Tom Hyman

by Jupiter's Daughter

  “Very well . . .” Goth paused. A look of intense discomfort-almost pain—creased his face. “Two years ago forty women from the island volunteered for an in vitro fertilization program….”

  Stewart felt his scalp tingle with dread. “And . . . ?”

  “None of the fetuses survived,” Goth said, looking off into the middle distance.

  “What was the problem?”

  Goth waved a hand. “It’s futile to try to explain it to a layman.

  Suffice it to say there was an unexpected anomaly in an altered gene sequence on chromosome 4, causing it to suppress the manufacture of a certain critical protein. Normally such an event wouldn’t cause problems; anomalies of this kind are common and usually harmless. But in this case we were exceptionally unlucky.

  Slight as it was, the mistake made all the fetuses nonviable. It was impossible to know this would happen until we conducted just Jupler s Laugnler ù /

  such a trial. None of the women suffered any ill effects. And of course I have since solved the problem.”

  “And have you tested your solution?”

  “As soon as I have the necessary funding, I will. That’s my first priority.”

  Stewart thought for a moment. “There could be other problems, then, couldn’t there?”

  Goth straightened his bony chest and tilted his head back. He didn’t like having his competence challenged. “There can always be problems, Mr. Stewart. The human genome is a dynamic entity, in constant flux.

  No one will ever be able to ensure perfect results in every instance.

  There will always be the unexpected.”

  “I was thinking in more immediate terms. How close do you think you are to having a workable program?”

  “I have it now. But I can’t rule out the possibility of more problems.

  That’s exactly why I need additional time. I must test the program thoroughly. This is a highly experimental area—immensely complex. No one else in the entire field of genetics is doing what I’m doing. So I have no support for my effort, no one to cross-check my results, no one doing related research. It’s terra incognita, and I’m out there alone.

  There’s a great deal I must do before I can be sure I haven’t overlooked anything.”

  “I understand,” Stewart said. Indeed, he thought the doctor was being remarkably honest. “I’m curious,” he said. “Why did you choose to do this in the first place?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could have remained inside the scientific establishment.

  Why didn’t you? Is the privilege of tinkering with human evolution worth all the personal and professional sacrifices you’ve had to make?”

  Goth appeared astonished by the question. “I don’t see it in those terms. Whatever sacrifices I’ve had to make—and may still have to make—I do in the name of a greater necessity.”

  Stewart was mystified. “What necessity?”

  Dr. Goth picked up a book from his desk, opened it to a page marked with a slip of paper, and held it out for Stewart to see.

  It contained a color illustration of a band of five prehistoric males.

  Their faces were painted and they were wearing animal skins.

  They stood at what looked like the edge of a forest clearing. Their expressions were watchful, tense. Each man clutched a stonetipped spear.

  “This is us,” Goth said, tapping the illustration with a forefinger.

  “Homo sapiens. This is the way we looked about fifty thousand years ago. These men in the picture aren’t hunting. They’re going into battle against another group of Homo sapiens. Maybe the others pose a threat to this tribe’s territory. Or to their food supply. Or to their women. Whatever the reason, they’re getting ready for a fight to the death.”

  Goth dropped the book back on the desk. “Homo sapiens is the most successful animal species ever to walk the earth,” the doctor declared, his words energized by a sudden display of enthusiasm for his subject.

  “He was ruthless and resourceful. And uniquely gifted with a large brain that allowed him to adapt to almost any circumstance. And he did adapt. He multiplied and spread out. He subdued his environment; he eliminated every challenge to his superiority—until the only enemy left was himself. And despite centuries of ceaseless mutual human slaughter, his success is still astonishing and undeniable. He has subdued the entire planet Earth. He owns it.”

  Stewart raised a hand to slow the tide of words. Inviting Goth to let off some steam might help cement their relationship, but he didn’t want to hear an anthropology lecture. “What’s your point? ” “Simply this.

  We’re those same primitive people today. We have the same brain, the same emotions, the same capabilities, the same shortcomings, the same tolerances. We haven’t evolved at all. In fact, as a species, we’re now in serious decline.”

  “And so . . .”

  “Don’t you see? We’ve become victims of our own success.

  We’ve transformed the world to suit our needs, developed a technology so powerful that there’s almost nothing we can’t do. But we haven’t advanced to keep pace with our own creativity. In fact, we’ve gone backwards. The improvements in our diet and

  Juplrer s LJaugnzer ù /

  our medicine and our technologies have only degraded our gene pool.

  It’s allowed the least fit among us to survive, multiply, and contribute further to the decline of the species. And meanwhile we go on ransacking the earth’s resources and polluting the earth’s soil, water, and air at an ever-increasing pace. And unless we change our habits, we’re doomed. The aggressive, adventurous exploring and fighting instincts that got us here are no longer adequate to solve our problems. Normally the process of evolution would correct the situation, would allow our species to adapt to our new circumstances—raise our resistance to the pollutants in the air, to the increased amount of radiation bombarding our skin, to the increasingly crowded conditions of our lives. But evolution is a slow process. It takes many generations of natural selection for significant mutations to occur and succeed. But we can’t wait for that. We don’t have the time. In anthropological terms, Homo sapiens has changed the world overnight. Now we must change ourselves overnight just to survive in the world we’ve created. We have to take the process of evolution into our own hands. We have to step in and take control of our destiny as a species.”

  Stewart was impressed. Goth’s little speech had breathtaking implications. And he might even be right. “So the bottom line is that either we rewrite our own genetic code or we’re out of business?”

  “That’s essentially it, yes.”

  “And that’s what your Jupiter program is designed to do? Rewrite the code? Guarantee our survival?”

  “Precisely.”

  Stewart shook his head dubiously. “I’ll have to confess, Doctor, from what you told us earlier today your genetic changes just don’t sound that profound. Or is there something you didn’t tell us?”

  Goth removed his glasses and polished the lenses with the bottom edge of his lab jacket. Stewart had seen him do it four or five times. It had become a neurotic tic.

  “I told you the program would increase intelligence substantially,”

  Goth replied. “And that in itself—if it became wide spread—would have a revolutionary impact. If people were smarter, they’d be less prone to settle their conflicts with violence.

  They’d be more able to understand and solve the complex problems that beset us today. They’d understand where the true longterm interests of mankind lay. Consider population control.

  They’d not only understand the necessity for it, they’d do something about it. Take war. They’d see the futility of it. Or the destruction of the environment—they wouldn’t tolerate it. They wouldn’t tolerate a lot of things—murder, rape, torture, poverty, hunger, bigotry, despotism….”

  “What about your formula’s enhancement of the senses?”

  Stewart cut in. “What’s the point of that
?”

  “It’ll increase an individual’s survival value. His perception of the world around him will be widened. And that perception will mean greater knowledge and understanding.”

  “That might be more of an encumbrance than an advantage.

  Won’t it overload the human nervous system with a lot of unnecessary additional noise?”

  Goth shrugged. “This program is only a beginning. A prototype. It’ll be refined and improved over time. The important thing now is to get started, before it’s too late.”

  Stewart sensed that Goth was still keeping a lot to himself, but there seemed no point in pressing him any further. Jupiter, at this stage, was still more theory than reality.

  “It’s an exciting adventure,” Stewart said. “I feel privileged to be able to assist you in it.” This was the kind of flattery that rolled from his tongue automatically when he was engaged in winning someone’s trust. He heard himself say it and realized with a pleasant shock that this time he actually meant it: it really was going to be an exciting adventure. It really could have profound social value. And the financial profits from it were going to be truly staggering. “How long do you think it’ll be before you can test Jupiter on human subjects again?”

  “As soon as I can set up a clinic with the equipment and the personnel I need for the gene alterations and the in vitro fertilization program, I’ll begin the tests. It’ll take several months.”

  Jupiter7s l)aughter ù 77

  Stewart leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Would you be willing to test Jupiter right now?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—” “On my wife.”

  Goth’s eyes narrowed.

  “That surprises you?”

  “Why would you expose your wife to the risk?”

  “You said you believed the program was ready.”

  “Yes, but I can’t guarantee it’ll work perfectly.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Stewart replied. “Look, I have a very young wife. We both want children, but it happens there’s a problem. I carry an inherited genetic trait for something called fragile X

  syndrome. I had an uncle and a brother who were affected. I don’t want to pass it on to children of my own. So we’d need to find a male donor for the sperm—” “Not at all,” Goth interrupted. “I know the gene responsible for it.

  I can correct the defect.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. It’s a relatively simple gene splice, in fact.”

  “Will you do it then? For me? And for my wife? She’s terribly anxious to have a child.”

  “I’d rather not, frankly.”

  “Why? If Jupiter is as good as you say it is, then why not prove it to me first?”

  “I’d prefer to test it on some volunteers with less at stake in the outcome.”

  “I understand. But look—if you’re willing to correct the fragile X

  problem, why not go all the way?”

  Goth shook his head. He removed his glasses and fiddled nervously with them in his lap.

  “Is there some ethical worry? What’s the worst that can happen? A spontaneous abortion? Those happen all the time anyway.”

  “The worst that can happen is a child with some undesirable mental or physical characteristics….”

  “Couldn’t you detect those before birth?”

  Goth rubbed his chin, thinking. “I should be able to. Yes.”

  “So the risk is no greater than the risk any mother bears in pregnancy.

  And the potential benefits are far greater. Really, Doctor, your reluctance makes me wonder if you believe in your own program.”

  Goth stood up. “It’ll work. I know it.”

  “Then prove it to me.”

  Goth sat back down again. He said nothing for a long time.

  Stewart waited. He became aware of the research assistant, who had returned to her stool. Stewart had a strong impression that she was unhappy in her work. Maybe she just didn’t like Goth.

  “Very well,” Goth said. “I’ll do it.”

  Stewart thanked him profusely. He was enormously pleased.

  What better, quicker way for him to evaluate the true worth of the Jupiter program?

  “But I’ll have to insist on several things,” Goth added. “I insist on performing all the medical procedures myself. And if they’re successful I’ll have to see your wife on a regular basis. I’ll need to monitor the pregnancy closely. And I’ll also need to supervise the delivery itself. And all procedures, including the delivery, will have to take place on this island.”

  “I see no problem.”

  “And finally—and this is most important—I’ll want to have access to the child on a frequent and regular basis to follow its progress.

  That’s the only way I can measure the true effectiveness of the altered gene sequences.”

  “I’ll agree to all that,” Stewart replied. “In return, I’d like to make one small but important condition myself. My wife of course knows about the fragile X syndrome. She’ll be thrilled to hear that you can correct it. But I’d rather we not tell her anything more than that. I don’t want to risk either scaring her or raising her hopes too high.

  She knows quite a bit of biology herself, and I’d rather let her think that the whole procedure is only to solve the fragile X problem. After she’s had the child, and we know the program works, we call tell her everything. But let’s wait until then.

  Goth agreed.

  How soon can we do it, then?”

  “I’ll need to prepare the lab for the gene-splicing work, the egg retrieval, the sperm enhancement, and the zygote intrafallopian transfer procedure. And I’ll need to test both of you—get a genome printout, take sperm and egg samples, and so forth. At least three months.”

  “Let’s do it in three weeks. Crash program. I’ll get you all the equipment you need in a week. Just give me a list. And I’ll get my wife down here immediately so you can begin your testing.”

  “If you can get me everything I need that fast . . .”

  Stewart shook Goth’s hand again. This time the doctor squeezed back.

  He was beginning to get enthusiastic about the idea himself.

  Stewart left Goth’s laboratory bursting with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. He had just negotiated the deal of a lifetime —of a hundred lifetimes. The path ahead would no doubt be strewn with obstacles and dangers. But with a reasonable amount of luck, not only would Jupiter deliver him an extraordinary child, it would eventually make him the richest human being on the planet.

  Yuichiro Yamamoto teed up his ball on the first hole, a 415-yard par four, on the Bethesda Country Club golf course, outside Washington, D.C. He pulled a driver out of his bag and hit the ball deep and straight down the fairway, where it rolled to a halt in the grass, perfectly positioned for an approach shot onto the green.

  His partner, Haikido Mishima, grunted a couple of words of praise and knelt down to tee up his own ball. Mishima was the number-three man at the Japanese embassy in Washington. He had been the number-one man some years before at the embassy in Mexico City, so he retained possession of the title of ambassador, even though his official position now was that of consul for trade and technology. His real mission was coordinating the embassy’s clandestine intelligence activities. He was several years older than Yamamoto, and not nearly as accomplished a golfer.

  Yamamoto could walk off the eighteenth hole of this course under par on a good day. But today he knew he’d be lucky to make eighty. He had suffered a sleepless night, followed by two overbooked and delayed plane flights—one from Coronado to Nassau, the Bahamas, the other from there to Washington. Mishima, on the other hand, was out of shape and not well coordinated. He’d be lucky to get in under 110.

  The ambassador hooked his tee shot to the right. It landed short and rolled into the rough, leaving him no approach to the green.

  80

  He slipped his club back into the bag with a dispirited sigh and climb
ed into the golf cart.

  “I don’t know why I play this game,” he said. “It just makes me ill-tempered. I’d much rather sit in a garden and read poetry.”

  Yamamoto smiled politely. He was quite fond of the ambassador. He was a cultured, educated man, with enormous grace and good humor. He was also charmingly self-effacing, even by Japanese standards, although Yamamoto suspected that there was a hint of mockery behind that modesty. “I predict you’ll give me a very close game today,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” the diplomat replied. “You know better. I’ll be in the woods most of the time, looking for that damned little pockmarked white ball. No matter. I expect you’ll make my morning worthwhile.”

  Yamamoto wasn’t so sure.

  “And I want all the details,” Mishima added. “Even the seemingly irrelevant ones. We have eighteen long holes ahead of us.”

  Yamamoto briefed Mishima on the meeting at Goth’s laboratory. He described those present—Prince Bandar, Harry Fairfield, Baroness von Hauser, and Dalton Stewart—and recounted the essential points of Harold Goth’s presentation.

  By the time he had finished his briefing, they were riding the golf cart toward the fourth green. Yamamoto had parred the first, bogeyed the second, and birdied the third. The ambassador had triple-bogeyed all three.

  “How do you evaluate Goth?” Mishima asked. “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “I wish I could answer that question, Ambassador, but honestly I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “His past achievements speak for themselves. He’s a Nobel laureate.

  His brilliance as a geneticist is unquestioned….” Yamamoto stopped the cart by the edge of the green. His ball was sitting on the green, just twenty feet from the pin. The ambassador’s was buried in a nearby sand trap.

  “But . . . ?” Mishima prodded.

  “But for a decade now he’s been following an extremely risky course with his genetics work. That puts his judgment seriously in question.”

  Mishima grabbed his sand wedge and waded into the trap after his ball.

  Yamamoto stood on the edge of the grass, watching.