COSMOS magazine

Thursday, May 15

Alex seemed so much at ease with Dr. Collins and his two nurses that Jill felt okay excusing herself to visit the snack room down the hall. When she pushed open the swinging door she found two young men and a woman sitting around a white Formica-topped table, the men with their white-clad backs to her. She bought a bottle of apple juice and a candy bar from the vending machine, sat at a table near them, listened idly to their animated conversation. Obviously they didn't have a child here for a life and death examination.

"—aim for human testing to begin no later than the middle of next year." The slim auburn haired man crunched his paper cup and made a perfect pitch into the open trash can beside the snack machines. "What do you think, Drew, will Roberta go for it?"

Wait a minute, Jill thought, I know that accent. Goosebumps rose on her skin. Unfashionably longish hair to his collar. He turned his head. Yes, beard a couple of shades lighter than his hair. She didn't like beards as a rule, but it looked good on him. Paul... what? She couldn't recall his surname, briefly glimpsed in the book he'd left on her table at the Farmers' Market and then retrieved before she could do more than glance at it. In his white lab coat, he was presumably a doctor, or maybe a research scientist.

"If she doesn't," Paul added, "we need to look for some other source. BlickPharm, maybe, although I've heard some nasty stories about them."

BlickPharm? Her ears really pricked up. Nasty stories? Blick Enterprises was exemplary in its support for environmental science. What was that accent. South African, maybe? There'd been an address inside that book. Australian, that was it. She sniggered, briefly imagined him in shorts, wrestling a crocodile, mugging at the TV camera. No, not that sort of Aussie, and anyway that poor guy had been killed by a stingray or something, hadn't he? The longer she watched and listened, the more she found herself intrigued.

"Wherever we go for funding," the woman told him, "we need a more formal write-up."

"Right, fair enough." Paul rose, turned from the table. "I think this is really high priority. If you can help me with it, mate—" He caught Jill staring at him, and looked carefully back at her. Surely he recognized her. Flustered, she turned away, face burning. A moment later, Paul and his companions walked toward the exit, continuing their passionate discussion. The door closed; he was gone.

Oh well, who cares. I'll probably never see him again and even if I did, so what. It's not as though I'm interested. Besides, even if there were the remotest chance any decent man could find me attractive, I don't have time to spend on men at this point in my life. I have my work.

And Alex. His seizure had been like a frightening wake-up call. He'd get well, she was sure of it. Then he'd be grown up before she knew it. Seemed like only a couple of weeks ago he was a tiny baby. Fragile and ephemeral, life. I have to take more time to do things with Alex, she told herself sternly, while he's still young.

Jill rose to leave, and noticed with disbelief that Paul had once again carelessly left a book on the table, half-hidden by paper napkin debris. On impulse, she picked it up, paused beside a Coke machine to examine her pilfered prize. It was the same book, she was sure of it. Looked expensive. Gold print on the spine. Mitochondrial Function and Electron Transport Enzymes in the Brain. Whatever that was. Inside the cover was the address label: "Paul Gibson, 34 Munro Street, Fitzroy, VIC." She felt a shiver pass through her. Had he left this for her deliberately? Could it be an unconscious signal, a bid for her attention? No, that was silly pop psychology. Or wishful thinking, let's be honest. He was just a klutz who kept forgetting things. The type that'd lose his head, as her grandfather used to say, if it wasn't screwed on. She could find him on the Internet. Google him, as Alex would put it. She hugged the book against her breasts and hurried out of the cafeteria.

As she walked back to Dr. Collins's office, she thought, God, I can't believe I've got a crush on a doctor. Keith is right about one thing. My attitude toward the medical profession has changed.

Friday, May 15

Just west of the grey drumming sweep of the McAllister Freeway, the Liberty Bar was definitely listing to the left. Paul stared in amazement. Drew had assured him the Victorian clapboard place served the best pork chops in San Antonio, but it looked ready to subside into the wasteland of Avenue A.

"There was a flood in 1920, and the building's never been the same since," Drew explained, grinning. "The city inspectors give it their blessing year after year. No danger of it falling down. My girlfriend got me in the habit of coming to this place. She runs an art gallery not too far from here." Drew held open the door.

They ordered quickly, and Drew pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket. "How familiar are you with the PAHGE bill?"

"Never heard of it."

"Another politically heedless scientist, I swear! Prohibition Against Human Genetic Engineering. The House is set to vote on it next month. Here's part of the testimony some nitwit presented at a committee hearing. Tell me what you think about it."

Paul read the crumpled paper in growing disbelief as the waitress set a teapot in front of him.

PROTESTANT PERSPECTIVE ON GENETIC RESEARCH

Jack B. Price

Professor of Christian Ethics

The Parkland Baptist

Theological Seminary

Fayetteville, Arkansas

I believe that the biblical texts of the Old and New Testaments apply to every possible situation we might encounter, including the one before us today. We first have to ask ourselves, 'What is a human being?' The scriptures tell us that God created man in His image. To tamper with that sacred image, formed directly by the Hands of our Creator, is the sheerest blasphemy.

"What?" Paul stared up from the paper. "They consult a document three thousand years old to guide them in reaching regulatory decisions about the latest scientific research?" He took a sip of tea. Better than usual. Drew said nothing. "Okay, okay, I guess the Bible Belters deserve a chance to express their views. But surely the authorities don't pay serious attention to this fundamentalist drivel? I assure you, they wouldn't back home in Australia."

"The Reverend Price's radio program has a huge audience of devoted followers."

"Yeah, but.... but... I mean, don't those people go to the doctor when they get sick? They drive to the emergency ward, not the nearest church, right? They get their tetanus shots and polio vaccinations, and so do their kids. I don't see anything authorizing that in the Bible."

"Paul, these folks see genetic engineering as different from medicine. And, well, it is, let's face it. Our work's going to lead to a permanently altered gene pool."

"But my God, Drew, so what? That's what natural evolution does all the time! We're not hurting people. These are treatments to keep people healthy and young. Nobody wants to die of horrible diseases. Don't these holy rollers postpone their own deaths, if they can?"

Drew smiled wickedly, a Devil's Advocate. "Ah yes, but what if people with altered DNA aren't human anymore?"

"Oh, I see." Paul gave him a disgusted glance. "So being human means getting old and weak and then dying. But that happens to every animal." He flung up his hands. "People today already live twice as long as most did when the Bible was written."

The waitress placed slices of bread on the table, frowning a little at the outburst. "Mmm." Smiling, eyes closed, Drew savoured a bite. "Nothing like freshly baked bread to ease the pain of living in an insane world." He took a swallow of wine. "If it was just the Reverend Jack I wouldn't be concerned. But the OBD has come out in favour of the bill." OBD was the Organization of Biotechnology Development, a lobby group representing the pharmaceutical industry. Drew sighed. "Sometimes I wonder why we even bother. What's the point of burning ourselves out to give people better lives when they..."

"Oh c'mon, Drew. You're telling me the OBD's in favour of this bill!"

"Take a look." Drew found another creased paper. "Something weird's going on. Somebody's not playing by the rules."

Paul read:

Daniel W. Rollins, Ph.D.

PRESIDENT AND CEO,

HEALTH-TECH BIOPHARMACEUTICALS

PHOENIX, ARIZONA
ON BEHALF OF THE ORGANIZATION OF BIOTECHNOLOGY DEVELOPMENT BEFORE THE SUBCOMMITTEE ON TECHNOLOGY
COMMITTEE ON SCIENCE

U.S. HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

Research is helping us learn how to work with DNA to grow different types of cells or create specific proteins. Such research can result in new discoveries that will lead to freedom from our most dreaded diseases, such as cancer and AIDS.

However, there are grave risks associated with the manipulation of human DNA. OBD agrees with the conclusions of the National Bioethics Advisory Commission (NBAC) that it is dangerous to engage in research involving the manipulation of human DNA except under conditions that have been approved by the FDA.

"What the hell?" Paul's voice rose in frustration, and a middle-aged woman at the next table sent him an annoyed glance that he failed to notice. "Nobody's asking to do research that hasn't been FDA-approved!"

"Keep reading," said Drew.

He skimmed the rest. More talk of vague risks that might be associated with genetic engineering but nothing of substance, certainly nothing that could have justified the final paragraph:

OBD recommends the enactment of legislation that will place strict limits on such research. This testimony includes our analysis of the legislation proposed by the Administration.

"This is unbelievable. This is ostriches with their bloody heads in the sand." Trying to cover their lucrative, drug-selling asses, Paul thought angrily.

Drew nodded. "When I first saw it on the Web, I thought for a moment I was reading The Onion. Then I figured some prankster must have hacked the OBD web site. But I confirmed it with Dan Rollins himself."

Paul had never regarded himself as politically sophisticated. There were many aspects of America that baffled him. The love of guns. The incessant patriotism and flag-waving, although the enduring horror of September 11 and the long war in Iraq helped explain that. The power and wealth of fundamentalist religion, with its flagrant denial of basic biological reality. This, though—

"But, Drew, really, man," Paul said, battling his own reasoned cynicism, "the members of Congress, the people who make the final decision—they're intelligent, rational people. Aren't they? They wouldn't be swayed by rhetoric and non-sequiturs and... and general bullshit like this." He flipped the paper to the table, disgusted.

"They might not be swayed by it, but they could use it as an excuse to vote in favour of the bill. Maureen still keeps up with her old friends in D.C., still subscribes to the Washington Post." Drew's girlfriend Maureen Baumgarten was a history major who had done a master's in political science then spent three years working in Washington D.C. before going into the art business. "She's convinced this bill is very important to someone, or several someones, with plenty of money and power."

Paul shook his head despairingly. Sure, law-making was rarely as honest as it should be. Still, he found it difficult to imagine that anyone would cheat and lie just to block research that could improve everyone's health, including that of the law-makers and their families. On the other hand, that's exactly what they'd done with stem cell research. The fools trying to get this bill passed would suffer too, along with everyone else. It simply didn't make any sense.

"Drew, who the hell benefits from preventing genetic engineering to help sick people?" He thought of the astonishing benefits his smart mice hinted at. Not just healthier lives—smarter, too! Of course smartness didn't always seem to be at a premium in this dismal world.

"If we could figure that out," Drew agreed glumly, "maybe we could do something about it." His mood improved abruptly. "Listen, Paul, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I was talking to Roberta this afternoon."

"Oh?" Dr. Roberta Treadwell, it was said, had taken a few million handed her by George Milton, her eccentric natural father, invested it wisely and become vastly richer than his own father, a Twenties' bootlegger. She could have lived the remainder of her life in idle luxury, but she'd chosen instead to found MTJ Cancer Research Laboratories. Because she had the ability to gather in brilliant people like Drew, her firm had prospered during all the tech downturns.

"I told her about the work you're doing."

His heart started to race. "Oh?"

"She wants to talk you into coming with us when your UT fellowship expires. Maybe she'll agree to supply your funding needs."

Paul was speechless. The hope of a job offer from MTJ had crossed his mind more than once, but he had hardly dared bank on it. "Man, thank you, I don't know what to—"

But mercurial Drew was frowning at him, back to being a worried man. "Thing is, Paul, if this damn stupid law passes, it'll stall everything my department's doing." He drained his glass, clinked it down angrily. "I could be out of a job myself."

Paul looked around, feeling that he'd misplaced something. "Oh my god," he said.

"What?"

"I must have left it in the caf this afternoon," he said, shaking in head in frustration. "It's that crackpot woman, I swear it."

Drew stared at him, baffled.

"What woman? Left what?"

"I've lost my bloody book again."