by Ben Bova
Max had also reverted to a time-honored tactic: I saw smears of brown on two of the raiders. He had thrown shit at them.
“Get that fucker!” said the blond youth. “He can identify me!”
The four who had been trying to haul the minihog into the van straightened up and came at me. Isn’t there anybody else in the lab? I asked myself. There should have been one more security guard up in the front of the building, but god knows what had happened to him. I was alone against the gang of them.
Except for Max, who was hollering at them from the relative safety of his perch. And the minihog. Two hundred pounds of obdurate, angry muscle. Once the four kids turned their back to her, the hog put her head down and ran straight at their legs. She was like a pink bowling ball hitting eight pins. Down they all went in a tangle.
And I saw the dart gun they had used on the chimps, lying on the ground not more than ten feet from where I stood, by the door. I rushed for it while the hog bolted past me, squealing and running around the perimeter of the compound, as the terrorists scrambled to their feet.
I leveled the gun at them. “If these darts can tranquilize a chimp, think what they’ll do to you,” I said.
They stopped in their tracks. Until the caretaker, still in the van, yelled, “The gun’s empty. I used up all the fuckin’ darts.”
They rushed me. I slugged with the gun butt and slashed with the ruler but they swarmed me under and beat the crap out of me. The last thing I remember was thinking that I was probably going to need a hell of a lot of dental work after this. I heard a siren wailing in the distance. And then I blacked out.
The dental work was minimal, but the damage to the lab was major. All of Zack’s lab rats were gone by the time the state police arrived. We recovered a few, but his experimental apparatus was a shambles and the raiders had broken every jar or canister of chemicals they could find. They hadn’t touched any of the other labs, though, and the computer was okay, but our three female chimps were gone, and one of our two minihogs. For some reason they hadn’t touched the macaques; maybe they were smart enough to know that the monkeys bite. More likely they didn’t have the time, once I sounded the alarm. I was stiff with bruises, both eyes blackened, ribs sore, but at least they hadn’t broken any of my bones. And I still had all my teeth.
Max was a wreck. He just refused to come down out of his tree for days. His regular caretakers left food on the ground but Max wouldn’t come down for it. They stuck it on poles and handed it up to him, but even so he hardly ate anything. He screamed and yowled, as if scolding us for letting the terrorists frighten him so badly.
The personnel files we had on the turncoat caretaker turned out to be worthless. She had given us a phony ID and background story. The university she claimed she was attending had no record of anyone by that name and no photo in their files of her. I called in the personnel chief and told her in no uncertain terms that from now on anybody we hire should be investigated thoroughly. She burst into tears and I had to spend half an hour convincing her that I didn’t hold her to blame for what had happened.
The FBI sent over two crisp, clean-cut agents with a long file of known animal rights activists.
“Most of these people are honest, law-abiding citizens,” said Agent Costello. “But some of them go off the deep end.” He looked like the serious, hard-nosed, no-nonsense muscular type; the kind who goes through undergrad school on an athletic scholarship and then goes on to get himself a law degree.
“They’ve bombed laboratories,” said the other one, Agent Harris. He was slimmer, lighter in build and coloring, although he wore the same kind of dark business suit as his partner. “They’ve caused a lot of damage and even killed a security guard in Kansas.”
“By accident,” said Agent Costello.
“Still,” said the Harris, “there’s a homicide charge out for them.”
The dart gun that the caretaker had used was gone; they must have taken it with them, although the agents said the darts themselves might be a useful lead. The blond fellow I had slashed was not among the photos they showed me.
“Probably a new recruit,” said Costello, looking grim.
“Might even be a foreigner they brought in for this job,” Harris mused.
“You make it sound like an international conspiracy,” I said.
They nodded in unison.
“They weren’t terrorists,” I said. “Not like al-Qaeda or one of those groups.”
“No sir, they’re not,” Costello reassured me. “They’re just homegrown nuts.”
“Fanatics,” added Harris.
“But they can be dangerous, just the same.”
Tell me about it, I thought, trying to breathe despite my aching ribs.
We downplayed the story to the news media as much as possible. Neither I nor Johnston and the corporate office wanted that kind of publicity. The local newspaper picked up the police report, of course, but I let Darrell handle the reporter they sent over. I kept my two black eyes out of sight and Darrell maneuvered the reporter past Zack’s smashed-up lab and out to the animal compound, where there was nothing to be seen except some tire tracks in the grass and empty pens.
Max had settled down a little, but he still ran up the nearest tree whenever he saw a stranger. The reporter thought Max was cute; actually Max was terrified.
The damage the terrorists did was much more extensive than I had thought at first. We cleaned up Zack’s lab soon enough, of course, and we hadn’t lost any vital data from the computer center. But the rats were mostly gone and the minihog that they had stolen had already received a series of injections of regentide, and now we would have no way of knowing what was happening to the animal. And the chimps were gone; all of them except for Max. It was next to impossible to get more chimps; there was a strain of AIDS decimating the chimp population in Africa, and the UN had put a moratorium on buying chimpanzees for research experiments. Here in the States, NIH controlled chimp sales, and you had to wait months before they would approve your request.
That left us with only Max. And I had sort of promised Cassie that I wouldn’t use Max in any more experiments.
It was going to be damned difficult to keep that promise, I knew.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Jesse was responsible for this atrocity. Not deliberately, I was sure. But he had told that preacher about the regeneration work, I knew, and the preacher had stirred up the yahoos against us.
Days went by, then weeks. Jesse never called to ask how I was, never indicated at all that he knew about the attack or cared about it. I began to realize how much Jesse had turned against me.
JESSE
I didn’t hear about the raid on Arby’s lab until two FBI agents showed up at the hospital to question me.
“They beat up my brother?”
The two of them nodded at me. They had told me their names when they had flashed their IDs at me, but I had already forgotten what they were. The two of them looked as identical as robots to me, in their dark suits and unsmiling faces. I took them into my cubbyhole of an office and told them I’d be happy to answer their questions. Had to drag in a chair from the office next door so they could both sit down.
It became obvious right away that they were trying to link the people who raided Arby’s lab with Reverend Simmonds. I resented that. They had no right to make that assumption.
“Who put you on that track?” I asked them. “My brother?”
They glanced at one another before answering me. They weren’t wearing mirrored sunglasses, or any glasses at all, but they acted as if they were. Stiff, grim, they were treating me more like a suspect than an innocent bystander. Right there in my own office.
“It seems clear that the terrorists did not raid your brother’s laboratory until Simmonds attacked him verbally during the Central Park rally,” said the bigger of the two agents. His lips hardly moved when he talked.
“That doesn’t mean there’s a connection between the two,” I s
aid.
“We’re not saying there is,” said the smaller of the robots. “We’re simply investigating that possibility.”
“Did you speak about your brother’s work to anyone else?”
I had to think about that. “Not that I can remember,” I said. “It’s not exactly my number one topic of conversation.”
“But you did mention it to Simmonds.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“On more than one occasion?” asked number two.
“I think so, yes.”
“Who else was in the room with you when you discussed the subject?”
I thought back. “My wife. But she wouldn’t do anything like that. She—she likes my brother a lot. And she thinks animal rights activists are nutty.”
“Who else?”
“Faber. He’s Simmonds’s business manager.”
“Elwood Faber,” number one said, as if he had a complete file on the man.
“That’s right.”
Number two edged forward in his chair a little. “After the rally in Central Park you attended a party that Simmonds gave for his major supporters, didn’t you?”
“What is this, am I a suspect?”
“No, not at all, sir,” he said quickly. Too quickly for me to believe him. “But you were at the party in the Marriott that night, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Were any animal rights activists there?”
“How should I know?”
“Did anyone speak to you about your brother’s work?”
Before I could answer, number one added, “Anyone who gave you the impression that he was strongly against using animals in laboratory experiments?”
I half remembered some dotty old couple. “Maybe. I think so.”
“Could you tell us who spoke to you about that?”
“Identify the person?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Number one took an iPhone from his jacket pocket, opened it up, and ran a series of low-resolution photographs of people past me. Most of the pictures were in color, but poor, grainy, like they had been taken with hidden cameras.
“Any of these faces look familiar?” he asked.
None of them did. And even if I had recognized one of them I don’t think I would’ve admitted it to them. Sure, that senile old couple at the party grumbled about animal experiments. But they weren’t terrorists and I wasn’t about to help the FBI stick their noses into the old folks’ lives. I’m as much against those animal-rights kooks as anybody, but I was even more against making harmless old people miserable.
The agents left, but I had the feeling they thought I was holding out on them. Maybe I was. What the hell? It was over and done with. So some overzealous kids made a mess of Arby’s lab and beat him up. He’ll live through it, I told myself.
JULIA
I was determined to end the separation between Jesse and Arthur, but I didn’t know how to do it. It hurt Jesse deeply, even though he tried not to show it. He simply stopped talking about Arthur; no mention of him at all. If I brought up his name in conversation, though, I could see the pain in his eyes. So I stopped mentioning Arthur, as well, even though I knew it was wrong of me to do so.
It was because of me, of course. Not that I saw myself as some femme fatale at the hypotenuse of a lovers’ triangle. But Arthur still cared about me, and it was my miscarriage that had driven this terrible wedge between the two brothers.
It was a shock when I learned that Arthur’s laboratory had been attacked and he injured. Jesse didn’t tell me about it; I read it in a magazine article about animal rights, a little sidebar about the excesses of the movement’s radical fringe, several months after the attack had actually taken place.
I spent the entire day wondering what to do. When Jesse came home that night I asked him about it.
“That was months ago,” he said.
“You knew about it?”
He looked pained, remorseful. “A couple of FBI agents asked me about a possible link between Simmonds’s people and the terrorists.”
I felt his pain. “Oh, dear,” was all I managed to say. It was clear that Jesse believed there was a link between Reverend Simmonds’s followers and the more rabid activists. And he felt guilty about it.
“Did you call Arthur? Speak to him?”
“No.” Jesse looked away from me.
As gently as I could, I asked, “Don’t you think you should?”
The sorrow in his eyes was enough to make me want to wrap my arms around him. “He’s finished with me, hon. He hates me. Even more now, I bet. He’ll blame me for everything, like he always does.”
“I can’t believe that Arthur hates you,” I said.
“He does.” And Jesse actually burst into tears and buried his head against my breast. I held him for a long time while he sobbed quietly. I stroked his hair and told him that I loved him and he mustn’t be sad or upset.
Yet I knew that whatever pain Jesse was feeling, Arthur felt, too. He would never shed a tear, of course. Arthur kept his suffering entirely to himself. But the pain would be inside him, bottled up, hurting him just as much as it hurt Jesse.
So the following morning, as soon as I arrived in my office, I phoned Arthur. His secretary sounded surprised when I told her who it was.
“Just a moment,” she said guardedly. “I’ll see if he’s in his office.”
She put me on hold, and a bit of Vivaldi played in my ear.
“Julia?” Arthur’s voice sounded brimming with wonder.
Without preamble, I said, “I just read something about your laboratory being attacked.”
“Oh, that was months ago. We’ve recovered.”
“And you were injured?”
He actually laughed. “I looked like a prizefighter. A losing prizefighter.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine now. And you?”
“I’m fine, too.”
Suddenly we had nothing else to say. Nothing that wouldn’t open up old wounds. The silence was embarrassing.
“And Jess?” Arthur asked at last.
“Busy as ever,” I said. Then, before I could think twice about it, I added, “He rather blames himself for what happened to you.”
“Does he.” Arthur’s voice became grim.
“It’s nonsense, of course,” I went on. “Jesse would never knowingly harm you, Arthur. You know that, don’t you?”
It took him a long time to answer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s true.”
“I really feel awful about the two of you.”
“So do I.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
Another long hesitation. Then, “Julia, I’ve tried. More than once. All I’ve gotten for my efforts is a lot of pain and misery. I think it’s best if we stay apart, at least for a while longer.”
“I don’t agree,” I said, although I wasn’t being entirely truthful. Sometimes it actually is best to avoid the thing that hurts you. Or the person.
“Julia, dear,” he said, “it was wonderful of you to call. I should have realized that you and Jess are just as agonized about all this as I am. Thanks for making me understand that.”
“And that’s all?” I asked.
“That’s all for now,” he said. “That’s all I can manage to do right now. Give me time, Julia. I need more time.”
“Very well, Arthur. I think I understand.”
“Thanks for calling.”
I didn’t know what else to say.
Then Arthur said, very softly, “I love you, Julia.”
And he hung up.
I felt miserable for weeks afterward.
And for weeks afterward, for months, actually, the Reverend Roy Averill Simmonds kept up his attacks on “the godless humanist scientists” who were “tampering with God’s plan for mankind.” He never mentioned Arthur by name, not publicly, but the news media began to pick up the trail and send reporte
rs to almost any laboratory in the country that was working on stem cells or anything hinting of extending the human life span. They covered Grenford Laboratory extensively, and Arthur’s work on organ regeneration became the center of intense media scrutiny.
Naturally, they got most of the scientific details wrong, or ignored them altogether. But the basic idea of growing a new organ within one’s body, or regenerating a lost limb—that fundamental possibility became the focus of solemn round-table discussions on television and long, self-important, usually incorrect editorials in newspapers and magazines.
During all that time I was taking the best physical care of myself that I had ever taken. Ever since the miscarriage, I had decided that I would work myself up to tip-top physical condition before becoming pregnant again. I worked out at a “wellness center” near my midtown office. I had monthly checkups, not by my gynecologist (whom Jesse knew) but by an Indonesian internist who specialized in infectious diseases. I stayed on the pill.
My plan was to get pregnant once again only when I was absolutely certain that any possible infection that might have caused my miscarriage was completely gone from my system. I decided that I would wait a year; if twelve blood tests in a row showed that there were no exotic microbes lingering in my blood, then I could safely bear Jesse’s baby.
My biological clock was ticking loudly; I knew that time was running fast, but I was determined not to go through another miscarriage. I wanted a baby, a healthy dear baby that Jesse and I could love and bring up together.
In the meantime I worked out, ate sensibly, drank little, and lost nearly ten pounds. Jesse never noticed, except now and then to comment on how terrific I looked. I smiled to myself and we made love whenever he wasn’t too exhausted from the grueling hours he put in at the hospital and medical center.
I bided my time. And Jesse never knew what I was doing.
ARTHUR
