I often wondered, when he got carried away this way. Did he actually believe he was explaining this to me for the first time? Much as the Brits respect American science, they do tend to assume we’re slackers when it comes to the philosophical side. But I’d seen his interest heading in this direction weeks back, and had carefully done some extra reading.
“You mean like the genes responsible for some types of inheritable cancers?” I asked, sarcastically. “There’s evidence some oncogenes were originally inserted into the human genome by viruses, just as you suggest. Those who inherit the trait for rheumatoid arthritis may also have gotten their gene that way.”
“Exactly. Those viruses themselves may be extinct, but their DNA lives on, in ours!”
“Right. And boy, have human beings benefitted!”
Oh, how I hated that smug expression he’d get. (It got wiped off his face eventually, didn’t it?)
Les picked up a piece of chalk and drew a figure on the blackboard.
HARMLESS—> KILLER!—> SURVIVABLE ILLNESS—> INCONVENIENCE—> HARMLESS
“Here’s the classic way of looking at how a host species interacts with a new pathogen, especially a virus. Each arrow, of course, represents a stage of mutation and adaptation selection.
“First, a new form of some previously harmless micro-organism leaps from its prior host, say a monkey species, over to a new one, say us. Of course, at the beginning we have no adequate defenses. It cuts through us like Syphilis did in Europe in the Sixteenth Century, killing in days rather than years . . . in an orgy of cell feeding that’s really not a very efficient modus for a pathogen. After all, only a gluttonous parasite kills off its host so quickly.
“What follows, then, is a rough period for both host and parasite as each struggles to adapt to the other. It can be likened to warfare. Or, on the other hand, it might be thought of as a sort of drawn out process of negotiation.”
I snorted in disgust. “Mystical crap, Les. I’ll concede your chart, but the War analogy is the right one. That’s why they fund labs like this one. To come up with better weapons for our side.”
“Hmm. Possibly. But sometimes the process does look different, Forry.” He turned and drew another chart.
BEGIN HARMLESS—>KILLER!—>SURVIVABLE ILLNESS—>INCONVENIENCE —>BENIGN PARASITISM—>SYMBIOSIS
“You can see that this chart is the same as the other, right up to the point where the original disease disappears.”
“Or goes into hiding.”
“Surely. As E. coli took refuge in our innards. Doubtless long ago the ancestors of E. coli killed a great many of our ancestors before eventually becoming the beneficial symbionts they are now, helping us digest our food.
“The same applies to viruses, I’d wager. Heritable cancers and rheumatoid arthritis are just temporary awkwardnesses. Eventually, those genes will be comfortably incorporated. They’ll be part of the genetic diversity that prepares us to meet challenges ahead.
“Why, I’d wager a large portion of our present genes came about in such a way, entering our cells first as invaders . . .”
Crazy sonovabitch. Fortunately, he didn’t try to lead the lab’s research effort too far to the right on his magic diagram. Our Boy Genius was plenty savvy about the funding agencies. He knew they weren’t interested in paying us to prove we’re all partly descended from viruses. They wanted, and wanted badly, progress on ways to fight viral infections themselves.
So Les concentrated his team on vectors.
Yeah, you viruses need vectors, don’t you. I mean, if you kill a guy, you’ve got to have a liferaft, so you can desert the ship you’ve sunk, so you can cross over to some newhapless victim. Same applies if the host proves tough, and fights you off—gotta move on. Always movin’ on.
Hell, even if you’ve made peace with a human body, like Les suggested, you still want to spread, don’t you? Big-time colonizers, you tiny beasties.
Oh, I know. It’s just natural selection. Those bugs that accidentally find a good vector spread. Those that don’t, don’t. But it’s so eerie. Sometimes it sure feels purposeful . . .
So the flu makes us sneeze. Salmonella gives us diarrhea. Smallpox causes pustules, which dry, flake off, and blow away to be inhaled by the patient’s loved ones. All good ways to jump ship. To colonize.
Who knows? Did some past virus cause a swelling of the lips that made us want to kiss? Heh. Maybe that’s a case of Les’s “benign incorporation” . . . we retain the trait, long after the causative pathogen went extinct! What a concept.
So our lab got this big grant to study vectors. Which is how Les found you, ALAS. He drew this big chart covering all the possible ways an infection might leap from person to person, and set us about checking all of them, one by one.
For himself he reserved straight blood-to-blood infection. There were reasons for that.
First off, Les was an altruist, see. He was concerned about all the panic and unfounded rumors spreading about Britain’s blood supply. Some people were putting off necessary surgery. There was talk of starting over here what some rich folk in the States had begun doing—stockpiling their own blood in silly, expensive efforts to avoid having to use the Blood Banks if they ever needed hospitalization.
All that bothered Les. But even worse was the fact that lots of potential donors were shying away from giving blood because of some stupid rumors that you could get infected that way.
Hell, nobody ever caught anything from giving blood . . . nothing except maybe a little dizziness and perhaps a zit or spot from all the biscuits and sweet tea they feed you afterwards. And as for contracting HIV from receiving blood, well, the new antibodies tests soon had that problem under control. Still, the stupid rumors spread.
A nation has to have confidence in its blood supply. Les wanted to eliminate all those silly fears once and for all, with one definitive study. But that wasn’t the only reason he wanted the blood-to-blood vector for himself.
“Sure, there are some nasty things like AIDS that use that vector. But that’s also where I might find the older ones,” he said, excitedly. “The viruses that have almostfinished the process of becoming benign. The ones that have been so well selected that they keep a low profile, and hardly inconvenience their hosts at all. Maybe I can even find one that’s commensal! One that actually helps the human body.”
“An undiscovered human commensal,” I sniffed doubtfully.
“And why not? If there’s no visible disease, why would anyone have ever looked for it! This could open up a whole new field, Forry!”
In spite of myself, I was impressed. It was how he got to be known as a Boy Genius, after all, this flash of half-crazy insight. How he managed not to have it snuffed out of him at OxBridge, I’ll never know, but it was one reason why I’d attached myself to him and his lab, and wrangled mighty hard to get my name attached to his papers.
So I kept watch over his work. It sounded so dubious, so damn stupid. And I knew it just might bear fruit, in the end.
That’s why I was ready when Les invited me along to a conference down in Bloomsbury, one day. The colloquium itself was routine, but I could tell he was near to bursting with news. Afterwards, we walked down Charing Cross Road to a pizza place, one far enough from the University area to be sure there’d be no colleagues anywhere within earshot—just the pre-theatre crowd, waiting till opening time down at Leicester Square.
Les breathlessly swore me to secrecy. He needed a confidant, you see, and I was only too happy to comply.
“I’ve been interviewing a lot of blood donors lately,” he told me after we’d ordered. “It seems that while some people have been scared off from donating, that has been largely made up by increased contributions by a central core of regulars.”
“Sounds good,” I said. And I meant it. I had no objection to there being an adequate blood supply. Back in Austin, I was pleased to see others go to the Red Cross van, just so long as nobody asked me to contribute. I had neither the time nor the intere
st, so I got out of it by telling everybody I’d had malaria.
“I found one interesting fellow, Forry. Seems he started donating back when he was twenty-five, during the Blitz. Must have contributed thirty-five, forty gallons, by now.”
I did a quick mental calculation. “Wait a minute. He’s got to be past the age limit by now.”
“Exactly right! He admitted the truth, when he was assured of confidentiality. Seems he didn’t want to stop donating when he reached sixty-five. He’s a hardy old fellow . . . had a spot of surgery a few years back, but he’s in quite decent shape, overall. So, right after his local Gallon Club threw a big retirement party for him, he actually moved across the county and registered at a new blood bank, giving a false name and a younger age!”
“Kinky. But it sounds harmless enough. I’d guess he just likes to feel needed. Bet he flirts with the nurses and enjoys the free food . . . sort of a bi-monthly party he can always count on, with friendly appreciative people.”
Hey, just because I’m a selfish bastard doesn’t mean I can’t extrapolate the behavior of altruists. Like most other user-types, I’ve got a good instinct for the sort of motivations that drive suckers. People like me need to know such things.
“That’s what I thought too, at first,” Les said, nodding. “I found a few more like him, and decided to call them ‘addicts.’ At first I never connected them with the other group , the one I named ‘converts.’”
“Converts?”
“Yes, converts. People who suddenly become blood donors—get this—very soon after they’ve recovered from surgery themselves!”
“Maybe they’re paying off part of their hospital bills that way?”
“Mmm, not really. We have nationalized health, remember? And even for private patients, that might account for the first few donations only.”
“Gratitude, then?” An alien emotion to me, but I understood it, in principle.
“Perhaps. Some few people might have their consciousnesses raised after a close brush with death, and decide to become better citizens. After all, half an hour at a blood bank, a few times a year, is a small inconvenience in exchange for . . .”
Sanctimonious twit. Of course he was a donor. Les went on and on about civic duty and such until the waitress arrived with our pizza and two fresh bitters. That shut him up for a moment. But when she left, he leaned forward, eyes shining.
“But no, Forry. It wasn’t bill-paying, or even gratitude. Not for some of them, at least. More had happened to these people than having their consciousnesses raised. They were converts, Forry. They began joining Gallon Clubs, and more! It seems almost as if, in each case, a personality change had taken place.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that a significant fraction of those who have had major surgery during the last five years seem to have changed their entire set of social attitudes! Beyond becoming blood donors, they’ve increased their contributions to charity, joined the Parent-Teacher organizations and Boy Scout troops, become active in Greenpeace and Save The Children . . .”
“The point, Les. What’s your point?”
“My point?” He shook his head. “Frankly, some of these people were behaving like addicts . . . like converted addicts to altruism. That’s when it occurred to me, Forry, that what we might have here was a new vector.”
He said it as simply as that. Naturally I looked at him, blankly.
“A vector!” he whispered, urgently. “Forget about typhus, or smallpox, or flu. They’re rank amateurs! Wallies who give the show away with all their sneezing and flaking and shitting. To be sure, AIDS uses blood and sex, but it’s so damned savage, it forced us to become aware of it, to develop tests, to begin the long, slow process of isolating it. But ALAS—”
“Alas?”
“A-L-A-S.” He grinned. “It’s what I’ve named the new virus I’ve isolated, Forry. It stands for ‘Acquired Lavish Altruism Syndrome.’ How do you like it?”
“Hate it. Are you trying to tell me that there’s a virus that affects the human mind? And in such a complicated way?” I was incredulous and, at the same time, scared spitless. I’ve always had this superstitious feeling about viruses and vectors. Les really had me spooked now.
“No, of course not,” he laughed. “But consider a simpler possibility. What if some virus one day stumbled on a way to make people enjoy giving blood?”
I guess I only blinked then, unable to give him any other reaction.
“Think, Forry! Think about that old man I spoke of earlier. He told me that every two months or so, just before he’d be allowed to donate again, he tends to feel ‘all thick inside.’ The discomfort only goes away after the next donation!”
I blinked again. “And you’re saying that each time he gives blood, he’s actually serving his parasite, providing it a vector into new hosts . . .”
“The new hosts being those who survive surgery because the hospital gave them fresh blood, all because our old man was so generous, yes! They’re infected! Only this is a subtle virus, not a greedy bastard, like AIDS, or even the flu. It keeps a low profile. Who knows, maybe it’s even reached a level of commensalism with its hosts—attacking invading organisms for them, or . . .”
He saw the look on my face and waved his hands. “All right, far-fetched, I know. But think about it! Because there are no disease symptoms, nobody has ever looked for this virus, until now.”
He’s isolated it, I realized, suddenly. And, knowing instantly what this thing could mean, career-wise, I was already scheming, wondering how to get my name onto his paper, when he published this. So absorbed was I that, for a few moments, I lost track of his words.
“ . . . and so now we get to the interesting part. You see, what’s a normal, selfish Tory-voter going to think when he finds himself suddenly wanting to go down to the blood bank as often as they’ll let him?”
“Um,” I shook my head. “That he’s been bewitched? Hypnotized?”
“Nonsense!” Les snorted. “That’s not how human psychology works. No, we tend to do lots of things without knowing why. We need excuses, though, so we rationalize! If an obvious reason for our behavior isn’t readily available, we invent one, preferably one that helps us think better of ourselves. Ego is powerful stuff, my friend.”
Hey, I thought. Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.
“Altruism,” I said aloud. “They find themselves rushing regularly to the blood bank. So they rationalize that it’s because they’re good people . . . they become proud of it. Brag about it . . .”
“You’ve got it,” Les said. “And because they’re proud, even sanctimonious about their newfound generosity, they tend to extend it, to bring it into other parts of their lives!”
I whispered in hushed awe. “An altruism virus! Jesus, Les, when we announce this . . .”
I stopped when I saw his sudden frown, and instantly thought it was because I’d used that word, “we.” I should have known better, of course. For Les was always more than willing to share the credit. No, his reservation was far more serious than that.
“Not yet, Forry. We can’t publish this yet.”
I shook my head. “Why not! This is big, Les! It proves much of what you’ve been saying all along, about symbiosis and all that. There could even be a Nobel in it!”
I’d been gauche, and spoken aloud of The Ultimate. But he did not even seem to notice. Damn. If only Les had been like most biologists, driven more than anything else by the lure of Stockholm. But no. You see, Les was a natural. A natural altruist.
It was his fault, you see. Him and his damn virtue, they drove me to first contemplate what I next decided to do.
“Don’t you see, Forry? If we publish, they’ll develop an antibody test for the ALAS virus. Donors carrying it will be barred from the blood banks, just like those carrying AIDS and syphilis and hepatitis. And that would be incredibly cruel torture to those poor addicts and carriers.”
“Screw the carriers!” I almost
shouted. Several pizza patrons glanced my way. With a desperate effort I brought my voice down. “Look, Les, the carriers will be classified as diseased, won’t they? So they’ll go under doctor’s care. And if all it takes to make them feel better is to bleed them regularly, well, then we’ll give them pet leeches!”
Les smiled. “Clever. But that’s not the only, or even my main reason, Forry. No, I’m not going to publish, yet, and that is final. I just can’t allow anybody to stop this disease. It’s got to spread, to become an epidemic. A pandemic.”
I stared, and upon seeing that look in his eyes, I knew that Les was more than an altruist. He had caught that specially insidious of all human ailments, the Messiah Complex. Les wanted to save the world.
“Don’t you see?” he said urgently, with the fervor of a proselyte. “Selfishness and greed are destroying the planet, Forry! But nature always finds a way, and this time symbiosis may be giving us our last chance, a final opportunity to become better people, to learn to cooperate before it’s too late!
“The things we’re most proud of, our prefrontal lobes, those bits of gray matter above the eyes which make us so much smarter than beasts, what good have they done us, Forry? Not a hell of a lot. We aren’t going to think our way out of the crises of the 20th Century. Or, at least, thought alone won’t do it. We need something else, as well.
“And Forry, I’m convinced that something else is ALAS. We’ve got to keep this secret, at least until it’s so well established in the population that there’s no turning back!”
I swallowed. “How long? How long do you want to wait? Until it starts affecting voting patterns? Until after the next election?”
He shrugged. “Oh, at least that long. Five years. Possibly seven. You see, the virus tends to only get into people who’ve recently had surgery, and they’re generally older. Fortunately, they also are often influential. Just the sort who now vote Tory . . .”
He went on. And on. I listened with half an ear, but already I had come to that fateful realization. A seven year wait for a goddamn co-authorship would make this discovery next to useless to my career, to my ambitions.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 154
