Meg was beginning to feel more human now that she had cooled off. “This new sighting or whatever you call it, you said it’s confirmed?”
“It is, unfortunately. As soon as the first one was found, I sent it off to the appropriate government agency, and I followed suit with the second sample.”
“So what happens next?”
“There is a standardized procedure in place to address the issue of any discovery of an invasive species. When the insect is found, its identification must be confirmed by an approved authority, and that has been done. Then APHIS—the federal government’s Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service—will send out a team of inspectors, who will begin at ground zero, where the original insect was found, and examine trees at increasing distances from that spot. Not just looking at the trees from the ground, as you and I did, even with binoculars. They will have to actually climb the trees, or try to maneuver a cherry-picker truck in, to get a closer view. The inspectors will continue until they have established an area of at least a half a mile around the site in which no insects have been found. And then they will go in and cut down the infested trees, as well as all potential host trees within the perimeter they have established.”
“Ouch!” Meg said. “Is the landowner compensated for losing his trees?”
“Unfortunately not. They are deemed a public hazard. Moreover, the wood may not be used: the only proven method to eliminate the insect is to reduce the affected trees to chips and leave them where they were found. They cannot leave their point of origin.”
“I seem to remember reading that in Worcester, nearly thirty thousand trees had to be cut down and destroyed? This thing doesn’t attack apple trees, does it?”
Christopher smiled. “No, it is primarily a forest pest, although it attacks trees that might at one time have been found in a forest but that are now used as ornamental trees. In some suburban neighborhoods the effect has been devastating, at least in aesthetic terms.”
“Isn’t there any other way to attack them?”
“Not that we scientists have discovered—yet. That is why labs such as ours exist.”
“So tell me, what do you do in your lab?”
“We rear insects for research purposes. We make them available to other researchers across the country.”
“Can they escape?”
“We certainly hope not! You will see the precautions in place when you take the tour.”
“Are you the only lab doing this?”
“No, there are others, but all are carefully monitored.”
“I hope so,” Meg said fervently. “As Bree keeps telling me, we have more than enough pests to deal with already—and molds and blights and I don’t know what.”
“Ah, my dear, I never promised you that maintaining an orchard would be easy, did I?”
“No, I can’t say that you did. Blast Johnny Appleseed! He brainwashed us all into thinking it was simple: plant a tree and wait for it to grow up and produce apples.”
“Mr. Chapman did not have to concern himself with aesthetically pleasing apples, since his intention was always to turn them into cider and allow them to ferment.”
“How hard is it to get a distillery license in Massachusetts?” When Christopher immediately looked concerned, Meg held up a hand. “Just kidding. I really don’t feel like learning a whole new set of skills right now. Well, shall we go tour your lab? I’m ready to meet creepy-crawlies.”
“Of course. Are you squeamish about insects? I’ve met many women who are, so it’s no disgrace.”
Meg thought briefly of her instant response to move away from the one beetle she had seen, and that one had been dead; now she was going to meet a lot of them, face-to-face. “I’m working on it. The big ones still freak me out a bit, but I can handle it. I don’t get much choice, do I? I’m a farmer, and insects come with the territory. So lead on.”
12
Christopher led the way through polished and nearly empty corridors.
“Not many people around in summer, are there?” Meg commented.
“Not students,” Christopher agreed, “but there are many employees, those who keep the experiments going. Science, I fear, does not recognize holidays.”
“Neither does farming, unless you count winter. We’re crazy busy nine months out of the year, and then we have three months to recharge. I still haven’t figured out how to get outside projects like painting or roofing done, since I never have time during good weather, and I can’t do it when I do have time in the winter.”
“The eternal dilemma,” Christopher said. “Ah, here we are.” He courteously opened a door and let Meg enter first, but she was forced to stop because there were yet more doors in front of her.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“This is the entrance to our quarantine facility. The area you are about to enter must be kept sterile, so that the experiments are not contaminated by outside agents—other insects, bacteria, and so on. We also must ensure that you do not carry invasive species out of this area, as they may pose a threat to the environment. This is where we have to suit up. There are three chambers we have to pass through. You’ll notice that there are lights on the wall opposite the doors—we hope any insects that do try to make a break for it will be attracted to those first, and we’ll notice before we open the next door. See the light panel by the door? You can’t open the second door until the first door is securely closed and the light turns green. Here you go.” He held up some bedraggled Tyvek jumpsuits, complete with feet, that looked for all the world like giant baby’s pajamas. “If you pick up anything while you’re in there, we will see it and remove it before you leave.”
“I never thought of that,” Meg said, as she struggled to get her feet into the limp garment. “What about your ventilation systems? Can’t things pass in and out through there?”
“A smart question, but we have long since addressed it. That’s why it’s expensive to build laboratories such as this, both in terms of the physical infrastructure and rather esoteric specialized equipment. Let me show you.”
They passed together through the chamber. On the other side, Meg followed Christopher through a maze of small offices and labs.
“Hey, slow down!” she said, after passing through another set of doors into a hallway that looked like every other hallway they’d passed through. “Will you leave a trail of bread crumbs, so I can follow you if we get separated? Because I have no idea where we are now. Why is everything so jumbled?”
Christopher stopped and smiled at her. “Ah, I forget how accustomed I am to this labyrinth. What you see is the fruit of bureaucratic wrangling over an extended period of time. Project funding is somewhat unpredictable. Often research begins with high hopes, accompanied by significant outlays of monies for setting up a laboratory, hiring staff, acquiring special equipment, and so on. Space is allocated according to the importance and scope of the study. But often such studies lose, shall we say, their sex appeal? And funds are diverted to another new project, leaving the older one to run dry, unless the researchers can locate additional funds elsewhere. But, as you might guess, it costs money to reconfigure the space each time this happens, so people usually make do, simply changing the title on the door and adding or removing partitions.”
“How many projects do you usually have going at any one time?”
“I’d say between five and ten, but don’t hold me to that—often there’s some crossover. For example, an employee may be funded partially through two different projects, spending equal time on each. Equipment may be transferred from one project to another as well.”
“The bookkeeping must be a nightmare!” Meg laughed.
“It is,” Christopher said, “but happily that is not my concern, except in the broadest managerial sense. I merely wave my magic wand and say, ‘Make it so!’ and somebody does. One of the perks of my senior position. Ah, here we are.” He opened another door and stepped back to allow Meg to pass him. “The ALB center.”
To Meg it looked like everything else she’d seen in the laboratory part of the building. There was a large room ringed with various pieces of equipment. Some were clearly for refrigeration, but beyond that Meg could only speculate. She could see doors opening onto what appeared to be staff offices or storage. Workstations occupied the center of the main room, and there were several people working there.
Christopher’s cell phone rang, and he apologized to Meg before turning away to take the call. He was back within a minute. “I’m so sorry, my dear, but I fear there’s yet another crisis at the new building, and apparently I’m the only person who could possibly resolve it. Would you mind terribly if I turned you over to one of the research assistants?”
“Of course not, Christopher. I appreciate your taking as much time as you already have. I’ll be fine.”
“Excellent. Gabe?” Christopher called out.
A twentysomething young man in a more or less white lab coat looked up from what he was doing. “Yes, Professor?”
“Could you join us for a moment?”
Gabe stood up, revealing himself to be slightly taller than Meg but definitely broader. He was dark haired and bearded. When he smiled, his teeth looked startlingly white. “What do you need, Professor?” he asked.
“Gabe, this is Meg Corey—she took over the former experimental orchard in Granford. Meg, this is Gabriel Aubuchon.”
“Hi, Meg,” Gabe said. He held out his hand, and when Meg shook it she was surprised by the strength of his grip. “Great orchard you’ve got—some nice old varieties. You having a tough summer with this drought?”
“I am. I spend a lot of time watering.”
“Gabe,” Christopher said, “we’re here because Meg found a dead ALB a few days ago, on a wooded lot in the north end of Granford. We’ve done a quick survey of that site but found no sign of infestation, although as you well know that’s not conclusive. But now with the more recent discovery, it looks as though we have a real problem on our hands, and I’ve notified the appropriate authorities—I’ll let you know when they arrive. Since Meg was the first to discover this invader in Granford, I thought she might like to acquaint herself with what we’re doing here, and with the creatures themselves. She seems to have a good eye, and she can watch out for further appearances. Do you mind giving her a tour?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Thank you, Gabe. Meg, I leave you in good hands. We’ll talk soon.” Christopher made his departure. Obviously he knew where he was going. Meg wondered if she could possibly find her way out or if she’d be reduced to looking for a window to climb out. There were none in sight from where she stood.
She smiled at her new escort. “So, where do we start, Gabe? Why don’t you tell me what you do here?”
“Sure. I was hired about five years ago, right after college, as a technician for the ALB project, when it was first set up. How much do you know about funded research projects?”
“Um . . . assume I don’t know anything.”
“Okay. The Asian longhorned beetle has been declared a harmful species, so the U.S. Department of Agriculture has allocated funding for it, among many, many other similar projects. They do have their own research facilities, but they’re directed more toward attacking and eliminating the insect, rather than understanding what makes it tick. Not that there isn’t overlap, but they usually leave the more theoretical stuff to us. We have some joint agreements with them, so we share data and we collaborate on various aspects of the research. We’ve been working on some biocontrol measures, like bacteria or natural enemies. Want to see?”
“Sure,” Meg said gamely.
“This way.” Gabe led her through yet another door, and she found herself in another enclosed room.
Looking around at it, Meg found it curiously informal. If she had anticipated an austere space filled with gleaming trays and cabinets, she was disappointed. What she saw were large cages made of wire screening and metal; there were tiers of racks holding trays. Some areas were filled with plastic petri dishes, others with plastic or glass jars. Some of the cages held segments of logs, while others had only clusters of fresh leaves. The whole room measured no more than twenty feet square, and in addition to what Meg assumed was the paraphernalia for the experiments, the space was crowded with desks and tables, holding both equipment and piles of papers and journals.
Gabe stood by, letting her take it all in, then said proudly, “This is our rearing facility. Over there”—he pointed to a cluster of cages—“we’ve got the adult females, laying eggs under the bark on those logs, and then we’ll harvest the eggs and rear them out, over there.” He pointed to one of the tiers of trays. “That’s where they hatch. Then as the larvae grow, we put them into jars with a special diet. Oh, and they’ve got to be glass jars—we’ve found the critters can chew their way right through plastic. We’ve even seen a couple gnaw through metal.”
Now that was unsettling, Meg thought. “How many do you produce?”
“We can rear up to three thousand in one batch.”
Meg tried to imagine three thousand adult beetles like the one she had seen, armed with jaws that could cut metal, and suppressed a shudder. “And what on earth do you do with that many?”
“We use them for our own research, but we also distribute them—under the watchful eye of the USDA—to other research facilities. We seem to have better luck with rearing than other places. Here, let me show you the temperature-controlled room.” He opened the door to what looked like an industrial-strength refrigerator, but the air that rushed out was warm, and noticeably humid. “We can control temperature, photoperiod, humidity, depending on what we’re rearing at any given point.”
“What happens if there’s a power failure? Do you lose all of these?” Meg asked.
“Oh no, we’ve got a backup generator, and somebody’s always on call to make sure it’s working—usually me. Hey, want to meet a live ALB, up close and personal?”
Not really, Meg thought, but it seemed rude to say no.
Gabe reached into one of the containers and almost tenderly extracted a wiggling insect. “Hold out your hand.”
Meg swallowed and held out one hand, and Gabe deposited the beetle on her palm. “She’ll try to bite you, but it’s unlikely she can penetrate your skin—looks like you’ve been working in the orchard a lot. Lots of calluses.”
“I have,” Meg said, keeping an eye on the beetle. Objectively it—or she—could be called handsome, and the long and constantly moving antennae were certainly unusual. When Meg moved her hand slightly, the insect reacted by trying to clamp its—what, jaws? Pincers?—into her skin, but as Gabe had predicted, it had little luck. Gabe hovered anxiously, protecting his beetle like a mother hen—which, since he had reared it and nurtured it since its birth, was probably logical.
After a couple of minutes, Gabe said, “Seen enough?” When Meg nodded yes, he took the beetle from her and placed it carefully back in the container, then led Meg out of the room, closing the door behind him. “Let me show you how we mix up the diet. We’ve been working on a new system. This way.” Gabe led her out one door, down a maze of corridors lined with six-foot metal cases, more tray racks, and other things that Meg couldn’t begin to identify, until they arrived at another room, dominated by a ten-foot-tall contraption with a funnel-shaped stainless steel tank in the middle. “This is our new diet mixer—it can make a few hundred pounds at a time. It really makes things go a lot faster.”
“What goes into the diet?” Meg asked.
“Things like wheat germ, molasses—you can smell that, can’t you? Some other bugs are really finicky, and sometimes it’s hard to come up with a mix that makes them happy. There’s a lot of trial and error, but we’ve been pretty lucky here. Of course, what most insects really like is an endless supply of whatever their host plant is, but that’s not always easy—either they’re not available around here, or hard to get, or just too bulky, like if they prefer whole tree branches. Same pr
oblem with getting them to lay eggs—some don’t care and will do it anywhere, others insist on having the right kind of tree branch, right bark, right size, before they’ll even think about it.”
This was more than Meg wanted or needed to know, but she didn’t have the heart to interrupt enthusiastic Gabe. “There must be a lot of human work involved,” she said.
“Oh yes. Some things you just can’t automate. You’ve got to harvest your eggs at the right time. You’ve got to transfer the larvae at the right time, onto clean medium. You’ve got to make sure the food doesn’t rot and mold doesn’t grow. And you’ve got to grow the bugs to the adult stage, and keep them alive. It’s harder than you might think.”
“Do you do this by yourself?”
Gabe seemed to preen a bit. He was plainly basking in the attention, especially from an outsider. “I’m in charge of the rearing lab, so I need to be up to speed on all of the insects we’re raising, so I can direct the staff. We get a lot of student help, during the term, but that drops off in the summer, which is exactly when you need it most, so I keep pretty busy. And the researchers at other places always want a steady supply, like yesterday. I swear, some of them think you can just open a catalog and order a couple of thousand insects, like that.”
“Is the ALB harder or easier than average to raise?”
Gabe shrugged. “About average. But as I said, mostly it’s figuring out what works best, and then after that it’s just keeping the rearing facilities clean and uncontaminated.”
“Where do you get the breeding stock for your insect lines? Aren’t some of these prohibited in this country?”
Gabe nodded vigorously. “Meg, you ask really good questions. Yes, we have to be very careful about importing any insects. Most of the insects we study these days come from the Far East—China, Korea—because trade with those countries has expanded so much and so fast, and since not all the safeguards were in place when the growth began, some pests sneaked in, like in packing crates, or even something as seemingly harmless as pinecones imported for Christmas decorations. Once they’re here, and identified as a problem, we research guys get into the act. When we want to start a colony for research purposes, we usually import the initial stock from the source, whatever country they are native to. The risky ones—the ones on the government watch lists—come directly to our quarantine facility here, either hand carried by an employee or shipped by an authorized agency, so we can track them all the way. You’ve seen the precautions we take: once they’re in here, there’s no way they can get out.”
Golden Malicious Page 10
