by Ben Bova
Several of the jurors were nodding. Arthur’s insides were clenching. He suddenly wished that he had had the good sense to go to the toilet during the break.
“Those are the scientific facts,” Rosen was saying. “Dr. Jesse Marshak, who helped to originate the very ideas that are on trial here, is himself against rushing into human tests. I won’t say anything more about the ethics or morality issues that he brought up; those are for your individual consciences to decide.”
Rosen hesitated for the span of a heartbeat, then said, “You are all scientists, but you have a responsibility that goes beyond your professional interests. You have the responsibility of judging the scientific merits of this work in the context of its social, economic, and ethical implications.”
All eyes in the hearing chamber were riveted on him. Rosen fingered his mustache, as if searching for the exactly correct word. Then, “That concludes my remarks, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your attention.”
The audience stirred as Rosen walked back to his seat at the front desks. Someone coughed. The TV cameras swung toward Arthur as Graves nodded at him.
Getting to his feet, Arthur thought, This is how Marc Antony must have felt when he went out to give his funeral oration for Caesar. Brutus has swung the crowd his way; now I’ve got to swing them back to me.
How to start? I can’t say, Friends, Romans and countrymen . . .
Arthur glanced at Pat sitting at the reporters’ table, as he stepped to the front of the chamber. She made a smile for him. He walked in silence as far as the empty witness table, touched the fingers of one hand against its green baize surface, as if to balance himself. He glanced at Graves and the other two judges, and realized with a start that Senator Kindelberger had not returned after the break. If he’s not the center of attention he doesn’t stay, Arthur thought.
Then he looked squarely at the jurors. Six men, six women. He took a deep breath, like a man about to plunge off a high platform.
“When I asked for this court of science to be convened,” he began, “I did it because I did not want this work on organ regeneration to be tried in the media. You know as well as I that there are powerful forces aligned against us, against science in general and this work in particular.”
Now the jurors were focused on Arthur. He took a few steps toward the judges’ desks and their eyes tracked him closely. Good, he told himself.
“President Franklin Roosevelt said that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I agree. But behind that unreasoning fear lies ignorance. You’ve seen the scare headlines; you’ve seen the witless, fear-mongering demagogues whipping up the crowds against us. How many of you have had your own research interrupted or stopped altogether because some crackpot screamed to the media that your work might release mutated microbes into the environment or cause radiation that might increase the cancer rate a thousandth of a percent?”
Arthur knew that at least four of the jurors had suffered through legal battles brought on by self-styled activists who objected to their research.
“What we are fighting against here is nothing less than ignorance—colossal, cynical, egotistical ignorance that feeds the fears of the crowd against anything new, anything unknown.”
He heard murmurs from the audience. Turning slightly toward them, Arthur went on, “Science has always had to fight against those fears and the ignorance behind them. In earlier ages scientists were burned at the stake or shut up in prisons because their ideas went against the prevailing opinions of the powers that be. Today they’re hounded by lawyers and forced into court.”
A couple of brittle laughs.
“By its very nature, science is always discovering new things. Science therefore is always causing changes: changes in our understanding of the world, changes in the way we think, changes—inevitably—in the way we live. Yet most of the other institutions of society resist change with every gram of energy they possess.
“Think of society’s institutions,” Arthur said. “Religion, law, social customs. All of them exist to preserve the status quo. They are all designed to make tomorrow exactly the same as yesterday. Societies seek stability and they have created these institutions to protect themselves against change.
“Yet here is science, always discovering new concepts, always forcing us to change our outlooks and even our behavior. No wonder so much of society fears and resists scientific advances. No wonder we are here in a court of science debating whether or not we want to help human beings to grow new organs and new limbs when they need them.”
Arthur had never felt so strong. The entire chamber was concentrating on him, on his words. He felt like a knight on a white steed, holding up a banner and leading his people toward a shining castle on a hilltop.
“You have been told,” he said to the jury, “that more than science is at stake here. You have been told that science does not take place in a vacuum, that you must consider the social and economic and ethical impact of the work under consideration.
“All right, consider this: a five-year-old girl is dying from a congenital heart defect. Do we hope that some other five-year-old dies so that we can take its heart and try a transplant procedure, or do we help this child to grow a new heart that is free of her defect?”
The jurors all nodded, almost in unison.
“Or suppose you’re in an auto accident and you lose both your legs. Will you be content with a wheelchair for the rest of your life? Or prostheses? Or would you like to regrow your legs so that you can walk naturally again?”
Sweeping the room with his arm, Arthur said, “Every person on earth could benefit from the work being considered here. If you must think of the social, economic, and ethical impact of organ regeneration, think of how we can change the world for the better! Yes, the changes will be significant. They will be deep, and wrenching. And they will make the world better! That’s the important point. Not the pain of making these changes, but the benefits they will bring.”
He had them now, he was certain of it.
“You’ve been told that you have a responsibility here that goes beyond your responsibility as scientists. I agree. You have the responsibility of being human. You have to make the choice between bowing to ignorance and fear or rising to the challenge of a new era of human capability. Science is the most human activity that human beings engage in; I know that as scientists and as human beings and as concerned citizens of our society you will make the right decision. Thank you.”
As he turned and headed back to his seat, Arthur half expected a stirring round of applause. But the chamber remained absolutely still.
Graves waited until Arthur was seated, then turned to the jury. “Now it’s up to you. You will retire to the room next door and deliberate your decision.”
But instead of rising and filing out of the chamber, the jurors leaned together in a rough sort of huddle. The foreperson—a middle-aged woman—conversed briefly in whispers with the jurors closest to her, then got to her feet.
“Your Honor,” she said, somewhat uncertainly, to Graves, “we arrived at our decision during the break earlier this afternoon. Nothing we’ve heard in the summations has changed our decision.”
Arthur was thunderstruck. Nothing they heard has changed their decision! They didn’t listen to a word I said!
The reporters all leaned forward avidly. They’d have their story in time for the evening news!
Even Graves looked surprised. And pleased that they wouldn’t have to carry the hearing into the weekend.
“What is your decision?” he asked.
The forewoman looked directly at Arthur. “We’ve decided to recommend that Dr. Marshak’s work should not go into human tests until the tumor problem is definitively understood and correctable.”
Arthur sagged back in his chair as if he’d been shot through the heart.
WASHINGTON:
EVENING
Arthur felt a hollow chill of foreboding inside him as he rode alone in the limousine to dinner wi
th W. Christian Johnston. The sudden invitation to have dinner with Omnitech’s CEO, coming immediately after the jury’s lethal decision, sounded more like a summons than a request.
The invitation had been waiting for him at his hotel when Arthur got there after a grueling, exhausting struggle to fight his way through the reporters crowding the courtroom at the end of the trial. Arthur still felt numb, dead inside, from the decision. The trial’s killed me, he told himself. I’ve committed suicide, just like Cassie.
The Cosmos Club was quiet this midsummer evening, its big, genteelly elegant dining room almost empty. The maître d’ brought Arthur straight to Johnston’s corner table, well away from the few other diners. The CEO was already there, draining a tumbler of whiskey while a waiter placed a fresh one at his elbow. Johnston put his drink down and got to his feet, put out his big hand for Arthur to shake. But the expression on his dark face was grim, ominous.
“You’re getting to be a famous man,” said the CEO. “You’re on the evening news again.”
“I know,” Arthur muttered as the waiter held his chair.
“They’re watching you in Japan, too,” Johnston added as they both sat down. To the waiter he said, “Bring my friend here a glass of white wine.”
“What brings you down to Washington?” Arthur heard himself ask. Stupid question, he thought.
“Oh, business,” Johnston said vaguely, not looking directly at Arthur. “Lawyers, lobbyists, all that crap.”
“Not the trial?”
“And the trial,” Johnston admitted.
Arthur decided to go straight to the heart of things. “How will the jury’s decision affect the merger talks?”
Johnston’s eyes widened for a flash of a moment. Then he recovered and said dismally, “Just about kills the deal.”
“That’s what we were afraid of.”
The waiter brought a tulip glass of chardonnay. Johnston waited for him to leave, then hunched closer to Arthur and muttered, “There’s still a chance of putting the merger together. But it’s gonna be tough—very damned tough.”
His stomach knotting, Arthur mumbled, “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“This goddamned trial was a mistake, Arthur. A big mistake.”
“You knew about it from the beginning. I kept you informed every step of the way.”
Johnston huffed. “You made it sound like a scientific exercise. You didn’t tell me you’d be on C-SPAN every damned day.”
“I didn’t know the trial was going to be subverted the way it’s been. My idea was—”
“Your idea,” Johnston snapped, “has turned into a goddamned booby trap. They sandbagged you, Arthur.”
“But the scientific evidence is on our side. I’m still convinced of that.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’s what you keep telling me. But it doesn’t make a rat’s ass worth of difference as far as the Japs are concerned. Or the Europeans, either.”
“Now that the trial is over—”
“The legal staff tells me you might be facing criminal charges, for chrissakes!”
“That’s . . .” Arthur fished for a word. “Unlikely,” he finished lamely.
“Likely enough to throw everything into the toilet, pal.”
He’s really angry, Arthur said to himself. He’s sore as hell. At me.
The waiter brought menus. Johnston laid his on the table and took another slug of his whiskey. Arthur had no appetite at all, but found himself picking up his menu as if it could shield him from the CEO’s anger.
“The stock price is gonna drop like a lead balloon,” Johnston muttered. “The goddamned Europeans are licking their fuckin’ chops.”
“We could do human trials overseas.”
Johnston scowled at him. “Not if you’re in jail, Art.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Yeah, maybe, but I’ve gotta face that possibility. You ought to be worrying about it, too.”
“They can’t possibly bring criminal charges against me. I’m not responsible for Cassie’s suicide.”
Johnston took another swallow of whiskey, then held the glass high and rattled the ice cubes in it. The waiter came over instantly, asking, “Another, sir?”
“Damned right,” said Johnston.
Arthur had hardly touched his wine. He looked into Johnston’s bloodshot eyes and said, “You know as well as I do that there’s no way anyone can bring criminal charges against me. Why are you worrying about a problem that doesn’t exist?”
“They can tie you up, Arthur. There’s going to be a criminal investigation into that girl’s suicide, did you know that? They’re reopening the case up in Connecticut.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Kindelberger’s people are already talking about a Senate investigation of the regeneration work. You’ll be hearing from the NIH soon, I bet, and probably the goddamned FDA, too. Who knows who the hell else is going to stick their muddy boots into this?”
And he’s blaming me for it, Arthur thought. He’s convinced all this is my fault.
“Maybe you’re right,” Arthur said aloud.
“Huh?”
“It’s all my fault. I wanted to bring this new capability to fruition; I wanted to show the world we could regenerate organs and limbs. And it’s turned into a world-class mess.”
The waiter arrived with Johnston’s refill. He brought the glass to his lips, but instead of drinking he put it down gently on the table.
The CEO leaned back in his chair. “Take a look around the room,” he said, more softly. “How many black men do you see? Outside the hired help, that is.”
Puzzled, Arthur scanned the mostly empty dining room. Johnston was the only black seated at a table.
“You know how I got here, Arthur? By being as tough as anybody in the woods. And tougher than most of ’em. I’m not a token nigger, Arthur. I worked my way here. I make the tough decisions.”
“I don’t see—”
“We’re selling the lab,” Johnston said. “The executive committee’s okayed the decision and the full board will rubber-stamp it at the next meeting.”
For a moment Arthur thought his heart stopped. This was what he had been dreading, what he had feared was the reason behind Johnston’s anger.
“I wanted you to hear it straight from me,” the CEO said, his voice flat and murderously calm. “We can’t afford to keep you, Arthur. You’ve become a liability to the corporation.”
“Who’s the buyer?” Arthur heard his own voice as if it came from a thousand miles away.
“A little outfit in Singapore. You never heard of ’em; they’re not in the biomedical field yet. But they want to move in that direction and they’re offering a good price for your lab.”
“We’ll stay in Connecticut?”
Johnston shrugged. “That’s up to them. For the time being, I suppose.”
“Most of my people won’t want to go to Singapore.”
Another shrug. “That’s not my problem. Maybe it isn’t even yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“They don’t want you, Arthur. They want your research staff and your facilities and all the data you’ve amassed so far on your ongoing programs. But they’ve got somebody else in mind to run the lab for them.”
It hit Arthur like a high-power bullet. Shock and pain and an endless moment of rattled bewilderment. He thought he hadn’t heard Johnston correctly. He thought it was all a joke, a mistake, a blunder.
“I’m sorry, Art,” said Johnston, avoiding Arthur’s eyes. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Arthur was about to ask who was going to replace him, but suddenly it didn’t matter to him. Suddenly nothing at all mattered. Without another word he got up from the table, knocking his menu fluttering to the floor, and strode out of the dining room. Johnston stared at his departing back.
GRENFORD LABORATORY
Arthur spent the most miserable weekend of his life at the lab, alone, even though the l
ab was far from empty. But he would talk to no one, not Darrell Walters or Zack O’Neill or anyone. He sat for hour after hour in his office with the door shut and the phone on its answering machine.
He couldn’t face any of them. Couldn’t bring himself to tell them that the lab had been sold and he was fired. Couldn’t admit to the men and women who had worked with him for so many years that he was out, finished, dead. They’ll have a new boss soon. I’ll be gone.
Everything I’ve ever really wanted has always been taken away from me, he told himself. Julia. My professorship at Columbia. My chance for a Nobel. And now this.
Phyllis was supposed to be off for the weekend, of course, but she showed up late Saturday afternoon and broke in briefly on Arthur’s solitude with motherly advice to “get something to eat and a good night’s sleep.” Arthur had no appetite and he spent the night roaming the building’s corridors and laboratories. If he slept at all it was in his big desk chair, fitfully.
Sunday morning, bleary-eyed, he drove home before anyone else showed up, before the sun rose, then shaved, showered, changed into a fresh shirt and slacks, and—after an hour or two of wandering through the empty house—got back in his Infiniti and returned to the lab.
At his office, the phone machine showed sixteen messages. He ignored them all and sank into his desk chair, uncertain of what to do next.
I’ve got to tell them, he said to himself. I’ve got to find the courage to tell my people what’s happened. They should hear it from me, not from Sid Lowenstein or some other corporate official.
Lowenstein. Arthur thought of the comptroller’s role in dumping the lab. He’s happy about it, I’ll bet. And Nancy. She must be ecstatic.
The phone rang. His private line. Only a handful of people knew that number. Maybe it’s Jesse, he thought.
Arthur let it ring. Twice. Three times. Four.
