Stepping Stones

by Steve Gannon

  Damn TriBionics, he thought angrily. And damn the media for spreading their premature announcements to every corner of the world. Of course, TriBionic stock had soared following the press release. Great for shareholders, but his would be the name that was remembered when the truth finally came out.

  “Dr. Greenbaum?”

  Dr. Greenbaum turned, finding himself facing the most dazzlingly beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Uh, yes?”

  “I’m Rhonda Davidson,” the woman said, extending her hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Doctor.”

  Her grasp was warm and firm. As he shook her hand, Dr. Greenbaum forced himself to stop gawking. He had seen the newswoman many times on television, but in person she was even more striking than she was on TV—tall, poised, beautiful—and possessing a directness of manner in her on-air interviews that he had always found attractive.

  “The network appreciates your granting us this exclusive interview,” Ms. Davidson continued, checking her watch. “We still have some time before the broadcast. I thought perhaps we could get to know each other a bit before then. Perhaps talk about the interview.” Pulling a packet of index cards from her pocket, she moved to the couch. Patting a cushion, she indicated for him to join her.

  Attempting to hide his nervousness, Dr. Greenbaum sat. “Ms. Davidson, I agreed to—”

  “Please. Call me Rhonda.”

  “All right. Rhonda. I agreed to appear on your newscast with the caveat that I be allowed to make a personal statement. You understand this?”

  “I understand your request,” said Rhonda, glancing at her cards. “Of course, I have to ask what you plan to say. We can’t just—”

  “No statement, no interview.”

  Rhonda quickly backtracked. “No, that’s all right, Doctor. You . . . you can make your statement. But is there some reason you can’t tell me what it involves? It is regarding your regeneration therapy, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why—”

  Dr. Greenbaum raised his hand. “No offense, but I’m not in a very trusting mood at the moment. Without my permission—without even consulting me, for that matter—you and others in the media have made public the results of my research. Through no fault of mine certain elements were ignored, elements I want understood by everyone equally and at the same time. This will be a worldwide broadcast, correct?”

  Rhonda nodded. “We’re transmitting live. Practically every man, woman, and child on the planet with access to the internet will be watching.”

  “Good.”

  Rhonda regarded Dr. Greenbaum quizzically. Then, realizing he intended to say nothing more on the subject, she pocketed her cards, rose from the couch, and again glanced at her watch. “Air time is in five minutes, Doctor. Shall we?”

  “. . . extremely fortunate to have with us the researcher who is responsible for the recent breakthrough in regenerative biotechnology, Dr. Isaac Greenbaum. Thank you for joining us today, Doctor. Perhaps you could begin by telling us how you came to unlock the secret of aging?”

  Dr. Greenbaum squinted into the studio lights. A battery of cameras stared back, thickets of cables traversing the floor in all directions. Nervously, Dr. Greenbaum returned his gaze to Rhonda, who was seated across from him at a low table. “Of course,” he said, deciding to put off his announcement for the moment.

  “You began in cancer research?”

  “That’s right. In many ways, my regeneration discoveries were serendipitous.”

  “They were accidental? How so?”

  “Well, curiously enough, the two subjects are closely related,” Dr. Greenbaum explained, feeling his nervousness beginning to dissipate as he moved into familiar territory. “First let me give you a little background. Many primitive cells possess the ability to replicate indefinitely and are, in a sense, immortal. In more complex organisms like man, cells specialize to perform specific functions for the benefit of the whole. Unfortunately, the more specialized a cell is, the less readily it is able to reproduce. A human neuron, for instance, almost completely lacks that ability.”

  “And being able to replicate indefinitely means immortality?”

  “Yes, if you’re referring to a single-celled organism. In a multicellular animal like man, it’s not that simple. Some tissues in our bodies already replace themselves constantly—skin cells, for example—yet still they age in time.

  “And how does your cancer research bear on this?”

  “A cancer, or neoplastic growth, starts from a single cell in which the molecular machinery governing replication goes awry, permitting it to grow unchecked.” Dr. Greenbaum paused, recalling that Rhonda had cautioned him to keep his scientific explanations short. “What caught my attention was that a neoplasm often arises from highly specialized tissues that previously lacked the ability to reproduce,” he continued, doing his best to abbreviate his response. “In pursuing this area I discovered the Aging Triad—three separate genes that govern the aging process in every cell of our bodies. From there it was a straightforward matter to develop blocking enzymes that induce regeneration and prevent aging.”

  Dr. Greenbaum hesitated, sensing that he had lost Rhonda toward the end.

  “In other words, you’ve unlocked the secret of immortality,” Rhonda pushed ahead, filling the breach. “You must be extremely proud of your work and the benefit it promises mankind,” she added, moving smoothly to her next topic.

  Dr. Greenbaum’s brow furrowed. “At first, yes. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve given the world the gift of life. From a personal standpoint, let me say that the possibility of never aging, of living forever, has changed the way I look at things. It’s as if an invisible weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I can’t begin to describe it.”

  Dr. Greenbaum leaned closer. “Let me ask you something, Rhonda. Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  “Do you plan to?”

  Puzzled, Rhonda shrugged. “Someday, maybe. Why?”

  “Consider this. What will life on Earth be like a hundred years from now? Two hundred? Three hundred? Will life be worth living when your children, and their children, and their children’s children choke the face of our planet—and no one has died to make room?”

  Rhonda frowned, sensing the interview veering in a direction she hadn’t anticipated. “We’ll find a solution,” she answered confidently. “Mandatory birth control, perhaps. Space travel to new worlds. Whatever.”

  “Possibly. But there’s a more serious problem. Man’s very existence arose from a process of natural selection. Life evolves through random variations, with members of each new generation possibly better suited to a changing environment. I fear that the application of my findings will result in a complete genetic stagnation of our race.”

  “You can’t be suggesting that we ignore your breakthrough,” Rhonda objected.

  “No. For better or worse, TriBionics will, for a price, make the results of my work available to all mankind.”

  Rhonda brightened. “That’s a relief. Just exactly how—”

  “I want to add something here,” Dr. Greenbaum interrupted, deciding the time had come for honesty. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Turning to speak directly to the camera, he addressed the peoples of the world. “My reason for being here today is to apologize for the premature release of my research,” he said. “An important aspect has not yet been made public. It is my duty to do so now.”

  He hesitated, then forged ahead, speaking slowly and deliberately. “In every mammalian organism studied to date, including man, the Aging Triad has proved to be irreversibly activated during early embryonic development.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Rhonda. “In layman’s terms?”

  Everyone in the studio waited for Dr. Greenbaum to continue. And with them the world waited as well, hoping against hope. But deep down, everyone already suspected the truth. It was something our race had learned long ago, a truth
that time and experience had burned into our collective consciousness: No matter how good something sounds at first . . . there’s always a catch.

  “The immortality treatments must begin in utero, at least seven months prior to birth,” said Dr. Greenbaum. “We can offer our future children the gift of immortality. They and those coming after them will have the chance to live forever, God help them. But not us. Not us.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’m sorry.” Dr. Greenbaum lowered his head. “Our generation—everyone now living and those about to be born—will be the last to grow old,” he said softly. “Others may live forever, but we will not. We will be the last to die.”

  The Crux

  I have made some monumental blunders in my life, and it looked like I had just made another. Though I didn’t understand why, one thing was quickly becoming clear: I shouldn’t have laughed at Bellagorski.

  “You think I’m funny, Spencer?” he growled, his eyes glittering with rage.

  The sun had just broken over the ridge to the east, draping long, ominous shadows across our campsite. Bellagorski was sitting beside the dying embers in the fire ring. From the look of his bloodshot eyes—not to mention an empty fifth of tequila and a pile of beer cans littering the sand beside his bedroll—he appeared to have been up all night. When I didn’t reply, I noticed that his huge, rawboned fists were clenched knuckle-white at his sides. Not for the first time that morning, the realization struck me that Bellagorski looked exactly like what he was—a mean, dangerous, egocentric son of a bitch.

  Jack Wolfe, my climbing partner, and I had met Bellagorski in Yosemite three months back. He’d been climbing solo . . . unroped. I hadn’t liked him right from the start, but for some reason Jack had let him tie with us over the next couple of days. As I got to know Bellagorski better, I liked him even less, but one thing I won’t deny. He could climb.

  Jack and I had a week’s trip to Joshua Tree National Monument planned for later that fall. To my irritation, Jack had invited Bellagorski to join us; then at the last minute Jack canceled. I decided to go anyway, figuring some climbing was better than none, even if it was with a jerk like Bellagorski.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I had left work early the day before, making good time on the drive out from L.A. I passed the Palm Springs turnoff in just under two hours, then headed east on Route 62 and climbed into the high desert of Morongo Valley toward Joshua Tree. My dog, J.R., was sitting shotgun, as usual. When Susan (my wife of five years) and I had separated last January, we had each taken what we loved. She’d grabbed the condo. I had taken J.R.

  Late that afternoon I pulled into the Hidden Valley Campground. By then the sun had begun its descent, but the desert was still plenty hot, and J.R. had been hanging her head out the window for the past few hours trying to cool down. Glad to stretch my legs, I cut the engine, stepped to the back of my Jeep, and opened the hatch to give her some water. As I filled her bowl from a five-gallon army-surplus can, I spotted Bellagorski’s beat-up van parked beside the camp bulletin board. I glanced around. Most of the campsites were deserted. Bellagorski was nowhere in sight.

  Curious, I checked across the road, noting a small group of people clustered around the base of Intersection Rock. They were watching a lone figure about 150 feet up, climbing unroped.

  Bellagorski.

  I walked over, never taking my eyes from the rock face. Bellagorski was nearing the top, having nearly completed a difficult route called North Overhang. As he progressed, his body flowed effortlessly from hold to hold, each of his moves deliberate, fluid, controlled. I craned my neck with the others, squinting into the sun. Everyone there stared spellbound as Bellagorski approached the crux, the most difficult part of the climb. I had done the route several times, and I knew the crux involved a demanding series of moves to surmount a large overhang. Unroped, one tiny slip meant death.

  Bellagorski hesitated, then started up again. He hung briefly by one hand, then pushed off the face and swung out over the drop, making a dynamic slap for the last critical hold. An instant later he had his feet back on the rock . . . and he scrambled to top.

  He made it look easy.

  That night Bellagorski and I camped at the foot of a huge unnamed wall that Jack and I had discovered the previous spring. I had suggested to Bellagorski that we give it a try the following morning, and he’d agreed. We were in a closed area about fifteen miles down an abandoned mining road, far from the park campgrounds. We weren’t supposed to be there, but the rangers rarely traveled that far out without a reason. For the most part, nobody else did, either.

  We ate in silence. Afterward we sat around the fire watching the stars come out. Despite the poor company, it felt good being away from the city. Before long Bellagorski started drinking. I wouldn’t say alcohol exactly loosened him up, but at least it got him talking. “Why’d you pull that stunt this afternoon?” I asked when the conversation turned to climbing.

  “Why do you think?” he replied, giving the coals a kick that sent a shower of sparks spinning into the night.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. And I didn’t. Over the years, most of the guys I had roped up with considered me a pretty fair climber. Jack and I have put up several new routes in Joshua Tree and Idyllwild, even one in Yosemite. Nonetheless, I considered the unroped ascent of a difficult technical climb just plain showboating, pure and simple. “Maybe you have a death wish,” I ventured.

  “Shows what you know. Lemme ask you something, hotshot. Why do you climb?”

  I shrugged. “All the obvious reasons.”

  “Like?”

  “Like the challenge, solving technical problems, the feeling I get at the top.”

  “Bull. That’s not why you climb. That’s just the window dressing.”

  “Okay, you tell me. Why do I climb?”

  “Simple. It’s the thrill. You climb for the same reason that even some schmuck businessman can’t resist edging up to the window on the sixty-seventh floor of his office building and looking down, even though he’s crappin’ his pants the whole time. It’s the thrill that’s got you hooked, Spencer. It’s the adrenaline rush of death staring you in the face. That’s why you climb.”

  “Maybe that’s true, at least in part,” I reluctantly agreed. “But using a rope minimizes the chances of actually dying. You’re insane to climb without one.”

  Bellagorski’s face darkened. “You gutless puke, don’t ever call me that. You’re like some old lady who’s afraid to hang her ass on the line. Guys like you make me sick.”

  We talked on into the night. Argued, mostly. Bellagorski snorted some coke and kept on drinking. And the more he drank, the more our conversation degenerated. Eventually I decided to turn in, resolving to return to the park in the morning—figuring I could still do a little bouldering, possibly even find another climbing partner. Anyone but Bellagorski.

  When I awoke, Bellagorski picked up where we had left off the night before, seeming determined to escalate our disagreement to a whole new level. He was drunk, and I didn’t take him seriously. I even made the mistake of laughing at him. But when I noticed the expression on his face and the manic glint in his eyes, I decided it was time to get the hell out.

  “You think I’m funny?” he demanded again.

  “There’s absolutely nothing funny about you, asshole,” I said. “C’mon, J.R. Let’s go.” As J.R. trotted over, I tossed the dregs of my coffee into the fire and turned my back. It was my second mistake of the morning.

  J.R. probably saved my life. I heard a low rumbling deep in her throat. I glanced back and saw Bellagorski rushing me from behind. I threw up an arm without thinking, taking most of the blow on my forearm. Numbing pain shot up to my shoulder.

  I backed away, warily watching Bellagorski. He had my short-handled latrine shovel gripped in both hands. Wielding it like an ax, he swung again. I stumbled, narrowly evading the blade as it flashed past my face. Continuing my retreat, I peered around the
campsite, searching for a weapon. There was nothing.

  Still growling, J.R. circled to the left. Bellagorski’s eyes were riveted on me, but I could tell part of his attention was on her, too. J.R. is a big dog—malamute and shepherd mix. She’s also harmless, but Bellagorski didn’t know that.

  “J.R., get him!” I yelled.

  Bellagorski took his eyes off me for an instant. That’s all it took. I moved in. He swung, but by then I had slipped inside the arc of his shovel. The handle glanced off my shoulder. I grabbed a fistful of shirt. Before he could swing the shovel again, I threw my left.

  I connected. Something in Bellagorski’s face crunched under my knuckles. With a mingling of rage and fear, I hit him again. His legs buckled. The shovel dropped from his hands. Blood streamed from his nose, but he wouldn’t go down. Bellowing in anger, he ripped free of my grasp and wiped his hand across his mouth, gaping in disbelief at his bloody palm. Then his eyes narrowed. He spat on the ground and charged, attempting to encircle me with his arms.

  I retreated, staying just out of range. I couldn’t let him take the fight to the ground, where his size and weight would quickly end it. He was drunk, but still a lot stronger than I was.

  The shovel forgotten, he continued to stalk me, a mist of blood spraying from his mouth with each breath. The next time he rushed me I jabbed once, stepped to the right, and dropped. With a hooking motion of my right foot, I swept his legs out from under him.

  He went down. Hard.

  Normally I wouldn’t hit a guy when he’s flat on his back. I made an exception for Bellagorski. As he lay gasping for breath, I put my knee on his chest and slammed my fist into his face till he stopped moving.

  Leaving him bleeding, I gathered my things as quickly as I could. I had just finished stowing my sleeping bag and cook kit in the back of my Jeep when he rose and stumbled to his van. I grabbed my rope, slings, and equipment rack, then made one last check of the camp. I didn’t plan on coming back.