Hypocrite's Isle (5 page)

‘To see ourselves as others see us …’ intoned Martin.

‘A comfort.’

‘What’s his good idea?’

‘I asked him to work on disturbing membrane architecture in tumour cells: I suggested he try mutating the S16 gene. My
thinking
was that division and membrane structure have to be linked, so if division control is altered in tumour cells, maybe there are differences in membrane structure too.’

‘You’re trying to get at division control through membrane limitation?’

Simmons nodded. ‘We’ve not had too much success through the known division genes, and mutating the membrane genes was always going to be difficult, but he’s just short-circuited the whole process by coming up with an alternative.’ Simmons told Martin about Valdevan.

‘Brilliant, providing you can still get it of course. It was a bit of a turkey as I remember?’

‘A complete loser, but it’s my bet the company will still have stocks.’

‘Then the sooner you write the better?’

‘That’s where the trouble started. Gavin wants to write the letter himself; just about bit my head off when I suggested I do it.’

‘Ah, senior lecturers don’t carry too much weight in Gavin’s world?’

‘No one carries much weight in Gavin’s world.’

‘What kind of degree did he get at Cambridge?’

‘A First. His director of studies confided that they had no option but to award him a First, but most of the staff would have preferred to have seen him under a train.’

‘There are a few in our third year I wouldn’t mind seeing join him,’ said Martin ruefully. ‘What’s happened to society? Half the buggers are substituting attitude for ability. They see themselves as customers rather than students. They’re paying so they expect a degree. You tell them they’ve failed an assignment and it’s …
Excuse me? I don’t think so
…’

Simmons smiled at Martin’s impression. ‘Well, Gavin’s not like that. He has genuine ability … but no common sense.’

‘Ah, if only you could teach that,’ sighed Martin.

 

Simmons found Mary Hollis alone in the lab when he got back. He asked her if she would be able to babysit on Saturday evening.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Simon’s on call and I’m not doing
anything
. I could do with catching up on some reading. By the way, what did you say to Gavin this morning?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘He’s been running round the lab like a mad thing, asking questions about setting up cell cultures and rooting around for equipment.’

‘Music to my ears,’ sighed Simmons. ‘He’s had a good idea. Why don’t you ask him about it?’

‘I did. He just smiled and put his finger to his lips.’

Simmons made a face. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. He’s come up with an alternative way of knocking out the S16 gene – without the need to mutate it.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘He noticed that an old anti-tumour drug called Valdevan has been reported to target the S16 gene so we could use that instead of mutating the cells.’

‘That should save you guys a whole lot of time.’

‘Exactly. He’s had a good idea which could save us a lot of time,’ said Simmons. ‘But there’s no call for secrecy. He’s not come up with a unifying theory to explain the universe. I’ll get him to tell us all about it at the next group meeting.’

‘I should have a first draft of my paper ready by next week. Will you have time to look at it?’

‘I’ll make time. I should think Jack Martin will be asking you to give an internal seminar about it quite soon.’

‘Sure, and then it’ll be time to start thinking about writing up my thesis.’

‘No problems there. Good solid research and three publications under your belt if the latest one gets accepted. Seems like three years have just flown by. Any thoughts about a post-doc position?’

‘I thought maybe Jerry Haldane’s lab at UCLA?’

‘Good choice,’ said Simmons. ‘And Californian sunshine as a bonus.’

‘I thought maybe you could put in a word for me?’

‘I’d be happy to.’

 

‘But what difference will membrane changes make?’ asked
Caroline
, leaning forward to be heard above the din of the student union on a Friday evening.

‘If membrane structure in tumour cells was changed in some way, it might be a difference we could exploit,’ replied Gavin.

‘How would you target the difference?’

‘We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,’ smiled Gavin.

‘It’s a good idea. Was it yours?’

Gavin shook his head. ‘No, Frank Simmons’, my supervisor. He’s a bright guy, nice too.’

‘So you don’t mind having him on the team then?’

‘Okay, okay … not all teams are bad. Mind you, that still doesn’t alter the fact that the research community is full of dead wood.’

Caroline screwed up her eyes, held up her finger and looked schoolmarmish. ‘Enough!’ she said, leaning forward to look into Gavin’s eyes for signs of dissent. Finally, deciding that there was only amusement there, she asked, ‘Can I get you another pint?’

‘Sure,’ said Gavin. He watched her disappear into the throng at the bar and, when she came back, holding a pint glass in
either
hand and making exaggerated slaloming movements to avoid exuberant groups of laughing people, he couldn’t help but smile broadly at her.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I was just thinking how nice you look.’

‘Let’s not start all that, shall we? We agreed.’

‘It’s okay … I say that to all the girls who buy me a pint.’

‘Even the ones who subsequently pour it over your head?’

‘Just joking,’ said Gavin quickly. ‘But I meant it; you do look nice.’

Any reply was rendered nigh impossible as a wall of amplified sound came between them. The first band of the night had begun their set. ‘Shall we dance?’ asked Caroline.

‘I don’t.’

She dragged him to his feet. ‘You do now.’

‘It’s come!’ A week had passed when Gavin burst into Frank
Simmons
’ office holding a small, plastic vial in one hand and reading excitedly from a covering letter in the other. ‘“Five grams Valdevan … for research purposes only … not for therapeutic use. Please sign and return agreement.” They’ve given it to me. Brilliant!’

‘Good show,’ said Simmons, who had been in the middle of a telephone conversation, but Gavin’s enthusiasm had overcome his annoyance. ‘The sooner you get started the better then.’

Mary and Tom exchanged smiles as Gavin, whistling loudly and tunelessly, started moving around the lab at a hundred miles an hour.

‘He’s like a ferret on speed,’ whispered Tom.

‘I think I preferred him when he was thinking,’ replied Mary.

‘Mary, what’s the best way to sterilise a solution of Valdevan?’ Gavin called across the lab.

‘Is it soluble in water?’

Gavin scanned through the specification sheet that
accompanied
the letter, tracing each line with his fingertip. ‘Yup, it says so.’

‘Then use a Millipore syringe filter. You’ll find one in the top drawer of the island bench. Be careful not to touch the business end with your fingers.’

‘I’m not a complete idiot.’

‘Sorry … I forgot … I think you may even have mentioned that …’

‘Light blue touch paper and retire immediately,’ whispered Tom under his breath, but Gavin was too busy to come back at Mary. He weighed out a little of the drug and dissolved it in distilled water before sucking up the solution into the barrel of a 10 ml syringe and expressing the solution through the filter membrane into a small, sterile bottle. ‘There we go …’ He
returned
to his desk in the corner of the lab, not so much to sit at it as sprawl over it, supporting his head with one hand while he made some calculations on a spiral-bound pad with the other, his fingers curled awkwardly round the pen. He occasionally broke off to use the end of the pen to punch numbers into a calculator as he worked out how much of the drug to add to the cell cultures. His plan – discussed and previously agreed with Frank Simmons – was to use several different concentrations of the drug in cultures: one of them would contain the manufacturer’s recommended dose, the others higher or lower levels.

He rechecked his figures before circling the calculated amounts and bringing out a number of flat glass bottles from the incubator. These were the cell cultures to be used for the experiment. They contained lab-stock tumour cells maintained at human body
temperature
. The bottles had been mounted on a piece of apparatus which had been timed to tilt them at regular intervals, ensuring that the cells which had stuck to the glass as they grew would be evenly bathed in nutrients and encouraged to form a continuous monolayer.

He placed each of the bottles in turn on the stage of an inverted microscope. The unusual configuration of this instrument ensured that it was possible to examine the cells from below, rather than above as with a conventional microscope. In this way, it was
possible
to focus on them without having to penetrate the culture fluid as well as the glass.

Mary and Tom noticed that the whistling had stopped. Gavin was sitting quite motionless, his eyes glued to the binocular eyepiece in what now seemed to be an eerie silence as his fingers gently moved the fine-focus control to and fro.

Eventually he sat up and started rubbing his forehead in a
nervous
gesture.

‘Problems?’ asked Mary.

‘There’s something wrong …’

Mary stopped what she was doing and went over to take Gavin’s place at the microscope. She smoothed back a wayward strand of her hair and examined all three cultures in turn. ‘They’re
contaminated
,’ she said. ‘Definite signs of bacterial contamination.’

‘But how?’

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world for bacteria to get into cell cultures when you’re setting them up. Your technique has to be really good, and even then some bug is still going to find its way into them on occasion. Who prepared these ones?’

‘I did.’

‘You did?’ repeated Mary slowly. ‘Why? We have a cell culture lab with trained staff. Why didn’t you ask the technicians to do it?’

‘I wanted to do it myself …’

Mary bit her lip. She was trying to think of something kind to say. ‘That’s fine if you wanted the experience … but did you ask for advice? Did you ask the technicians to show you how to do it properly?’

Gavin said not. ‘I read up on it. It seemed straightforward enough …’

‘You can learn to swim from a book, Gavin. Trouble is, you’ll drown when you hit the water because you’ve no idea what it feels like. There’s a big gulf between theory and practice in everything.’

‘Shit. Where do I go from here?’

‘I suggest you help yourself to a slice of humble pie and go ask the technicians for advice.’

Gavin turned and left the lab. Mary shrugged her shoulders and asked Tom, ‘Do you think I was too hard on him?’

‘Far from it. He seems determined to do everything on his own. One-man bands are all very well – and you have to admire the ingenuity that goes into them – but at the end of the day … they still sound shit.’

Mary picked up the phone and called the cell culture lab. ‘Trish? It’s Mary. Gavin Donnelly’s coming down to see you – he’s
probably
on his way as we speak. He screwed up his cell cultures and needs some help. Don’t be too hard on him.’

‘We offered to set them up for him in the first place but he insisted on doing it himself, as if he didn’t trust us.’

‘Well, that’s ridiculous,’ soothed Mary. ‘You guys are the best. It’s just the way Gavin is. He’s such a loner …’

‘Tosser more like …’ murmured Tom.

‘Okay, Mary. We won’t tell him to go screw himself … this time.’