Double Helix (6 page)

Wherever my father was, I knew he would be wondering where I was, too. I knew he would be angry. Wanting an explanation. And spoiling for a fight about my new job and about Dr. Wyatt.

Before coming to dinner, I hadn't called my father or left him a message about where I was going or what I was doing. I - wouldn't call now, either. Let him stew. He'd walked out on my high school graduation . . . and even though I hadn't been sure I really wanted him there, even though I was glad to sidestep his meeting Viv, it still wasn't right of him to have walked out.

No. Actually, I just didn't want to tell him I was with Dr. Wyatt when I should have been with him. I was vaguely ashamed. But it wasn't my fault.

The waiter arrived with water and a bread basket. “Something to drink?”

I was about to ask for a Coke, but Dr. Wyatt waved the wine list. “We'll have this 1995 Brunello di Montalcino.” He turned to me. “It's a nice Italian red.”

“Uh, sure,” I said after a second. I didn't want to appear unsophisticated, and if the waiter didn't notice that I was under the legal drinking age—and because of my size, people did tend to think me older than I was—I wouldn't mention it. It was only wine. Still, I wasn't sure I wanted to drink ever again in my lifetime. I hadn't had any alcohol since the night I had fought with my father, polished off his dusty bottle of scotch, and then emailed Dr. Wyatt.

Luckily the waiter had already provided big glasses of water.

“An appetizer?” asked the waiter.

“Let's try the coconut shrimp,” said Dr. Wyatt. “And a plate of the frogs' legs. Oh, and maybe the blue cheese, pear, and walnut salad. Two plates and serving spoons so we can both try everything.”

The waiter departed. I hoped I'd be allowed to choose my own dinner. I said to Dr. Wyatt, “Uh, I might not have any frogs' legs.”

“Of course you will. You should go through life seeking out new and different experiences, especially when you're young. It broadens the mind. What? What's that expression? What are you thinking?”

I shrugged. “It's just that, well, you hear that a lot. About the importance of a broad mind. We hear it all the time at school, for example.”

“So?”

“So—well, Viv and I—you met Viv today—had this conversation recently. Isn't it possible that there are times when you'd want people not to have broad minds? When it would be an advantage to be, oh, narrow and provincial?”

Dr. Wyatt leaned forward. “Such as?”

“Well, suppose it's wartime. If orders really need to be followed, then it would not be helpful for soldiers to have knowledge, say, of the enemy's culture. That knowledge would just make you feel terrible about what you have to do. And in some cases, it might make you question your orders—might make you disobey.”

“Yes,” Dr. Wyatt said. “It's one reason why military training de-emphasizes individuality and emphasizes the importance of the team, the group, and of the order of command. Following orders has to be made instinctual and automatic.”

“Right,” I said. The wine arrived and Dr. Wyatt went through the tasting ceremony with the waiter, who then deftly poured a glass for each of us. The whole process took time, and I found myself thinking that I couldn't remember how long it had been since I'd had an intellectual conversation with an adult.

Once upon a time, I'd talked with my parents this way, of course, but no longer.

Now I felt the words and ideas gather pressure inside me. Finally, the waiter left. Dr. Wyatt steepled his hands on the table and leaned toward me.

“So,” he said. “You interest me greatly, Eli. Soldiers—you were saying . . .”

“That soldiers are better off without too much broadening,” I said. “Or, at least that's what we would think. But I've wondered—listen, do you like science fiction?”

Dr. Wyatt nodded. “Most people in the sciences do.”

“Okay, then, you have to have noticed that you just keep seeing book after book, movie after movie, TV series after TV series, with robots or androids or genetically created hybrids of some kind or other. Right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And they're always created with the idea that because - they're not human, they'll be terrific, sort of, servants and will do whatever is asked of them. They'll follow orders exactly and they'll perform perfectly.” I gulped some of my water.

“Perfect soldiers, yes.” I thought Dr. Wyatt's smile was a little indulgent.

I said, “Yeah, soldiers, a lot of the time. We're—Viv and I are fascinated with that. But—the thing I want to say—in the end, it doesn't matter what job it is we've imagined that these created beings will perform. The fact is, it never works out.”

“Never?” said Dr. Wyatt quizzically.

“Never,” I repeated firmly. “We dream about the perfect, narrow-focused creature, we say it's what we want. But then something always goes wrong—or right—in these stories, and the robots always develop independence and individuality and don't want to obey anymore. Always. From
Frankenstein
on.”

“Hmm,” said Dr. Wyatt. “You mean that they're searching for free will?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “What Viv says is that these creatures actually develop a soul. Every time we try to imagine that ideal robot or whatever, that soulless creature, we fail. At some deep level, Viv thinks, we humans believe every being must have a soul. Or, I guess you'd say, we humans believe that every humanlike creature must have free will—or whatever you want to call that unique something that makes us human.”

“But I don't personally think that,” said Dr. Wyatt. “I concede that most humans
like
to believe in free will. Or call it a soul, if you must. But free will is an illusion. All human decision-making can ultimately be traced back to material causes. One set of neurons fires instead of another—and so we go left instead of right.

“Now, the decision-making process is certainly more complex in humans than in other animals, but I don't really think there's any sharp dividing line distinguishing human moral choices from the kind of daily choices that are made by any animal.” He shrugged. “Free will? The soul? Something unique in humans that separates us from animals? It's a fairy tale we've invented to shield us from reality.”

His eyes sharpened on me. “Obviously, from what you've said, your girlfriend has some vested interest in believing this sort of thing. Many people do, and so what? But what about you, Eli? You're a rational being. You have some grounding in science, and not just science fiction written by—excuse me—nineteenth-century hysterics like Mary Shelley. What do you think? Does free will—the soul—some basic human essence—exist ?”

I hesitated. Was he insulting Viv? But no—he didn't know her. This was an intellectual discussion only—and a fascinating one. What did I think?

I looked him right in the eye. “I think that, as a species, we visit this topic in fiction over and over not because—or not only because—we're obsessed with the human soul. I think that just gives us a framework for discussion. The real reason is because, as a society, we're on the verge of making the creation of life, by humans, reality. We're trying to find ways to talk about it with people who aren't necessarily able to understand the science—because we all have to participate. As a species, I mean. We all have to decide what's best to do.” I wanted to add,
what choices to make,
but then I remembered that Dr. Wyatt had just said he didn't really believe in moral choice. Just in neurons.

“Aha,” said Dr. Wyatt. Then he smiled. “I see. Well, you and I needn't use the made-up worlds of fiction in order to talk about humans creating life.”

“Robots are real,” I said. “Cloning of animals is viable. Human cloning—it's going to happen.”

“Yes. Exactly! We're living in the most exciting period of human history. Incredible control, incredible power over our own destiny, is almost within our grasp. There's a wonderful world ahead—new mysteries unlock to our eyes every day. God created man?” His chin jerked up. “So what? We are going to be able to do that, too. And eventually—it will all take time—we'll do a better job at it.”

I stared at him. Of course the idea wasn't new—but hearing it . . . hearing it from Quincy Wyatt . . . hearing it aloud . . .
Do a better job than God?

“There's just so much wrong,” Dr. Wyatt added quietly. “Disease. Suffering.” His eyes were intense, but I had the sense he was looking inward. His voice was low. Sad.

“There so much wrong, Eli. There's so much human pain and anguish in this world that I believe needn't happen at all.”

IT WAS 9:30 WHEN I returned home from dinner, usually a time at which my father could be found in the living room, his feet propped on the coffee table as, simultaneously, he watched television and read. Tonight, however, the apartment was silent and almost completely dark. Almost. There was a sliver of light beneath the door of my parents'—my father's—bed-room at the far end of the hall.

I stood at the other end, next to the living room, and for some minutes looked at the crack of light spilling onto the dreary brown carpet. Then I turned away and went into the kitchen, flipping the light switch on, dumping my backpack on a chair, and opening and closing the refrigerator. I knew I was just moving around for the sake of moving around. I was still pretty wired from having that incredible dinner and conversation with Dr. Wyatt.

I opened the refrigerator a second time. Then I shoved the refrigerator door shut with my elbow. I knew the noise would be audible throughout the apartment—as had the noise of my key in the lock when I got home, and of my footsteps moving about ever since.

I was being ignored. And even though we'd been living very carefully together, my father and I, these past years, more roommates than family at times—I suddenly realized that never before had I come home and not gotten some kind of greeting. Even on the few occasions in the last year when I'd stayed out very late at Viv's. I'd come home those nights—trying to be quiet—and my father would always hear me. He would stick his head out into the hall, and say, “Good, you're home. Now go to bed.”

He'd stayed up waiting those nights, I now let myself understand. He'd stayed up, with the light under his bedroom door like tonight, and he'd done that even though I wouldn't ever tell him where I was. Even though all I would say to him was, “It's nothing to worry about, not drugs or wild parties or drinking or anything.”

I sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. I closed my eyes briefly and saw my father as he had been this afternoon, at the graduation, with his fury boiling off him as he strode up the aisle and away.

Dr. Wyatt had said how much he looked forward to my starting work on Monday. He had driven me home just now. Had my father heard his Lexus idling outside when I got out of it? Had he heard my voice saying good-bye, see you Monday ?

It was a warm, pleasant evening. My father's bedroom windows faced the street.

I ought to have called him. I always called when I was going to be at Viv's.

Okay. I could go knock on his door now. I could just say—

Then I saw the note on the kitchen table: a single sheet of lined paper, folded in half.
Eli
. The letters were formed in my father's precise handwriting.

I snatched it up.

I read the note three times. Then I sat quietly in the kitchen beneath the fluorescent light for a few minutes, until I was ready to go down the hall and knock on his door.

“Come in,” said my father.

He was sitting up in bed, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, with a book in his hands. He said, “Have a seat. Just toss that stuff from the chair on the floor. I keep thinking I'll do laundry soon.”

I heard myself say, “I could throw in a load now. I bet the laundry room is empty.”

“No, I'll do it tomorrow.”

We were silent. I moved his small pile of clothing from the chair to the floor and sat down. Then I blurted, “But I have to ask questions.”

“No,” said my father steadily. “I can't answer them.”

“But if I'm giving up a good job—a job I think I'd really like—”

“Are you giving it up?” interrupted my father.

I shrugged uneasily. “I don't know. If you would only tell me what you have against him, maybe I would.”

“No.”

“I need a job. This is as good a job as I could hope to find.”

“We're not discussing whether you need a job right now. I still think you should go to college in September. There are ways even now. But suppose I were to agree to your working—just for a year. There are people at Harvard I could talk to. There was a group of professors that your mother used to hang out with, and if I asked them to nose around, I'm sure we could find you a research assistant job there. After all, you're only eighteen. You're not qualified to do much more than wash beakers and enter statistics into the computer. You can do that anywhere.”

“I'm told the job I'm starting at Wyatt Transgenics usually goes to college graduates with BS degrees.”