“You’re seriously asking that?”
I gave him a surprised look. “What?”
He laughed. “Has it been that long since you’ve been on campus?”
It had been almost ten years.
“My pre-med days are something of a blur,” I said. “I remember lots of coffee and late nights, but that was for cramming for tests.”
Shaking his head, he said, “It’s a mad house here during the day.”
“Of course.” I nodded, finally understanding.
There were hundreds of students attending the medical school, and the labs were always filled. Professors and students who wanted dedicated lab time, or wanted to experiment in private, often had to adjust their schedule.
Tim said, “If you’re looking for a little uninterrupted time, after midnight is the best.”
“Ah.”
With a grin, he said, “Working long, odd hours comes with the job description.”
I tried to remember the years of medical school, and then internship and residency. Twelve, sometimes twenty-hour shifts were normal fare. I don’t know how I did it.
“The professor is brilliant,” Tim said a moment later.
There was a note in his voice that was more than the typical youthful awe of a student to a teacher. I stopped walking and faced him. “What do you mean?”
“You should see some of the things he’s done. It’s unbelievable.”
Looking down at the printouts in my hand, I asked, “Has he explained to you how he managed to do it?”
Tim shook his head. “He told me it’s privileged information. I understand he needs a certain amount of secrecy, especially if he’s going to apply for a patent. I’m just glad my name will be on the research paper. That kind of thing follows you around for the rest of your life.”
I lifted the printouts. “You’ve obviously been involved in the research. Do you have any thoughts on how this can possibly work?”
Glancing at the papers, Tim shook his head. “No, but it’s revolutionary, don’t you agree?”
I frowned. The compound, if it were legitimate, would indeed be a massive step forward, but I couldn’t reconcile the data the professor had given me with my own computer simulations.
Tim let out a hollow laugh. “Like I said, I’m just the assistant. Mostly, I do a lot of research legwork. I’m a glorified gofer.”
We continued down the hall in silence, but it seemed Tim had spent the time trying to phrase a question.
“When the professor told me he was adding another assistant to the project, I got curious. I looked you up on the internet.”
My stomach tightened. “Oh?”
“Sometimes it pays to know who you’re working with, you know?”
“Sometimes,” I agreed.
Reluctantly, he said, “I read about what happened.”
It wasn’t a subject I was comfortable talking about under the best of circumstances, and I’d only just met Tim yesterday.
As if sensing my reluctance, he asked, “Or am I crossing the line?”
I sighed. The internet was a wonderful creation when it came to sharing information; the problem came when there was information you didn’t want shared. Whether or not I confirmed or denied those events, the details were out there for anyone with an internet connection to read.
Trying to sound understanding, Tim said, “The news feeds and bloggers can skew anything.”
“They can,” I said tersely.
Telling my side of the story didn’t make a difference. People would form their own opinions, and I’d have to live with that for the rest of my life. I knew I’d have to endure these questions wherever I went, but it didn’t make it any easier.
“I get it,” he said. “It’s none of my business. I won’t bring it up again.”
I started walking down the hall toward the lab. “Thanks.”
I was trying hard not to be annoyed with him, since he seemed friendly enough, but he obviously wasn’t going to take his own advice and let the subject drop.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “the professor was very upset at the verdict. He thought you were given a raw deal. He really went to bat with the board of trustees to bring you here.”
“Well,” I said as we reached the main doors of the lab, “fathers are like that.”
Chapter Two
I held the door open for Tim, letting him go inside first.
The lab was set up in the last room at the end of the building. Two relatively small windows were on the wall opposite the door; between them was a larger window extending almost from the floor to the ceiling, and at least as wide. Though it was late at night, the blinds were pulled down.
My father, Professor Franklin Chase, sat at a worktable filled with flasks, vials, Bunsen burners and an insulated medical cooler. On the side of the container were the words: ‘Human Organ – For Transplant – Handle With Care’.
At first, my father didn’t notice us entering. He hunched over a beaker, carefully mixing a translucent fluid with a pasty yellow gel. As he agitated it with a glass mixer, the resulting formula turned a rich brown color.
Sitting back, a smile appearing through his bushy salt-and-pepper beard, he turned to me.
“Kyle, come here. The solution is almost ready.”
But I wasn’t paying attention to him. My focus was on the examination table behind him. Lying on his back, the patient had a white sheet draped over him up to his bare chest, leaving his arms, neck and head exposed.
He did not have any hair, not because he was bald, but because of the scar tissue that covered one side of his head and face, running all the way down his shoulder and arm. The man had obviously survived a horrible fire.
Though he was lying supine, it was apparent he was a very tall, very large man. His feet hung well past the end of the table, and his shoulders extended over the sides.
I noticed there were thick leather straps binding his wrist and upper arm to the side rail. I was taken aback by the odd scene before me.
It took me a few seconds to regain my composure.
As I stepped closer, the man’s one good eye followed my progress. He did not speak any words, but I could see a hint of concern in his expression.
I’d known that we were performing the test on a volunteer who’d been burned in a fire, but I hadn’t realized his condition would be so severe. I wondered how much nerve damage he’d suffered.
Tim, hovering close behind me, said, “Hello, Lawrence. How’re you doing?”
The burned man opened his mouth and made a croaking noise that sounded like, “Fine.”
“This is Kyle Chase,” Tim said. “He’s the professor’s son.”
“Hello,” Lawrence managed to say.
I nodded a greeting at the patient and then looked over the implements on the surgical cart. To my father, I said, “I don’t see any anesthetic.”
“Ah, Kyle. Yes. This trial is to be conducted without any other agent, which might cloud the results. That includes painkillers. Don’t worry,” he said, putting up a hand. “It’s a simple procedure, and I don’t expect our patient will suffer any lasting discomfort.”
I noticed Tim make a face, probably at the thought of operating without the benefit of even a topical anesthetic. I gave him a look of annoyance at his lack of professionalism, and Tim’s expression quickly turned neutral.
“Why is he in restraints?” I asked.
My father turned and smiled to Lawrence, though he kept speaking to me. “The straps are for his own safety, as well as to prevent him from inadvertently flinching. Also, we will film the effects and we need him to remain still for the duration.”
Putting a hand on my shoulder, my father said, “Not to worry. He’s been fully advised of what to expect.”
His last sentence reminded me of my concerns about the procedure itself. I beckoned my father to come with me to the other side of the room, out of Lawrence’s hearing range. He followed me, leaving Tim to set up the video c
amera.
I lifted the composite sheets up and kept my voice low. “You should look at these simulations I’ve run. I think you’ve made a fundamental error in your calculations.” I shook my head. “I have no idea how this worked for you before. It shouldn’t have worked.”
He gave me that distant smile I remembered so well from my youth. “Trust me; it worked.”
“It’s hard to believe.”
“I understand.” He pointed in Tim’s direction. “That’s why we’re using a video camera. We will capture the proof on film. There will be no doubt.”
I still couldn’t accept it. “I’ve run the simulations several different ways. It fails every time. Your data has to be wrong. There has to be another factor in the cultures that skewed the results.”
My father didn’t seem offended that I didn’t believe him. “The data is not wrong.”
“Without concrete proof or substantiation, I can’t believe the board of trustees approved moving the trials to human testing.”
“Of course they would,” he said. “Do you have any idea how much money they’ll make off the patent?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You did get approval for this trial, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes. I put the paperwork through months ago. Phil Bellows put the stamp on the application himself. Now, will you stop worrying, my boy?”
“Isn’t that one of the reasons you brought me in?” I asked. “I really think we should delay this trial. Give it a few weeks, or at least until we can run some more proofs through the computer. I need to understand better how this works.”
“Kyle,” he said with a congenial smile, “you have wedding night jitters. That’s understandable, considering what you’ve been through in the past year. I have checked everything a hundred times. We are ready.”
Without waiting for me to launch any more objections, he hurried back to the workbench. Taking a sample of the compound he’d created, he put a drop of it on a slide and inserted it under a microscope. Then he leaned over to examine the results.
Tim finished mounting the camera on the tripod and plugged the power cable into a nearby outlet. He moved closer to Lawrence.
“How’re you doing, big guy? Are you cold or anything?”
When Lawrence didn’t reply, my father turned around. “Tim, our patient has difficulty speaking. His larynx was partially burned from the fumes when he had his accident. Now, please attend to the camera.”
Nodding, Tim moved behind the camera and played with the settings for a minute until my father cleared his throat and shot his assistant an impatient look.
“It’s on,” Tim said, bending over to look through the viewfinder.
My father gathered several medical instruments and containers together and put them on a wheeled cart, which he pushed to the operation table next to Lawrence’s head. The surface already had scalpels, scissors, and gauze laid out on a green cloth, and my father put the organ transplant cooler on the tray beside them. An articulating arm with a high-powered magnifying camera mounted on the end was attached to the edge of the cart. The feed led to a computer on the worktable. Currently, the image was blurry and out of focus, since the camera wasn’t pointed at anything.
My father turned toward Tim and spoke to the camera in a practiced voice.
“My name is Professor Franklin Chase. I am joined by my assistants, Kyle Chase and Tim Bellows. I’d like to introduce you to my special guest, Lawrence, who suffered second-degree chemical burns to one side of his head, shoulders and one arm in an accident at his home. He came to our attention a few weeks ago when his health insurance would not cover the costs of his treatment.”
He gestured to Lawrence. “While our volunteer is a prime candidate for an autograft, since his burns only cover the right side of his upper body and head, there are many cases where autologous grafting is not possible.
“Outside of grafting, the only other viable option patients who require an organ transplant have is the hope of a donor. There are many obstacles for this avenue, however. Compatibility is one factor, of course; rejection is a common outcome. Before that, though, there is the question of supply. There is a dramatic shortage of organ donations. One in four patients in critical need will die while awaiting replacement organs.
“Up until now, xenotransplantation, while an exciting prospect, has been fraught with its own complications, namely immunologic barriers, rejection, viral transference, and, of course, there are the ethical considerations, which I won’t get into.
“All of these techniques are valid, but I believe the next advancement in healing is to utilize the body’s own natural mechanisms for regeneration.
“Today, I will demonstrate the effectiveness of our compound and prove the application of it will extend to all manner of organ transplantation, which is a critical concern worldwide.
“With continued interest in stem cell research, I’ve focused my efforts on examining the amazing regenerative properties of the human liver.”
With that, my father opened the organ cooler and withdrew a large, reddish-brown organ.
At first, I wondered how he’d obtained a human liver, then I realized it was bovine. He was just using it as a prop for the presentation.
“There have been recorded cases of a human liver regenerating with as little as a quarter of the original tissue. The ancient Greeks may have also known about the liver’s remarkable ability to repair itself, as evidenced in the mythology of Prometheus.”
He put the cow liver back in the cooler, picked up the flask containing the brownish compound he’d mixed, and then addressed the camera once more.
“After isolating the stem cells in human liver, and combining them with progenitor cells in our blood, I believe I’ve been able to develop a formula that will initiate the regrowth of tissues in damaged organs. Though lab tests on bacterial cultures cannot come close to showing the effectiveness of direct application on human tissue, the results of these experiments have shown enough promise for us to take the next step.”
He swiveled the camera arm on the cart so that it centered on a spot on Lawrence’s arm. Beside my father, the computer display showed an area of burned skin, magnified greatly.
My father then took a syringe and dipped the needle into the mixture, sucking a small quantity of the thick mucus-like liquid into the cylinder.
“We will begin with an injection in our patient’s forearm, directly into the damaged tissue.”
He leaned in and applied the tip of the needle to a burned area on Lawrence’s arm. On the computer monitor, the metal shaft of the needle looked as thick as a gas pipe.
The needle pierced Lawrence’s skin, and though the monitor didn’t show the compound going into the ruined tissue, there was a distinct swelling around the area.
“There,” my father said as he removed the needle. He turned and pointed to the computer monitor. “Now, we will keep the computer camera focused on this area for the next two to three hours. Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait all that time.” He flashed a smile. “My assistant assures me the video will be time-lapsed to show the effects over time, as the changes will be so slow that it wouldn’t be noticeable to the naked eye.”
Looking at Tim, he spoke in a normal voice. “You are certain you can edit this properly? Do I need to wait to make my closing remarks?”
Tim said, “No, you can go ahead. I’ll cut the clip out and put it at the end of the presentation.”
“Good.”
My father sat up straighter on the stool and addressed the video camera again.
“Present day organ transplant technology is imperfect. Aside from the difficulty of finding willing donors, and the risks involved in the actual operation, it may take days, or sometimes, even weeks before we know whether the patient will reject the organ, or for infection to set in. Even then, the patient must sometimes endure months of recuperation.
“By harnessing the patient’s own regenerative abilities, we remove all risk of rejection and
infection, and even more important, in many cases, we should be able to see signs of improvement within hours rather than days or weeks.
“Though we have made great strides so far, we require additional funding to refine the compound—which I’ve named ‘OrganKnit’—and move forward with trials of both minor and major organ regeneration.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I trust this demonstration is enough to gain your approval. All necessary research materials and detailed results are included in your presentation package.”
He made a dramatic face. “Imagine a patient with a heart condition getting a treatment today, and having a perfectly healthy heart within a week or two…”
My father stood and gave the camera a slight bow. “I await your decision.”
Tim swiveled the camera back to focus on Lawrence’s arm. Then he stood up, smiling. “Perfect, Professor.”
I kept my attention on the computer monitor, as if I could see the damaged skin on Lawrence’s arm repairing itself while I watched.
“Well,” my father asked me, “what do you think?”
With a begrudging nod, I said, “The presentation was good, but…”
He gave me a reassuring smile. “But you still doubt.” He lifted his hands up. “That’s why we wanted to put this on video. In less than three hours, you will see the results for yourself. I will make a believer out of you.”
I looked at the monitor once again.
Tim said, “Professor, I’ll keep Lawrence company if you want to go back to your office.”
“Thank you, Tim,” my father said. “I do have some paperwork I’ve been neglecting.”
My father turned to his patient and said, “I hope you didn’t feel too much discomfort.”
Lawrence managed to smile and formed a reply that sounded like, “No, I’m fine.”
“Good. I will dim the lights if you want to get some rest. You should start to feel some tightening in the area of the injection in an hour or so. If there is any pain, please let Tim know right away.”
Lawrence nodded.
As my father passed by me on the way out of the lab, he clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Trust me; you won’t regret joining me in this project, Kyle. It will change the world.”
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 41
