Biogenesis (13 page)

Whether Yuki would be able to give birth, and, if so, what kind
of child would come is a constant motif in the journal, but the doctor also expressed a certain doubt: “The woman that Higashino cared for may have been pregnant as well. If we searched carefully, we might unearth the bones of a male of her clan. But if giving birth is such a risky feat, how have they been managing their rebirths?” Whatever conclusions he may have drawn he did not put down on paper.

There is, however, this: “What if we had not woken Yuki from her hibernation.” The sentence fragment seems to suggest a notion on the doctor’s part that Yuki and the other woman from her clan might have given birth safely, in their customary manner, had they not been forced awake.

“Perhaps I made a mistake when I thought to save this girl.”

Those are the last words in his journal, written in a badly disordered hand. Do they indicate a feeling of regret at having roused them from their slumber? Nothing, however, to elaborate on this regret follows, only a series of blank pages.

Yuhki’s and Yuki’s remains were discovered by Sugita, who had come to work. Arriving at their cabin shortly after eight, she had drawn water at the well to bring them something to drink. According to the
Hokkaido Daily
, it was after the snows had begun to melt, on a day when the clouds seemed to hang low enough to shroud the mountains in a thick mist, that the nurse made the discovery. A fresh dusting of snow from just the day before covered the mountains, and an air of complete silence reigned in the area.

Yuhki was lying on Yuki’s sickbed as if to snuggle against her. Sugita tried to wake him but noticed that he was cold to the touch. Shocked to find that Yuki’s respiration had ceased altogether as well, the nurse ran to the village hall for help. The local police arrived and sent word to the barracks in Shinjo, and some two hours later, soldiers arrived by car. The fact that the pair had been sharing the same bed became an issue, and since the circumstances surrounding the deaths seemed unnatural at best, the regimental commander decided to
restrict the scene and to put the local police on their way. A doctor from Asahikawa 7th Division named Motoyasu Ashikaga was summoned, and a classified postmortem involving only military personnel was performed.

The army medical documents that later came to light included a report describing the conditions of the deceased. “Yuki Shinjo’s body was found atop the sickbed with that of army doctor Yuhki nestled close,” and everything from the hairs on their heads down to their toes was recorded in detail. Apparently, Yuki’s mouth had formed a faint smile and borne a small amount of blood around it. In light of the final passages of Yuhki’s journal, the blood must have been his, but Ashikaga, who knew nothing of that, wrote, “Injury to the oral cavity membrane upon death suspected.”

Neither had any external injuries, and the autopsy ruled that “natural causes” were the likely culprit. “There was no sign of a fire anywhere in the cabin, and the bodies of both persons were in a fresh state as if they had passed away only recently. Since their remains rested in an environment shuttered by snow that in effect preserved them in a frozen state, it is impossible to estimate the time of death. This does not contradict freezing as the cause of death,” the report summarized.

“According to the charts of his and her body temperatures kept by Dr. Yuhki, the curves indicating his patient Yuki Shinjo’s rising body temperature and his own slowly falling measurements intersected on the last night,” the report points out as a simple statement of fact.

“When the impossible occurs, science moves forward. And when science moves forward, the impossible occurs.”

Entering
The Lost Treasures of Natural Science
, an exhibition held at the National Museum from the fifth of September 2001 to the eleventh, visitors could see these words, spoken by Robert Gallo, hung within the wide entrance hall. One plant on display served as particular testament to their truth. Held behind a thick lead wall, visitors were only permitted to view the pressed specimen through an L-shaped crook, via the use of double mirrors. An accompanying note, which read “Special Exhibition, Presented under Strict Shielding,” added an unusual atmosphere of rarity to the display. The event sponsors, who had taken notice of an article of mine published in the August 15 edition of the
Japan Newspaper of Science
, entitled “Plant-life Acquires Radiation,” had made a rush decision to include the plant after planning for the event was already underway.

Every surface of the approximately four-inch pressed specimen, from the flowers, to the stem, all the way to the leaves, was entirely white, with diminutive foilage and hanging bell-shaped flowers. Only the stamen and pistil, tucked modestly at the base of their petals, showed the faintest hint of color. The leaves, which stood almost parallel to the stem and free of veins, were so thin as to be nearly transparent, resembling gossamer wings more so than leaves. Lacking a Latin scientific name, the accompanying plaque, along with the following explanation, referred to the plant only as “Midwinter Weed.”

The pressed specimen was discovered entirely by chance, by Kazuo Iwai, of the Asahikawa Museum of Flora and Fauna, as he was browsing through wartime botany journals. It was tucked between the leaves of a journal entitled
Natural History of the Empire
.

“Despite specializing in morphology and taxonomy, even I had never seen anything like it. Later, I pored through the illustrated references in search of the plant, but could find no instance of it. Of course, since the specimen conformed perfectly to the morphological
traits of the new species described in the pages of the article between which it had been pressed, it was easy enough to surmise that it was that very ‘midwinter weed’ described therein. But searching the library database for ‘midwinter weed’ from the lobby computers returned no matches, either for articles or other texts. Which led me to believe that, despite the article, the midwinter weed had been more or less forgotten to time.”

By this point, Dr. Iwai was already considering reporting on the flower’s existence anew and applying a proper scientific name to it—this time in an English-language journal. Though the flower was not alive, it had been preserved in very good condition. Iwai had likely come to the conclusion that a morphological classification would still be possible. Since Dr. Iwai and I were familiar through an academic association, he telephoned to ask me whether I could analyze the plant genetically. Soon after, a package arrived at my laboratory in Tokyo, the Center for Molecular Cell Biology. Wrapped in styrofoam and desiccant, the package contained a single pressed flower.

“This specimen very well may be the last of its kind in existence and is very precious. Handle it with the utmost care. When you cut your sample for analysis, try not to damage its form, and please take as small a portion as absolutely necessary.”

I removed the specimen (along with this note) from its packaging. The plant’s transparency and sheen were similar to artificial celluloid flowers. Usually, during analysis, oxygen is used to reproduce trace genetic material in a method of amplification known as PCR. A root, treated as a liquid, is placed in the test tube together with a reaction liquid containing oxygen. The tube is then placed into a machine which produces set temperature changes which cause the reaction to occur. In theory, the synthetic reaction is repeated using the genes you wish to analyze as the template. However, a short fragment of DNA, known as a primer, is also necessary. For plants, when the identity of the genetic material being used is an unknown, other known genes are
used in its place. The genetic differences among botanical life are not especially varied, and a large degree of homology exists. Visible differences, such as the shape or color of the flower, actually correspond to changes in no more than one small portion of an organism’s vast genetic material.

I extracted the reacted fluid via a pipette, placed it in an agar medium, electrophoresised it, and then inspected it under ultraviolet lighting. The DNA band, however, which ought to have been stained a visible orange at this point, was still nowhere to be found. Adjusting the temperatures and substituting the type and length of the primer as I went, I repeated the same steps nearly thirty times until finally, through trial and error, a single instance of synthetic reaction occurred. Using the automated DNA analyzer, I fed the resultant base strand into the computer. The results showed a perfect match for human (
Homo sapiens
) DNA.

Whenever samples are taken from natural environments, it often occurs that outside DNA, from human handling, or possibly sweat, will contaminate a specimen during gathering or transport. Suspecting this to be the case, I cleansed the root’s surface using a variety of acidic and alkaline solutions, repeating the process with the utmost care. But regardless of the number of times I repeated the process, the results remained the same.

Around this time, a certain problem began to arise in our laboratory. Quantities of film which had been placed safely within a dark box for storage were found to have somehow been exposed to light. The other lab researchers were in a huff. Whenever they attempted to use film in their experiments, they found afterwards that it had already been exposed to a point of total blackness, rendering the film, of course, entirely useless. Suspecting that somebody had accidentally allowed light to enter into the film packaging, I called in each of the newest members, who were still inexperienced in experimental procedure, in order to question them one at a time on what experiments they had
been performing and when. Despite denial by all those questioned, the exposure continued to occur just as before. The unnatural nature of this phenomenon, however, soon grew clear. By and large, the film had been exposed black from its center. This conflicted with what should have occurred had the packaging been left open accidentally and light been allowed to enter from a single end. A random sampling from all of the boxes held in storage was taken and developed, and it was discovered that even yet unopened materials, which clearly could have had no contact whatsoever with light, had also been pre-exposed to blackness. An outside source of radiation appeared to be the cause.

All researchers were asked to participate in a thorough search utilizing Geiger counters. Not only laboratory equipment and chemicals, but also individual desks and personal effects, even pocket change, were inspected, all to no avail. Until, after two days of searching, the Geiger counters responded dramatically. The source of the radiation was the midwinter weed, which was stored within a safe at the time. Having suspected the younger researchers of being responsible, I was left with considerable egg on my face. It appeared the exposure had been caused after I had placed the dried specimen on a shelf adjacent to the box of film in order to take my sample.

The problem, however, was where this contamination could have come from. As I was not utilizing any radioactive substances in my own experiments, I picked up the telephone to enquire with Dr. Iwai.

“There’re no radioactive materials being held at the museum …”

“I don’t use any in my own experiments, either.”

“Is it possible that materials from another laboratory contaminated the sample?”

“Aside from some very low-level materials, there aren’t any radioactive substances being used anywhere else in the center, either.”

After some discussion, Dr. Iwai and I could only conclude that the midwinter weed had been contaminated before Dr. Iwai had found it. Considering that the sample had likely sat untouched by human hands for a significant period, it also seemed probable that the contamination
had come from a radioactive element with a significantly long half-life. Since it was impossible, here at the Center for Molecular Cell Biology, to identify just what that material might be, the midwinter weed was instead sent to a radiation laboratory for further analysis.

A week later I received a brief comment from Dr. Narumi, the researcher handling the case, which contained very surprising results. “The source of the radiation appears to be contamination by uranium as well as its decay product.” Considering that uranium is not an element utilized in biological experiments, it seemed to be an improbable source of contamination. While the results did show that I was not responsible for the contamination itself, I had clearly failed in my duty to check the sample when it first arrived. The director of the center, who was responsible for reporting the contamination, requested a detailed account of the incident from me. Not only was the human DNA embedded too intrinsically into the sample to easily dismiss, but it was also contaminated with uranium, however unlikely that would seem. How was I to explain this? I telephoned Dr. Iwai.