Читать книгу Next - Michael Crichton, Michael Crichton - Страница 12

BioGen Research Inc. was housed in a titanium-skinned cube in an industrial park outside Westview Village in Southern California. Majestically situated above the traffic on the 101 Freeway, the cube had been the idea of BioGen’s president, Rick Diehl, who insisted on calling it a hexahedron. The cube looked impressive and high-tech while revealing absolutely nothing about what went on inside—which is exactly how Diehl wanted it.

In addition, BioGen maintained forty thousand square feet of nondescript shed space in an industrial park two miles away. It was there that the animal storage facilities were located, along with the more dangerous labs. Josh Winkler, an up-and-coming young researcher, picked up rubber gloves and a surgical mask from a shelf by the door to the animal quarters. His assistant, Tom Weller, was reading a news clipping taped to the wall.

“Let’s go, Tom,” Josh said.

“Diehl must be crapping in his pants,” Weller said, pointing to the article. “Have you read this?”

Josh turned to look. It was an article from the Wall Street Journal:

SCIENTISTS ISOLATE “MASTER” GENE

A Genetic Basis for Controlling Other People?

TOULOUSE, FRANCE—A team of French biologists have isolated the gene that drives certain people to attempt to control others. Geneticists at the Biochemical Institute of Toulouse University, headed by Dr. Michel Narcejac-Boileau, announced the discovery at a press conference today. “The gene,” Dr. Narcejac-Boileau said, “is associated with social dominance and strong control over other people. We have isolated it in sports leaders, CEOs, and heads of state. We believe the gene is found in all dictators throughout history.”

Dr. Narcejac-Boileau explained that while the strong form of the gene produced dictators, the milder heterozygous form produced a “moderate, quasi-totalitarian urge” to tell other people how to run their lives, generally for their own good or for their own safety.

“Significantly, on psychological testing, individuals with the mild form will express the view that other people need their insights, and are unable to manage their own lives without their guidance. This form of the gene exists among politicians, policy advocates, religious fundamentalists, and celebrities. The belief complex is manifested by a strong feeling of certainty, coupled with a powerful sense of entitlement—and a carefully nurtured sense of resentment toward those who don’t listen to them.”

At the same time, he urged caution in interpreting the results. “Many people who are driven to control others merely want everybody to be the same as they are. They can’t tolerate difference.”

This explained the team’s paradoxical finding that individuals with the mild form of the gene were also the most tolerant of authoritarian environments with strict and invasive social rules. “Our study shows that the gene produces not only a bossy person, but also a person willing to be bossed. They have a distinct attraction to totalitarian states.” He noted that these people are especially responsive to fashions of all kinds, and suppress opinions and preferences not shared by their group.

Josh said, “‘Especially responsive to fashions’…Is this a joke?”

“No, they’re serious. It’s marketing,” Tom Weller said. “Today everything is marketing. Read the rest.”

Although the French team stopped short of claiming that the mild form of the master gene represented a genetic disease—an “addiction to belonging,” as Narcejac-Boileau phrased it—they nevertheless suggested that evolutionary pressures were moving the human race toward ever-greater conformity.

“Unbelievable,” Josh said. “These guys in Toulouse hold a press conference and the whole world runs their story about the ‘master gene’? Have they published in a journal anywhere?”

“Nope, they just held a press conference. No publication, and no mention of publication.”

“What’s next, the slave gene? Looks like crap to me,” Josh said. He glanced at his watch.

“You mean, we hope it’s crap.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. We hope it’s crap. Because it gets in the way of what BioGen’s announcing, that’s for sure.”

“You think Diehl will delay the announcement?” Tom Weller asked.

“Maybe. But Diehl doesn’t like waiting. And he’s been nervous ever since he got back from Vegas.”

Josh tugged on his rubber gloves, put on safety goggles and his paper face-mask, then picked up the six-inch-long compressed-air cylinder, and screwed on the vial of retrovirus. The whole apparatus was the size of a cigar tube. Next, he fitted a tiny plastic cone on top of that, pushing it in place with his thumb. “Grab your PDA.”

And they pushed through the swinging door, into the animal quarters.

The strong, slightly sweet odor of the rats was a familiar smell. There were five or six hundred rats here, all neatly labeled in cages stacked six feet high, on both sides of an aisle that ran down the center of the room.

“What’re we dosing today?” Tom Weller said.

Josh read off a string of numbers. Tom checked his PDA listing of numerical locations. They walked down the aisle until they found the cages with that day’s numbers. Five rats in five cages. The animals were white, plump, moving normally. “They look okay. This is the second dose?”

“Right.”

“Okay, boys,” Josh said. “Let’s be nice for Daddy.” He opened the first cage, and quickly grabbed the rat inside. He held the animal by the body, forefingers expertly gripping the neck, and quickly fitted the small plastic cone over the rat’s snout. The animal’s breath clouded the cone. A brief hiss as the virus was released; Josh held the mask in place for ten seconds, while the rat inhaled. Then he released the animal back into the cage.

“One down.”

Tom Weller tapped his stylus on the PDA, then moved to the next cage.

The retrovirus had been bioengineered to carry a gene known as ACMPD3N7, one of the family of genes controlling aminocarboxymuconate paraldehyde decarboxylase. Within BioGen they called it the maturity gene. When activated, ACMPD3N7 seemed to modify responses of the amygdala and cingulate gyrus in the brain. The result was an acceleration of maturational behavior—at least in rats. Infant female rats, for example, would show precursors of maternal behavior, such as rolling feces in their cages, far earlier than usual. And BioGen had preliminary evidence for the maturational gene action in rhesus monkeys, as well.

Interest in the gene centered on a potential link to neurodegenerative disease. One school of thought argued that neurodegenerative illnesses were a result of disruptions of maturational pathways in the brain.

If that were true—if ACMPD3N7 were involved in, say, Alzheimer’s disease, or another form of senility—then the commercial value of the gene would be enormous.

Josh had moved on to the next cage and was holding the mask over the second rat when his cell phone went off. He gestured for Tom to pull it from his shirt pocket.

Weller looked at the screen. “It’s your mother,” he said.

“Ah hell,” Josh said. “Take over for a minute, would you?”

“Joshua, what are you doing?”

“I’m working, Mom.”

“Well, can you stop?”

“Not really—”

“Because we have an emergency.”

Josh sighed. “What did he do this time, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but he’s in jail, downtown.”

“Well, let Charles get him out.” Charles Silverberg was the family lawyer.

“Charles is getting him out right now,” his mother said. “But Adam has to appear in court. Somebody has to drive him home after the hearing.”

“I can’t. I’m at work.”

“He’s your brother, Josh.”

“He’s also thirty years old,” Josh said. This had been going on for years. His brother Adam was an investment banker who had been in and out of rehab a dozen times. “Can’t he take a taxi?”

“I don’t think that’s wise, under the circumstances.”

Josh sighed. “What’d he do, Mom?”

“Apparently he bought cocaine from a woman who worked for the DEA.”

“Again?”

“Joshua. Are you going to go downtown and pick him up or not?”

Long sigh. “Yes, Mom. I’ll go.”

“Now? Will you go now?”

“Yes, Mom. I’ll go now.”

He flipped the phone shut and turned to Weller. “What do you say we finish this in a couple of hours?”

“No problem,” Tom said. “I have some notes to write up back in the office, anyway.”

Joshua turned, stripping off his gloves as he left the room. He stuck his cylinder, goggles, and paper mask into the pocket of his lab coat, unclipped his radiation tag, and hurried to his car.

Driving downtown, he glanced at the cylinder protruding from the lab coat, which he had tossed onto the passenger seat. To stay within the protocol, Josh had to return to the lab and expose the remaining rats before five p.m. That kind of schedule and the need to keep to it seemed to represent everything that separated Josh from his older brother.

Once, Adam had had everything—looks, popularity, athletic prowess. His high school days at the elite Westfield School had consisted of one triumph after another—editor of the newspaper, soccer team captain, president of the debating team, National Merit Scholar. Josh, in contrast, had been a nerd. He was chubby, short, ungainly. He walked with a kind of waddle; he couldn’t help it. The orthopedic shoes his mother insisted he wear did not help. Girls disdained him. He heard them giggle as he passed them in the hallways. High school was torture for Josh. He did not do well. Adam went to Yale. Josh barely got into Emerson State.

How times had changed.

A year ago, Adam had been fired from his job at Deutsche Bank. His drug troubles were endless. Meanwhile, Josh had started at BioGen as a lowly assistant, but had quickly moved up as the company began to recognize his hard work and his inventive approach. Josh had stock in the company, and if any of the current projects, including the maturity gene, proved out commercially, then he would be rich.

And Adam…

Josh pulled up in front of the courthouse. Adam was sitting on the steps, staring fixedly at the ground. His ratty suit was streaked with grime and he had a day’s growth of beard. Charles Silverberg was standing over him, talking on his cell phone.

Josh honked the horn. Charles waved, and headed off. Adam trudged over and got in the car.

“Thanks, bro.” He slammed the door shut. “Appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Josh pulled into traffic, glancing at his watch. He had enough time to take Adam back to their mother’s house and get back to the lab by five.

“Did I interrupt something?” Adam asked.

That was the annoying thing about his brother. He liked to mess up everyone else’s life, too. He seemed to take pleasure in it.

“Yes, actually. You did.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? If you were sorry, you’d stop doing this shit.”

“Hey, man,” Adam said. “How the fuck was I supposed to know? It was entrapment, man. Even Charles said so. The bitch entrapped me. Charles said he would get me off easy.”

“There wouldn’t be any entrapment,” Josh said, “if you weren’t using.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself! Don’t lecture me.”

Josh said nothing. Why did he even bring it up? After all these years, he knew nothing he said mattered. Nothing made a difference. There was a long silence as he drove.

“I’m sorry,” Adam said.

“You’re not sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Adam said. “You’re right.” He hung his head. He sighed theatrically. “I fucked up again.”

The repentant Adam.

Josh had seen it dozens of times before. The belligerent Adam, the repentant Adam, the logical Adam, the denying Adam. Meanwhile his brother always tested positive. Every time.

An orange light came on on the dashboard. Gas was low. He saw a station up ahead. “I need gas.”

“Good. I got to take a leak.”

“You stay in the car.”

“I got to take a leak, man.”

“Stay in the fucking car.” Josh pulled up alongside the pump and got out. “Stay where I can fucking see you.”

“I don’t want to pee in your car, man…”

“You better not.”

“But—”

“Just hold it, Adam!”

Josh put a credit card in the slot and started pumping gas. He glanced at his brother through the rear windshield, then looked back at the spinning numbers. Gas was so damn expensive now. He probably should buy a car that was cheaper to run.

He finished and got back in the car. He glanced at Adam. His brother had a funny look on his face. There was a faint odor in the car.

“Adam?”

“What.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

He started the engine. That smell…Something silver caught his eye. He looked at the floor between his brother’s feet and saw the silver cylinder. He leaned over, picked up the cylinder. It was light in his hand.

“Adam…”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Josh shook the cylinder. It was empty.

“I thought it was nitrous or something,” his brother said.

“You asshole.”

“Why? It didn’t do anything.”

“It’s for a rat, Adam. You just inhaled virus for a rat.”

Adam slumped back. “Is that bad?”

“It ain’t good.”

By the time Josh pulled up in front of his mother’s house in Beverly Hills, he had thought it through and concluded that there was no danger to Adam. The retrovirus was a mouse-infective strain, and while it might also infect human beings, the dose had been calculated for an animal weighing eight hundred grams. His brother weighed a hundred times as much. The genetic exposure was subclinical.

“So, I’m okay?” Adam said.

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about that,” Adam said, getting out of the car. “But thanks for picking me up. See you, bro.”

“I’ll wait until you get inside,” Josh said. He watched as his brother walked up the drive and knocked on the door. His mother opened it. Adam stepped inside, and she shut the door.

She never even looked at Josh.

He started the engine and drove away.