The Immortality Factor (41 page)

Why does Simmonds want me to see Kindelberger? Jesse asked himself. It's obvious that the reverend and the senator have joined forces. That must be Faber's doing. But why do they want to drag me into it?

Looking around the spacious lobby, Jesse saw that the senators had no objections to making themselves comfortable. This building's a goddamned marble palace, he thought. It must have cost a fortune and a half. A young black
woman came to the information desk, shoes clicking on the marble floor, and introduced herself as one of Senator Kindelberger's aides. She led him to the elevators, then down a handsome wide corridor to the senator's suite of offices. Bigger than most of the wards back at Mendelssohn, Jesse thought as he gaped at the rich wood paneling and the young staffers who didn't seem to be straining themselves too hard with work. A lot of talking going on; a lot of telephoning.

Jesse wondered what Julia would think of it. She had applied for U.S. citizenship before getting pregnant again. He wondered how the Congress would stack up against the House of Commons in her eyes.

Elwood Faber had set the meeting for ten o'clock. But although Jesse had made certain to be precisely on time, when his guide ushered him into the senator's office he saw that Faber and Reverend Simmonds were both already there, seated in front of the senator's desk. And another man.

He looked familiar: a round, puffy-looking face with baggy eyes. Twenty pounds overweight. Unhealthy grayish pallor; Jesse guessed that he suffered from a circulatory disorder. Forty-five, maybe fifty years old. The guy wasn't much bigger than Simmonds, except in his bulging middle. Jesse knew he had seen him somewhere before. Those sleepy, hooded eyes. When you looked into them they were cold gray, calculating, cynical.

“Dr. Marshak.” Kindelberger got up and came around his massive desk, smiling warmly, hand outstretched in greeting. He towered over Jesse, a big rawboned man with a tanned, craggy, weatherbeaten face. He's had a couple of melanomas removed, Jesse saw. At his age, he's vulnerable.

“You know Reverend Simmonds, of course, and Mr. Faber,” said the senator, not letting go of Jesse's hand. “I'd like you to meet Joshua Ransom.”

That's
who it is! The face clicked into Jesse's memory as soon as he heard the name. Joshua Ransom. The self-styled activist. The man who had stopped or delayed a dozen new biotechnology programs with legal maneuverings. Neither a scientist nor a lawyer, Ransom had still managed to carry his objections against new scientific breakthroughs all the way up to the Supreme Court.

“King of the Luddites,” Jesse said to Ransom with a smile.

Ransom did not smile back. “I've been called that,” he said in a reedy tenor voice. “It's a title I accept as an honor.”

Kindelberger looked uneasy.

“It's all right, Senator,” said Simmonds. Turning to Jesse, “We're all on the same side here, aren't we, Dr. Marshak?”

Jesse realized the reverend was right. “I suppose we are,” he said reluctantly.

Kindelberger sat Jesse between Ransom and Simmonds, then went back behind his desk to the big swivel chair. Faber sat off to one side of the office, fading into the background like a professional servant.

“Have you had your breakfast, Doctor? Would you like some coffee, tea, whatever?”

“A cup of coffee will be fine,” Jesse said.

Kindelberger jabbed a finger at the woman who had ushered Jesse into the office. “I'll have a cup, too. What about you fellas?”

Simmonds and Faber both asked for decaffeinated coffee.

Ransom said, “Pure fruit juice for me. No concentrates, no preservatives.”

Jesse wanted to ask Ransom if he ever took aspirin, but decided not to. Ransom represented a powerful political force, and the senator had invited him to this meeting for a purpose. No sense starting an argument right off the bat. With Simmonds's religious zealots and Ransom's antiscience activists, Kindelberger was putting together a serious coalition.

Kindelberger leaned so far back in his chair that Jesse thought he was going to put his feet up on the desk. But instead, he grinned and said, “I bet you're wondering why we asked you here this morning.”

“It's obviously got to do with the trial,” said Jesse.

“Damn right,” said the senator. Immediately he looked at Simmonds and apologized, almost sheepishly, “Sorry, Reverend. No offense.”

Simmonds said, “The senator needs to know why you oppose your brother's work.”

Jesse felt alarmed. Why do they want to know? Isn't it enough that I'm ready to stick my neck out and testify in the trial? What are they digging for?

The same black woman who had escorted Jesse to the office came in again, carrying a Lucite tray with four heavy mugs and two silver coffeepots, plus a tall glass of juice, giving Jesse a few moments to frame his answer while she put the tray on the senator's desk and poured the coffee and then left the office, closing the door softly behind her.

Simmonds has been damned good to the hospital, Jesse was thinking as he reached for his mug and sipped at the steaming brew. I don't want to lose him. But what's this senator after?

Ransom's eyes seemed to be boring into Jesse. “We all know why
we're
here. But what about you? What's your angle?”

“I see this as a moral issue,” Simmonds said, “and I assume that Dr. Marshak does, too.”

“In a way,” Jesse temporized.

Kindelberger's brows knitted together. “Look, now. If I'm going to come out against this thing I've got to know who's supporting me and why. I don't want to look stupid and I don't want to be hanging out there all by myself.”

“You won't be by yourself,” Ransom said.

“Certainly not,” Simmonds added. “All my people will be solidly behind you. We'll work for your reelection campaign.”

“That's fine,” Kindelberger said, his eyes never leaving Jesse's. “But I need to know why Dr. Marshak's going against his own brother on this.”

Jesse said nothing. He tried to hide behind his coffee mug, his mind desperately churning. What should I tell him? Why should I open my guts for them? Simmonds should never have put me in this position.

“What the senator needs to know,” Faber said in his soft, placating voice, “is whether or not your brother can actually regenerate organs in human beings.”

“That's what the trial is supposed to determine,” Jesse said.

“Oh, he'll be able to,” Ransom said, his voice dripping contempt. “Give a scientist enough time and enough money and he can do anything. Anything at all. Without a thought about what it means to the rest of the world. They just don't care about anybody except themselves.”

“That's bullshit,” Jesse snapped.

“Is it?” asked Ransom. “If you let the scientists have their own way they'd be poisoning us with toxic chemicals, creating monsters with genetic mutations, giving us cancer with radiation. I know! I've fought all my life to stop them.”

“Yeah, and all you did was delay developments that've given us better crop yields with smaller doses of pesticides. And cured victims of genetic diseases.”

“If it weren't for me we'd all have cancer!” Ransom shrilled.

“Gentlemen!” Simmonds's deep powerful voice stopped them. “No matter how we feel about these issues, that's not what we're here to discuss. We are all agreed that this work on organ regeneration must be stopped, isn't that right?”

Jesse had to admit that Simmonds was right. Arthur's work has to be stopped, and if I have to dance with the devil to do it, that's what I'll have to do.

Simmonds went on, “I am unalterably opposed to using fetal tissue for this or any research. It encourages women to have abortions. It encourages them to create life and then deliberately commit murder.”

“They never used fetal stem cells,” Jesse said. “They only used adult stem cells, and that was just at the beginning of the work. They've moved past that; they don't need stem cells at all now.”

“Then why are you against the research, Dr. Marshak?” Kindelberger asked again, with some irritation in his voice. “We've got to know.”

Jesse took a deep breath, put the coffee mug back on the Lucite tray. Simmonds was eying him from beneath his shaggy brows. Ransom looked suspicious. Kindelberger was frowning impatiently. Even the normally placid Faber looked curious.

“My personal opinion,” he said at last, “is that Arthur's got to be stopped.”

“Why?” Kindelberger demanded.

“Because of the tremendous risks involved with this work.”

“Risks?” echoed Simmonds.

“Arthur thinks he's got the tumor problem licked, but I'm not convinced of that. And then—”

“Tumor problem?” Kindelberger asked. “You mean it gives you cancer, don't you? That's what you said at the trial yesterday.”

Jesse answered, “In some cases the tumors have been malignant. They've been able to suppress them to some extent, but I don't think they've really solved the problem yet. The peptides they're using to initiate regrowth also stimulate tumor growth in just about all the experimental animals they've used.”

“Cancer,” Ransom said, as if he had invented the word.

“They think they can beat that problem,” Jesse said. “I'm not so sure.”

Ransom smiled. “Cancer is a scary word. We can use it like a club.”

Kindelberger shot him an accusing stare. “Oh, yeah? Then why isn't yesterday's testimony on the front pages this morning?”

“Because the trial is being covered by science reporters,” Ransom responded immediately, “not the first-team newshounds.”

“It's buried on page sixteen of the
Post,
” Kindelberger grumbled. “And the wire services barely mentioned it. None of the stories even say I was there.”

“Don't worry about it,” Ransom assured him. “When we want to make front-page news out of this, we'll have the material.” He turned his cold gray eyes to Jesse. “Won't we?”

“What do you mean?” Simmonds asked.

“It's simple,” Ransom said. Then he took a sip of his fruit juice, forcing them all to wait for his next words.

He put the glass down on the senator's desk, then resumed. “We stop treating this as a science story and turn it into a story about human conflict. Brother against brother.”

Jesse started to object, but Ransom went on, “We can also go another route. The senator, here, calls for an investigation of this regeneration work. Gets his committee to look into the cancer-causing angle. That'll get headlines, believe me.”

“There are other aspects to this,” Jesse said.

“Cloning stem cells,” Simmonds murmured darkly.

“But the threat of cancer is our ultimate weapon,” Ransom said, a nervous smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “We can use that one word to drown out everything else.”

“That's not fair,” Jesse said.

“All's fair in love and politics,” said Kindelberger.

Faber spoke up. “Could we get you to testify in the trial, Mr. Ransom?”

His face clouded. “No, they won't let me. I don't have the scientific credentials to suit them, so they won't let me appear.” Turning back to the senator, “But I could testify to a Senate committee, couldn't I?”

Simmonds saw the distress in Jesse's face. “There's something else bothering you, isn't there? Something you haven't mentioned to us.”

Despite himself, Jesse nodded.

“You broke with your brother more than a year ago, didn't you?” Simmonds said. “Before this cancer thing came out. Why? What's your real reason for being against him?”

Because he blamed me for Julia's miscarriage, Jesse thought. Because he hates me for taking Julia from him.

But aloud he answered, “This regeneration process, even when it works, is only going to be available to the very rich. It'll cost millions.”

“We've got health plans for the poor,” Kindelberger pointed out.

“I work with the poor,” Jesse snapped. “I see what your health plans do. You allow this into your health plan and it'll go bankrupt inside of a year.”

Kindelberger stared at him.

“Think a minute,” said Jesse. “Sooner or later Arthur's people will make the process work. They'll be able to regrow organs in your body without the threat of cancer. Then what? How many poor people need new hearts? How many alcoholics do I see every week who're dying of cirrhosis and need a new liver? Will your health plan be able to handle millions of regeneration cases each year? Each month? At a million bucks or so a shot?”

“A million millions per month,” Faber mumbled.

“That's a trillion dollars,” said Jesse.

“A trillion dollars?” Kindelberger gasped.

“Each month,” Jesse said.

“Impossible!”

“The rich will do what they've always done,” Jesse said, surprised at the heat in his own voice. “They'll buy their way into heaven. They'll live for hundreds of years once they can regenerate their failing organs. But the poor will still die like flies.”

The office fell absolutely silent for long, long moments.

Finally Faber said softly, “Well, I don't know about you guys, but my health insurance sure won't cover anything that costs a million.”

“It's got to be stopped,” Simmonds said firmly. “It would be immoral to allow the rich to live longer and longer while the poor languish and die.”

“You can't stop it,” Jesse said. “Nobody can stop an idea.”

“We can,” said Ransom. “You've just given us the ammunition to do it. We play the poor against the rich.” He laughed out loud. “By god, it's
beautiful
!”

Kindelberger leaned far back in his chair again and clasped his hands together, almost prayerfully. “If we can get the proper political support, we can outlaw it. We can make it illegal to use federal funds for such research. We can tie up the process in the FDA and the other regulatory agencies.”