by Ben Bova
Darrell Walters bobbed his head up and down. “That’s the key question now.”
Arthur put his fork back on its platter. “Let me give you an educated guess.”
“I could use some education.” She smiled.
“The first thing the government will do is appoint a committee. I think NIH will do that right away. The committee’s task will be to investigate our regeneration work and any similar work going on anywhere in the country and then make a recommendation about how to proceed with it.”
“I thought your trial already did that.”
“It did.” Arthur nodded. “But NIH will want to have its own committee and its own recommendation.”
“Who’ll be on the committee? Will you?”
“No. I’ll be called to testify, certainly, but they won’t want me on the committee. I’m too biased.”
“Then who?”
“That’s the really important question,” said Arthur. “If they pick people who are truly impartial, they’ll be picking people who don’t know much about the field and have to be educated. We stand a good chance of convincing them to go our way, in that case.”
“Otherwise?”
Arthur spread his hands. “They might pick people who already have strong opinions about this work. Potter, to cite an absurd example. Or Davila, over at Georgetown: she’d be on our side.”
Darrell said, “The makeup of that committee will be crucial.”
“It certainly will be,” Arthur said. “In the meantime, of course, Congress will start its own investigation of the work.”
“Senator Kindelberger,” Zack O’Neill said.
“You can bet that Kindelberger’s going to start one. Other senators and congresspersons are undoubtedly being pressured already by the likes of Ransom and Simmonds and other know-nothings—as well as paraplegics and any other interest group that sees regeneration as benefiting them.”
Andriotti made a low whistle. “AARP. And the motherlovin’ Gray Panthers. I hadn’t thought about them.”
“Think about them,” Arthur said, smiling.
The young woman frowned slightly. “And until all these committees and investigations come to some conclusions, the government won’t formulate a policy about the work, is that right?”
“Right,” said Arthur. “But sooner or later they’ll come up with a set of regulations and make them apply to everyone, whether we take federal funding or not.”
“You might as well take it, then.”
“When that time comes, I suppose we should. If there aren’t too many extra strings attached.”
“And in the meantime?”
Arthur said, “We move as far and as fast as we can. We want to stay ahead of any possible competition and present the government regulators with as much of a fait accompli as we can.”
One of the young men asked, “What do you do if the government decides to stop the work altogether? Makes it illegal to do this kind of research?”
Arthur felt a pang of alarm. But he tried to control it. “I doubt that they could do that even if they wanted to. The trial has at least generated enough publicity to make it virtually impossible to halt this work altogether. The worst they could do is refuse to fund it. But we’re already planning to fund this research ourselves—with your help.”
“Do you realize how many ways the government’s got to lean on you?” the young man insisted. “Maybe they can’t outlaw your work, but they could make it damned difficult for us or anybody else to support it, if they want to.”
Arthur shrugged. “When the going gets tough . . .”
The woman smiled.
Then Andriotti said, “Remember the motto of the Navy’s Seabees: ‘The impossible we do right away; the miraculous takes a little longer.’ ”
Everyone laughed.
On the drive back to the lab Darrell and the others bubbled with enthusiasm. Arthur thought that no one sinks ten million dollars into a high-risk investment so easily, but he didn’t want to break up their cheerful mood.
They were still grinning and congratulating themselves as they piled out of Arthur’s car and walked back into the lab building. Arthur was thinking about the call he had to make to Johnston. Got to get him to stop the Singapore deal before it’s finalized, he told himself.
Then he smiled, thinking of the expression on the CEO’s face when he told Johnston that the employees wanted to buy the lab and make it Grenford Laboratories, Inc.
He was walking down the main corridor, heading for his office. As he passed Pat Hayward’s office, he saw she was cleaning out her desk.
“What are you doing?” he blurted, stepping through the open doorway.
Pat looked up, startled. Pushing back a strand of hair, she said, “Leaving.”
“Who told you to leave?”
“Nobody. But the trial’s over. You don’t need a PR consultant anymore.”
Her office was barely big enough for a desk and a visitor’s chair in front of it, and the chair had a big filing carton on it. Arthur stood between the two and leaned on the desktop with both hands.
“Since when do you get paid to make personnel decisions about Grenford Labs?”
She stared at him for a moment, then realized he was trying to be witty. “I just thought . . .”
Arthur saw that she looked unhappy, harried. There was a big cardboard box on her desk chair, too, and she held a thick loose-leaf book in both hands, holding it almost like a protective shield. But even in a plain white blouse and baggy sea-green slacks she looked uncommonly beautiful to him.
“You can’t leave,” he said. “There’s going to be an awful lot for you to do.”
“I’m not sure that I ought to stay,” Pat said.
“I need you.”
“As a PR consultant.”
“As a friend.”
Pat pushed at the stubborn strand of hair falling across her forehead. “Arthur, your policy is not to mix business relationships with social ones. I think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“It’s your policy,” she said.
“I’m making an exception.”
“What?”
Very seriously, Arthur said, “I’m making an exception to that policy, in your case.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“It’d set a bad example for the staff, wouldn’t it? It’d be inconsistent—”
“A narrow consistency is the mark of a small mind,” Arthur said, smiling.
Pat grinned back at him. “It’s ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’ Emerson.”
He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “See? I need you here to keep me straight on these things.”
“Really?” Pat asked. “You really want to make an exception in my case?”
“Only for you,” Arthur said, his smile widening. Inwardly, though, he was just as startled as she was. What the hell are you doing? he demanded of himself. And he answered, I’m not entirely sure, but it certainly feels good, whatever it is.
She put the loose-leaf book on the desk, pushed the cardboard box to the floor, and dropped onto her desk chair. “Arthur,” she said, “I’m kind of scared.”
He leaned across the desk and touched her cheek with his outstretched hand. “Don’t think I’m not.”
Pat looked up at him. “You’re sure you want me to stay on here?”
“If you think it’d be better if you quit, then go ahead and quit. But I don’t want you to go out of my life, Pat.”
“I’ll stay if you want me to.”
Arthur sat on the edge of the desk. “God, we’re like two trauma victims, frightened to take a deep breath.”
Pat laughed. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Come to dinner with me tonight,” he said. “There’s a lot we have to talk about.”
“My mother’s expecting me home. I told her—”
“I’ll come home with you.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know if you want to meet Livvie just yet.”
“Why not?” Arthur asked. “What should I bring her? Flowers? Candy?”
Pat took a deep breath. “A half gallon of vodka would be more like it.”
GRENFORD LABORATORY
In the months that it took to arrange the financing for their buyout from Omnitech, Arthur spent most of his time in Washington. The National Institutes of Health appointed a committee to study the research done in organ regeneration. Four separate subcommittees of the House of Representatives and two more in the Senate held hearings on the subject. Arthur testified to them all; so did Jesse. On several occasions they appeared together. Both the media and certain members of Congress were disappointed that the two brothers would not openly contradict one another. It was clear that Jesse was far more conservative in his opinions about the work, but he did not oppose his brother’s enthusiasm; he merely tempered it.
It was two days before Christmas when the call from Jesse came. Arthur was as nervous as any expectant father would be. Phyllis had foreseen that he would be, and ordered a hired car for a boss she knew would be too distracted to drive. Not a limousine; a Mercedes sedan would have to do in the lab’s new financial condition.
Pat came into his office, purse in hand, ready to go to the hospital with him. But just as Arthur was about to get up from his desk, Phyllis buzzed.
“Call from Tokyo.”
“Switch it to Darrell,” Arthur said brusquely.
“It’s from Mr. Nakata, the head of Kyushu Industries.” Even over the intercom Phyllis sounded slightly awed. “He wants to speak to you personally.”
Frowning with exasperation, Arthur motioned for Pat to take a chair as he jabbed at the telephone console’s speaker button.
“This is Dr. Marshak,” he said.
“One moment, please,” Pat heard a male voice reply in perfectly pronounced English.
“Dr. Marshak,” came a deeper, rougher voice. “So kind of you to take my call without a previous appointment.”
“It’s very kind of you to call, Mr. Nakata,” said Arthur. Pat saw that the expression on his face did not match at all his diplomatic tone of voice.
“I wanted to inform you personally that the merger of Omnitech and Kyushu Industries has been fully approved by both boards.”
Arthur had known it would be, even though he had resigned from Omnitech’s board of directors.
“Congratulations,” Arthur said tonelessly. “I wish you both every success.”
“I will be chairman of the board, and Mr. Johnston will remain as CEO of the Omnitech part of our company.”
“You’ll make a good team, I’m sure.”
“I wish you to know that we have agreed to allow you to buy Grenford Laboratories. The deal with Singapore has been canceled.”
Arthur felt a wave of relief wash over him. “That—that’s very good of you. Thank you.”
Nakata’s voice changed tone slightly. “It seems very unfortunate that your own government is hindering your work.”
“Yes, it is quite unfortunate,” Arthur agreed. “But I believe that we will be able to move ahead anyway. They can slow our progress but they can’t stop it.”
“If you find yourself frustrated by your government’s restrictions,” Nakata said, as if reading a prepared script, “I can offer you all the facilities and staff that you require here in Japan. You can, of course, bring your own research people with you, as well.”
Arthur leaned back in his swivel chair. “That’s an extremely generous offer, Mr. Nakata.”
“Your work is far too important to be stopped by political forces.”
“I’m delighted that you think so.”
“Remember my words in the weeks to come. I would be honored to have you continue your most extremely important work in Japan.”
“I will remember,” said Arthur. “And I thank you most sincerely.”
“You are most welcome. Now, I have taken up enough of your valuable time. Thank you for receiving my call.”
“Thank you for calling.”
It took another three rounds of thank-yous before Nakata finally hung up.
“Come on,” Arthur said, scrambling from behind his desk. “We’re going to be late.”
“How old is Nakata?” Pat asked.
Arthur hiked an eyebrow at her. “Old enough to know that he’ll need organ regeneration sooner or later.”
In the car, Pat asked, “Would you really move the work to Japan?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not unless I’m absolutely forced to. I’m still enough of a chauvinist to want to see this done in America.”
MENDELSSOHN HOSPITAL
The traffic was impossibly heavy, and by the time they reached the hospital the cesarean had been done and little Bertram Marshak was in an incubator in the newborns’ care center.
Julia was still heavily sedated and Jesse was sitting at her bedside, barely conscious of anyone except her. The attending physician asked Arthur and Pat if they would like to see the baby.
Glad that they had arrived too late to watch the surgery, Arthur let the doctor lead them down to the neonatal care center. Attendants helped them into pale blue smocks, complete with paper hats, masks, and booties. All he could see of Pat was her clear green eyes.
“I feel like we’re being sent on a moon shot,” Arthur quipped.
The neonatal care center was dimly lit and hushed, except for the faint beeping of monitoring equipment. Arthur saw preemies, some of them not much bigger than lab rats.
An attendant—he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman underneath the shapeless gown—brought them to a glass-topped incubator that bore the name MARSHAK taped to its side.
The baby looked to Arthur like a tiny lump of reddish flesh, lying on its belly, mouth flapping like the gills of a fish, eyes closed, arms and legs unmoving. How frail and helpless! He saw that the baby’s hands were clenching and unclenching slowly, the only motion it was making, except for the labored breathing that forced its tiny rib cage to expand and contract, expand and contract. Slowly, it seemed to Arthur. Painfully.
Someone stepped between him and Pat. One look into his eyes and Arthur knew it was Jesse.
This is Jesse’s son, Arthur said to himself. His and Julia’s.
“There he is,” Jesse whispered, his voice shaking with hope and despair, wonderment and fear.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Arthur whispered back.
Jesse looked at his brother, then nodded. “We sure as hell do.”
So I won’t win the Nobel, Arthur said to himself. So what.
Yet he knew, at that precise moment, that he would go to Japan or Patagonia or the moon to carry on the work that this baby so desperately needed. For him, Arthur said to himself. For all of them. For the whole human race.
