by Harry Marku
Admin. He answered it in stride.
“Ryan.” He said tersely.
“Elliot Hampden in the Judge's Chambers.”
“What? What's going on?” Ryan nearly shouted into the receiver.
“He's requested a Stay. He would like to meet you at GenCorp's headquarters.”
“Why aren't we talking to the Judge?”
“We already have. Our Counsel has agreed to the Stay.”
“What else do you know?” Ryan demanded. Too much was happening behind his back.
“I know GenCorp's address.”
Ryan stopped walking. He laughed harshly, a guttural sound that reflected his bitterness although his tension was released. His Admin had said the right thing.
“I want closure on this case.” He thought aloud again.
“We all do. I'm sorry.” The Admin hung up.
As Ryan returned to his car, his attempts to reach his lawyer remained futile. An half hour later he'd crossed town still without hearing any further word.
As he entered GenCorp's front lobby, his Counsel and Elliot Hampden met him.
His lawyer was tense, his face was bland and he would not hold eye contact with Ryan. Next to Hampden, who was naturally tall, he seemed unimportant and small.
Hampden's face beamed, his dark eyes glowed triumphantly and when he opened his mouth to speak Ryan felt his hackles rise.
“This way, Ryan,” Hampden directed, leading him into the room where Jankowiak had been framed. As the door closed behind them, Ryan prepared to fight.
“Please take a seat.” Hampden showed him to a chair. On the conference table in front of the chair was a stack of legal documents.
Ryan scanned the leading text. It was a contract. Alongside was a GenCorp memorandum detailing the destruction of an offshore R&D facility three years earlier.
Ryan shot a quizzical glance at his lawyer but the man had moved to the front of the room. Surprisingly, Hampden had sat down.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ryan.” His lawyer started. “I”m sure you already understand why I was unable to discuss anything with you.”
Ryan slowly nodded. He looked across the table at Hampden, struggling to conceal his disdain but Hampden had shriveled in stature. Behind the closed door his bravado was no longer needed.
“From today forward, GenCorp has elected to entirely withdraw from its claims,” CI's Counsel announced.
Year 21
...Set Sail
“Thank you for coming,” Ryan addressed a banquet audience. It was a gathering of venture capitalists, Wall Street hedge fund executives and a smattering of reporters who had answered his press release call. Champagne was in abundance.
“Today's modest initial public offering was an unequivocal success.”
There was muted applause.
“The shares marketed today will provide CI with the capital needed to strongly grow our output. Within five years no one will recognize us from today's humble start-up. We'll have new products in markets that were previously unattainable. And today we finally paid back, with interest, those who have shared this incredible journey with us.”
The venture capitalists frowned but Ryan soldiered on.
“For years we have provided stock options as prizes to our games' players. In the early days nobody knew if they would ever be worth anything. But our legions played our games with fervor and zealousness in spite of the whisper of recompense. Their contributions led to breakthroughs and breakthroughs were fashioned into real products. CI grew and became profitable. We thank you.”
He paused.
“With Collective contributions we have Intelligent products.”
It was cheesy but effective.
“...Moreover, the infusion of cash will allow us to complete the development of the projects in our pipeline and to start new ones that will further the ongoing goals of my mentor, Dr. Tyrone Jankowiak, for the betterment of all.”
The Wall Street executives frowned openly. If Ryan had not been so vocal about pursuing continued R&D, this IPO would have had ten times the success. He had, with a single-minded devotion to long-term thinking, minimized their haul. To some, he had a damnable insistence on being a strategic humanitarian. From their viewpoint, it was the critical flaw of his business acumen. They knew as proof that some very big investors had turned away, unwilling and unable to tender resources to a company that valued continued success over the next quarter's profits. The ROI for long-termed strategies were anemic.
When the bankers had attempted to steer his message to a more business-friendly dialogue Ryan had reminded them that the IPO was turning them a handsome profit. They could defect and back any other horse they wished.
He had astutely called their bluff. There weren't any other phenoms in the race. CI held the patents, had defended them in courts and was upheld as the winner. And CI had demonstrated results. No other start-up came close. CI was profitable.
Ryan surveyed his audience. He could sense the restlessness of unrequited greed. He savored the moment.
“I would like to announce an exciting development.”
The restless buzz in the room reluctantly faded.
“As you know, Project Methuselah was founded by the late Dr. Jankowiak to combat Progeria, a genetic condition that results in premature aging. To unlock the disease's mechanisms was to peer over the horizon at human longevity.”
“But the human lifespan is too long enough to ascertain success or failure. We could not directly develop using human subjects. Instead we chose a prototype, a short-lived creature, the elegant Monarch butterfly.”
“Why? Each spring two successive generations of Monarchs migrate thousands of miles from Mexico to Canada. Besides foraging and traveling, each generation reproduces and dies. Its progeny hatches, grows and pupates and flies forward, never returning to its location of metamorphosis. But each autumn, the third generation is remarkably different. It returns to winter, over the grounds of its parents, to where its grandparents began. Not only do the progeny migrate the full distance, they outlast their predecessors by living three times longer.”
The background noise began to build. Ryan's science lesson was less than thrilling.
“There is a genomic mechanism in the Monarch that regulates its bifurcated circadian clock. One expression is typical of insects, the other is more mammalian. Dr. Jankowiak and I felt that this species holds one of the keys to regulating human longevity. Under his guidance and sponsorship we crafted two games. First, one explored the Monarch's genome, but the later game was based on human biology. Users have played either game or both but now the two vectors run in parallel with CI's scientists and programmers feeding back progress between them. The synergy has been fruitful.”
He paused again. Several reporters were straining to hear his next words above the bubbling din.
“Today I am thrilled to announce that have partly achieved our original goal. We can regulate Monarch longevity. We can turn their aging cycle off and on at will. Our longest-lived population is well over a year in age.”
There was discontent within the audience. The financial audience cared little about the lifespan of an insect.
“More amazing,” Ryan continued, “preliminary work with lab-cultured human tissue is showing a similar response.”
Pragmatic
“How are you doing, Mom?” Ryan asked.
“I've seen better days.” She whispered. She was in a hospital, like she had been for so many years, but this time she was in need of its care.
“I came as soon as I could.”
“I know you did, son.” Her speech was hesitant. The stroke had seized the left side of her face, rendering it reluctant to move.
“Do I look that bad?” She rasped.
Ryan's eyes betrayed him.
“I'm sorry, Son.”
“Don't be Mom. It's not your fault.” His eyes turned downward. “I didn't expect this.”
“No one lives forever.”
“Mom,
we're unlocking STEM cells now...”
“No.”
“...directing specificity, turning on genes that can heal...”
“No, Son.”
“We're in Stage II clinical trials. You can be included. We can undo the damage.”
“I said 'No,' Son.” Although fragile in voice her tone was firm.
Why not? Ryan's eyes questioned. He would argue no further with his Mother.
“I don't want to live longer.”
Ryan buckled.
“Don't,” she soothed, “I've had a good life. You've brought me tremendous fulfillment as a Mother. I'm so proud of you.”
“For what, Mom?”
“You rose above our station. You've exceeded your potential. Now you have your own company and you're successful—and it's not all for money.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You can't fool me, Ryan.” She tried to laugh but pain stopped her. “I saw your press conference. I watched it from here in my bed. I heard your speech. You said as much.”
“That was just posturing.”
“Oh?” Now there was doubt and disappointment on her face.
“My risks are much greater than others.” Ryan smiled sardonically. “Don't get me wrong, Mom, IPOs generate enormous amounts of money—but the windfall is for the VCs and the bankers—they underwrite only if they can cash out quickly. Six months later they have no further liability. If I have one bad project the company is through.”
“I suppose.” The worrisome expression had been erased from her face. “I see your point.”
“I'm simply managing the public's expectations—keeping them low—to allow us to stumble and survive.”
“I don't believe you, Son.”
“Well, Mom, you are the only one who knows differently.”
“That's why I'm so proud.”
Year 25
2nd Stage Clinical Trials
On the morning of the FDA's announcement CI's stock had plunged 40% to a new 52-week low. That nether eclipsed the discomfort from the gradual 30% slide during the previous two weeks. The Market, or rather, the market Shorts, were in command. They were en masse betting on a negative decision, driving the selling price down even against the enthusiasm of the general public.
As evidence, the short-sellers cited the substantial sale of stock by the CFO in the days leading up to the decision.
Oddly, it was the only insider trade for the quarter. The shorts did not know that Ryan had had all his employees sign a contract that prohibited sales for ninety days before any significant announcement—or that he had made an exception.
The CFO had needed cash for a down payment on a house. He knew he should have waited until after the FDA's decision but his wife was pregnant, their penthouse studio was cramped and it simply wasn't possible to reschedule the birth of his first. He disclosed the filing, as required by law, and raised his $150K capital for a modest Bay Area down payment.
The news of the sale took on a life of its own and CI shares had begun a fortnight's decline, slow and steady at first, then momentum built as the Shorts smelled blood until there was an ignominious plunge that presaged the FDA's announcement.
If the shorts really had inside information they might have based it on breadth of sales rather than those from a single officer. Perhaps they had. In hindsight, it was a slash and grab that lasted but a few dozen hours. Even so it returned handsomely to those who had initiated it.
At 10 AM Ryan addressed the media echoing the FDA's announcement. The Methuselah project was approved for human clinical trials.
By midday the stock price had vaulted a decade above its opening value and Ryan was again in damage-control mode, albeit from the opposite side. Stage III trials required years of data gathering and statistical success before a pharmaceutical license was granted.
Although his address urged caution and emphasized the hurdles still to surmount, he was thrilled. The hold on insider trades was lifted.
Following the death of its founder, CI had survived its first major test.
Late Bloomer
“Is my son too short?” A concerned parent asked a pediatrician.
“Not at all. Although his height is in the bottom quartile, it's not out of the ordinary from the statistics. Everybody's genes kick in at a different time.”
“He's barely five feet tall and he's nearly fourteen.”
“At what age did you experience your adult growth spurt?”
“Uh... I see.” The parent responded. He chuckled. “I worried that I was growing too slowly. It bothered me so much that I didn't attend my high school graduation.”
“Then you are well-prepared to help him. You can relate.”
“I suppose I am. I never thought of it that way. Thank you, Doctor.”
The pediatrician smiled. Like many doctors she found her motivation in helping people. But unlike her cheery response, she had concerns. She and her colleagues were whispering:that there had recently been an unusual number of patients breaching the lower edge of statistical norms. At the last Pediatric Medical Conference they had gossiped over wine—but no one had crunched any numbers—that something was in the water or the air or something conspiratorially like that. Conferences were always filled with creative hearsay.
She thought back to a twelve-year old girl she'd seen the previous day.
“My daughter sleeps all day.” The exasperated mom had expressed.
“Very normal.” She had assured. “Adolescents need more sleep.”
“But she's up all night!”
“That's not uncommon.”
“You walk around in the dark.” The Mom accused. “You read in poor light.”
“I can see fine, Mom.”
“Young people's vision is much more acute than adults.” The Pediatrician interjected, ending the bickering.
She had turned to the teen.
“Is homework keeping you up late?”
“Sunlight hurts my eyes.” The teen said simply.
“Oh.” The pediatrician feigned a lack of concern. “Well, let's have a look at you.”
The general examination that followed indicated a young girl in excellent health—except when she looked into the girl's eyes. She had jumped as the penlight shone into her pupils.
“That hurts.” She complained. She pushed the penlight away, thwarting a second attempt.
The Pediatrician deferred.
“No redness, no irritation. Have you seen an optometrist lately?” The Pediatrician had asked with a nonchalance she did not feel.
“Just last week,” Mom replied. “Her eyesight is 20/20.”
“Because of the sensitivity, I could refer you to a specialist.” The Pediatrician offered. She checked a calendar on her computer. “Looks like I can make an appointment early next week.”
“Mom, I'm fine.” The teen had protested.
“Nonsense,” the Mom had disagreed with her daughter before addressing the doctor. “We'll take it, thanks.”
She had immediately booked the appointment with an ophthalmologist. When she handed the referral to the Mom she asked.
“How's she doing in school?”
“Straight A's.”
“You must be a very good Mom. We should all be so fortunate.”
The Mom had left looking as anxious as she'd arrived.
The Pediatrician had shrugged her shoulders and prepared to see the next patient.
After the second singularity she wasn't feeling so cavalier. She knew someone—a former roommate and colleague from her residency days—that had taken the academic route instead of choosing general practice. Perhaps there was an interesting study to pursue. She would call the colleague after work.
Her friend would probably laugh. A human requires more than a decade to approach physical maturity, most males need two. The population was large. These anecdotes were simply noise.
Year 30
3rd Stage Clinical Trials
“I have a call for yo
u on Line 4.” Ryan's admin announced over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“John Lambert. He says he's a reporter from The Post.”
Ryan frowned. The FDA's decision was scheduled for later that morning. Fielding eleventh hour speculative questions from a nosy reporter was not recommended.
“Tell him to refer to yesterday's press release.”
“I've already done that.” She paused. “He mentioned... “
She gave the name of one of CI's 3rd Stage Clinical participants.
“Put him through,” Ryan acquiesced.
The earpiece clicked.
“You're connected,” Ryan's admin indicated and then the earpiece clicked again as she disconnected.
“This is Ryan.”
“Ryan, I'm John Lambert, from The Post.”
First name greeting, Ryan grimaced. Not a social call.
“What did you need that wasn't in the press release?” Ryan asked.
“I'm not a financial reporter.” Lambert replied. “I write about political events. I covered your company for awhile following the death of your CI's founder.”
Ryan remembered. Lambert's column had not been complimentary. He had emphasized Jankowiak's refusal to legally challenge GenCorp's as evidence of his guilt. It had taken years for the innuendo from pieces like his to cease haunting their start-up.
“You've already been referred to the press release,” Ryan repeated. “If there is nothing further?”
“Overnight, I've been in contact with the family of... “ He named the participant.
“Then you'll know the young girl's condition and her progress. She's alive and thriving.”
“No, I don't,” Lambert responded. “Her mother cited a confidentiality clause.”
Ryan waited. Confidentiality clauses were commonly applied with experimental drug trials as were blanket releases from harm. There was nothing untoward about CI's agreements with its participants. Lambert needed to divulge.
“His wife had an amniocentesis and ultrasound yesterday.”
“I didn't know she was pregnant.”
“The baby is severely deformed.”
“I”m terribly sorry.” Ryan said and he was.
“His development had been halted. It's genetic.”
How can you make that assessment? Ryan wondered. You're not a genetic specialist.
“The girl's mother has not been administered the prototype,” Ryan stated flatly, preparing to terminate the conversation.
Lambert had anticipated the response.
“I'm sure you know this isn't the first,” he pressed. “How many more are there?“
“You'll hear the FDA's announcement later today,” Ryan said calmly. “If this is all you have, I must caution you that we will vigorously defend against libel.”
“How many more are there?” Lambert repeated.
Ryan disconnected the call.
Robb
“Dr. Pawluk, please,” Ryan spoke into the receiver.
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Ryan. From CI.”
The pause lingered.
“Just a moment, I'll put you through,” The Admin promised. Following the click another silence of rude length materialized.
The phone clicked again. It was the Admin.
“Someone will be with you in just a moment.”
Ryan sensed the run-around that was in progress. He began to protest but with a click the Admin was gone. This time the silence was brief and a connection was forged.
“Ryan? This is Robb.”
“I would like to speak to Dr. Pawluk.”
“Dr. Pawluk is retired.”
“Then who...?”
“I manage his lab—or what's left of it. Did you get my message from this morning?”
Ryan paused and collected his thoughts. Pawluk
