirt. “My wife had a miscarriage,” he said sadly. “She’ll be in a wheel chair and our doctor said it was okay.”

  The guard hesitated. “Oh,” he said. “Well, in that case.” He relaxed his posture and rested one hand on his walkie-talkie hooked to his belt. He couldn’t see the young man’s eyes behind his sunglasses dart to the gun which also hung from his belt.

  The guard’s features were sympathetic. “If you need a hand, just holler when you come down. Emergency has plenty of attendants who can help you with the chair.”

  The young man looked grateful. “That’s very kind of you,” he said sadly. “We probably will need a little help.”

  With that he turned and leaped up onto the platform with a familiarity that surprised the guard. Looking neither right nor left, he entered Emergency through the automatic sliding doors.

  13

  As Jill entered the amphitheater, Clifford Arnett was just finishing some jokey comments with his audience. “Don’t feel bad,” he said. “The only people who made it to the end of yesterday’s lecture were med students.” It was a tired old joke: interns and residents were constantly getting called away from conferences. But everyone smiled just the same. Any levity was appreciated.

  “Déjà vu,” Jill whispered, finding a seat next to Tricia, who looked up and smiled brightly. Jill smiled grimly back.

  “Something the matter?”

  “Yeah. More later.”

  I tried to tell, but couldn’t, because of a…promise. She heard Mary Jo’s voice.

  “Lights please,” Arnett called, and the room went dark. There was a clicking sound, and suddenly a bright beam shot to cover the screen with spangles. The picture focused, and the image of a twisting, corkscrew ladder studded with colored, glowing balls appeared.

  “The secret of life,” Arnett said, snapping on the small light of his lectern.

  Computer notebooks re-lit. Keys started lightly tapping.

  He reviewed his material: how DNA, the microscopic coils containing the genetic blueprint of every living organism, had been discovered in 1953 by James Watson and Francis Crick. By 1980, DNA technology had opened the way for the astonishing concept of genetic engineering. He talked about the “knowledge explosion;” the fact that things were happening so fast in science that nobody could keep up; and that, most amazingly, the field of recombinant technology was probably still in its infancy.

  I wanted a child with all my heart, but I’m divorced… Jill squirmed, wanting to spring out of her seat and run up to Psychiatry. She sighed impatiently. Stay, she told herself. Mary Jo was sedated, unaware…

  “Although,” Arnett continued, “it has already greatly affected the course of human history. Consider this next slide.”

  There was a click and the narrow beam flickered amber.

  “An ear of corn,” he announced. “Or rather, the genetic master molecule of a super new mutant.”

  Jill lifted a brooding glance to the screen. Corn?

  “…using recombinant DNA techniques,” Arnett was saying. “The procedure is called gene splicing; that is, scientists have learned to biochemically snip off lengths of genetic material – desirable genetic material – from any plant or animal, then splice it together with the DNA of an entirely different organism. What results is a manmade combination of genes never before encountered in nature.” He paused dramatically. “Scientists next insert these recombined genes into a selected organism, and lo! A new life form on earth. A better life form. This corn, for example.”

  On the screen, yellow-to-brown atoms crowding the molecule looked as complex as those of any higher organism.

  Arnett waved a report written by a Dr. Hubert Crain, a leading agricultural geneticist. “He says we’ve got to produce as much food in the next thirty years as we have in the past ten thousand! He describes how the world population will probably double before those thirty years are out; how the fertilizer-demanding strains of wheat, rice and corn, planted around the world in the 1970s, are now dying out, while soaring prices have pushed the cost of petrochemical fertilizers out of the reach of poor countries. New plant diseases have also proliferated; the world’s water supply is in shorter supply - and the United States alone loses four million acres of farmland a year to erosion and increasing urban spread!”

  “I could go on,” Arnett sighed, putting down the report, “but it’s too depressing.”

  Tricia leaned over to Jill. “I’m hungry,” she whispered.

  Jill didn’t answer. She was still in an angry daze.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Arnett’s voice jolted. He had taken the mike and walked to the screen.

  “This corn has had its genetic makeup manipulated until it’s become nothing short of miraculous.” He tapped the screen with his wooden pointer. “It has received nitrogen-fixing DNA from soybeans here - see this molecule? - and now can manufacture its own fertilizer. From plants resistant to disease, it has received atoms to drive off pests – this molecule down here. Pretty color, isn’t it? In another two years of research, I’m told, it will be able to live in salty or alkaline soil. And,” he inhaled, “live for weeks at a time without water.”

  People shifted in their seats, impressed but waiting.

  Arnett did not disappoint. “Now how does all this concern us?” he asked. His voice went up like a man shouting “fire.”

  “Human genetic therapy, in theory no different! Just think of the possibilities. A plant has frailties imposed on it by indifferent Nature and so we snip them out, just like that. Imagine what it would be if, some day, we could eliminate birth defects and genetic disease…which every year affect ninety thousand live births. Got that? Ninety thousand children a year! Imagine…hemophilia, gone. Cystic fibrosis, muscular dystrophy, Tay Sachs, sickle cell disease…gone! Imagine hundreds of genetic disorders which will someday be as gone as smallpox and diphtheria.” He cleared his throat with effort. He was growing hoarse.

  “More research is needed, of course. Lots more research.” He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “Okay, next slide please?”

  Looking at the screen, Jill caught her breath. This slide was gorgeous. She had the eerie feeling that she was inside an old cathedral. And floating above her, glowing light surrounded by darkness, was the most exquisite stained glass window. Ten points, like a rounded star. Medieval reds and blues and greens. Golden filaments instead of lead panes, graceful and fragile, geometrically perfect.

  Arnett stood by the screen and raised his pointer, lightly touching a red, glinting area on one of the star�
�s tips.

  “Anyone know what this is?” he asked.

  Nobody knew.

  “It’s the atoms of a ribose molecule,” he said. “And this” - the pointer moved to a pin of light, strongly green – “is an atom belonging to a nucleic acid molecule. And this” – the pointer scraped across the star and stopped at another area of light, very pretty, rose-colored – “is a sequence of CAT. You can see the Cytosine-guanine pair, followed by Adenine-thymine, followed by Thymine-adenine. This particular sequence of pairs constitute a gene which” - he turned to his audience – “will dictate for this patient an existence of painful transfusions and shortened life expectancy.”

  He inhaled, and leaned on his pointer. “Hemophilia,” he said crisply.

  Fingers stopped tapping, frozen.

  “By the way,” said Arnett, as if just remembering. “This particular patient has an important date in store for him in six weeks. Can anyone guess what it is?”

  An uncomfortable hush.

  Arnett’s tone was flat, expressionless. “He will be born.” A pause. “May we have the lights back on please?”

  The recessed overheads came on, and he gestured sweepingly. “Time to wind up,” he said. “But first, a quick rundown of prenatal testing and diagnosis. Let’s start with chromosome mapping.” He pointed to a resident named Billings. “Say you suspect a problem. Where do you begin?”

  “Amniocentesis,” said Billings. “Always, for anything.”

  “Good,” said Arnett. “Now, gross chromosome mapping. What about that, Ortega?”

  “Still used for diagnosing Down’s and Klinefelter’s syndromes,” Charlie said. “Otherwise, limited.”

  “Right,” said Arnett. “Because we’ve now learned to go inside the chromosomes and seek out errors in genes, which are the true genetic disorders, so…” He pointed to someone else. “What comes next?”

  “You isolate fetal cellular material in the amniotic fluid.”

  “Right. And?” Arnett pointed to Tricia Donovan. “What next?”

  She was ready. “From the fetal cellular material you grow out more cells in tissue culture – ”

  “You realize this is cellular cloning,” Arnett said.

  “Yes. Then when you get enough cells you examine them for genetic deformity…” She hesitated. “You have to use an electron microscope for that,” she added helpfully.

  Arnett, raising a comic eyebrow, said, “Well I should hope so.” There were a few chuckles.

  “So! Suppose you do find a genetic deformity. What next Jill Raney?”

  She’d been following peripherally, but thoughts of Mary Jo still collided. She glanced up and bit her lip, re-running his question in her mind.

  “Well, so much of genetic therapy is still in the research stage. So little is known – ”

  “But theoretically. And please, try to sound a little more positive.”

  She inhaled. “Well, you locate the gene deformity and you, well, cut it out with a…restriction enzyme, I believe they’re called.” Her lips were dry, but he was nodding approval. “Then you incubate the defective material with a …’soup’ of correct genetic material, along with a ligase enzyme, it works like glue, to seal the transplanted gene back into its DNA chain. Then you get all this…stuff…back into the fetus…I don’t know how…”

  “It’s done surgically. You find a blood vessel in the fetus and inject your corrected material, and then what?”

  Her brow furrowed. “You…hope that the corrected genes will multiply and crowd out the defective ones.”

  She was aware of eyes on her, including Arnett’s, who smiled and studied her for a moment.

  “Bravo,” he said quietly. “You’ve been doing extra study, I see.”

  He turned to his audience. “I guess we’ve covered about everything. Any questions? Don’t ask. Go home. Hit the books instead.” He looked over again. “Jill, I’d like a word with you, please.”

  The rest gathered up their things and filed out. Tricia said something as she left, but Jill shrugged unhearing, wondering what Arnett wanted.

  She got up and approached him, fiddling with his mike wire. Glancing up he said, “You’re pretty advanced, Jill. You’re obviously interested in research, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been fascinated with this since college.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know I’m impressed. Continue with your enthusiasm and…” He hesitated. “Please play your cards right.”

  She looked at him questioningly. “Sir?”

  “Oh, you know.” He smiled gently. “Hospital politics. If you want research, being brilliant isn’t enough. Don’t step on the wrong toes, Jill. I got one hell of an angry call from Stryker this morning. Then I got another call from raving Tom Ganon.” He lowered his voice. “I got Stryker to cool down – this time – and between us, I told Ganon to start spending less time with his rabbits and more time like a fourth year resident. That squelched him. But you, my dear, for God’s sake act like an intern and stay out of trouble.”

  Jill flushed, at a loss for words.

  He gathered up papers. “I’m also telling you this for selfish reasons. I’m always on the lookout for promising research assistants, and if you’re this good this early…well! Don’t throw away your chances by being overemotional and underinformed. Will you promise me that?”

  “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Arnett.”

  “Stop by any time at my lab.” He smiled. “If you want to talk, observe, or whatever. I’ve got some pretty fascinating research in the works.”

  “I’d be happy to,” she said. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  “Hurry along, and watch out for the divas. We give each other grief too, so don’t take it personally.”

  Jill thanked him again, and went out.

  14

  Tricia was waiting in the hall. Jill walked purposely, Tricia following, excited and yakking about the lecture. They rounded a corner and headed down a corridor of closed doors.

  Tricia looked around, puzzled. “What are we doing in the Psych wing?”

  Jill pointed ahead. “See that elevator?”

  “Yeah, I see it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Jill shook her head and continued walking. “This is just the Outpatient, silly. See the lights? They’re on. Everyone’s inside, having their forty-five minutes.”

  Tricia peered at the line of red lights outside each door, which meant that psychotherapy was in session and not to be disturbed.

  “Okay, so it’s the Outpatient. What gives?”

  They reached the elevator’s twin metal doors – wide enough for gurneys. Jill did not press the button. Instead she now told about Mary Jo Sayers: her clear sanity, the unsigned transfer order, the brutal scene with the orderlies, the run in with Ganon.

  Tricia was appalled. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Mouth open, she looked above the elevator. “So they’ve got her up there?”

  “Not for long.”

  Jill punched the button.

  Tricia stared. “You don’t mean you’re going up there? You can’t…!”

  “Don’t worry. No confrontations with superiors. I’m just going to give their paperwork a shove.”

  Tricia’s face screwed up. “Wait! There’s got to be an explanation. Besides…” She rubbed her temple. “There’s a reason you can’t get there from here. You have to have a key or something.”

  They heard a humming sound. A bell dinged. The doors slid open and Jill got on.

  She looked out resolutely. “I have to do this.”

  “Stop!” pleaded Tricia. “You can’t because – ”

  Almost soundlessly, the doors began to close.

  “I just remembered!” cried Tricia. “You can’t get in without a pass! It’s a magnetic – ”

  The doors closed.

  There was a whining, mechanical sound as the car inside began to rise in its shaft. Tricia stared helplessly at the shiny metal, took her glasses off,
put them on, took them off – a nervous habit since her teenage years.

  “Oh Jill,” she said out loud. “What now?”

  The elevator was padded.

  Jill stared at the green quilted padding and then at the control panel. The elevator was programmed to stop at only three places: first floor Emergency, third floor Outpatient, and tenth floor Inpatient, where she was headed. All other buttons were inked out.

  The elevator rose. It occurred to her that she couldn’t get off now even if she wanted to.

  The car jerked to a stop and the doors opened.

  She found herself in a darkly gleaming vestibule. There was a wide, stainless steel door across from her with no knobs; no visible means of opening it. She looked around, then heard a tinny female voice: “For admittance, please place staff card in slot. Thank you.”

  Staff card? So that’s what Tricia was shouting before the doors closed. Jill fingered the nametag on her scrubs. A nametag wasn’t a card, dammit.

  “Anybody here?” she called out, feeling foolish.

  “For admittance, please place staff card…”

  Damned recording. So psych personnel had special cards which inserted…someplace, and some mechanism opened the door. Great. What now?

  Anger took over. Jill stepped forward, raising her fist to pound on the metal door.

  The sound of a ding made her jump.

  Turning, she saw the elevator doors open. A different pair of orderlies came out, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “Looking for something?” one said. It was not a friendly voice.

  Jill’s mind raced. She made a gesture of feminine despair and said, “Oh, I was sent here by Obstetrics for a follow up on a patient, but they never told me you need a pass. I guess they forgot.”

  “For admittance, please place staff card – ”

  The orderly looked up irritably. “Aw shaddup!” he growled, jabbing a concealed switch. The recording stopped. The second orderly produced what looked like a credit card and pushed it into a slot by the door.