The Immortality Factor (10 page)

“Normally, certain cells in your body generate antibodies, but they go outside the cell to find and destroy invading viruses.”

I nodded as if I understood, mentally dreading the additional homework I was going to have to do.

“With this new process we can make antibodies work inside cells that are infected. Stop viruses from reproducing inside the cell.”

I had to hold up a hand to stop him. “Let me get this straight. A virus invades a cell and uses the cell to produce more viruses, right?”

“Right. It's like Toyota taking over a Ford factory and getting it to produce Toyotas instead of Fords.”

“So your new technique can get antibodies to work inside the infected cell—”

“And destroy the virus,” Arthur said. “Get the factory back to making Fords, the way it should.”

“Nobody's done this before?”

“The original research was done at several universities. What we've done is to take their laboratory results and turn them into a practical system that can be used in the clinical world.”

“And it can be used against cancer?”

He nodded. “Certain kinds of cancer. The antibodies can attack the viruses that produce the oncoproteins. It might also be useful against AIDS.”

“Really?”

“I think so. AIDS is a difficult problem, but I think this technique shows real promise.”

“How expensive will this be?”

Arthur shrugged. “You always get into the question of how to pay for the research. The company will want to write off all the research costs against the price of the treatment. Plus a profit, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. He didn't seem to catch my little touch of sarcasm.

“In the final analysis, though,” he said, “our process will help to cure cancer cases. That's what's important. How much is that worth to you?”

I thought about that for a moment. Then I asked, “Is all the work here at Grenford on cancer?”

“Just about all of it.”

“Anything else I should know about?”

“Nothing that should be released to the news media.”

It seemed obvious that there were things he wanted to talk about.

“Well, I ought to get as much of a feeling for this place as I can, while I'm here. What's going on that might be newsworthy next year? Or the year after that?”

His eyes lit up. “How much do you know about cancer?”

I reached into my memory bank. “It's the number two killer in the United States. There're lots of different kinds. It's got something to do with cells multiplying wildly.”

Pointing a finger like a pistol, Arthur said, “Cells multiplying wildly. Tumor cells seem to be immortal. That is, ordinary cells will multiply for a while and then they differentiate and stop.”

“Differentiate?” I asked.

Pointing as he spoke, Arthur told me, “When an ovum is fertilized, that single cell has the power to produce all the different types of cells that will make up the baby's body: the original fertilized ovum is a totipotent cell.”

“Totipotent,” I said. “It can make any kind of cell.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“What about stem cells?”

“The first cells the zygote produces are stem cells.”

“As it becomes an embryo.”

“Right. Embryonic stem cells are totipotent at first; they can make any kind of cells you need. As they multiply and begin to specialize they become pluripotent: they can make some types of cells, but not others. Then, as the cells continue to specialize, they produce eye cells, hair cells, skin cells. That's differentiation.”

“I see.”

“Tumor cells don't differentiate. And they don't stop multiplying. They don't know when to stop, so they just keep multiplying and multiplying.”

I held up a hand to stop him. “Got to switch the recorder's chip,” I explained. I did it quickly, then nodded for him to continue.

“So the question is, how do tumor cells keep multiplying? The other side of that question is, how do ordinary cells
stop
multiplying? Find the answer to the second question and maybe you have the answer to the first.”

“And you've found it?”

“Not yet. But this antibody treatment I told you about is a step in that direction.”

We seemed to have come full circle. I had tried to get him to talk about some of the other projects going on in the lab and he had led me neatly back to the subject he had started with.

Arthur got to his feet. “Come on, I'll introduce you to the woman who's doing the research and she can show you around her lab. You ought to see how the work gets done.”

And I'll be out of your hair for a while, I thought. A pretty slick way of
getting rid of me. But I followed him out of his office and into the laboratories where “the work gets done.” To my surprise, even after he introduced me to Cassie Ianetta, he didn't leave my side. He seemed as excited about this work as he told me I should be. And as Cassie showed how she had stopped tumors from growing in laboratory rats and macaque monkeys and even chimpanzees, I did indeed become excited.

The three of us walked back through the animal pens to the fenced-over playground behind the laboratory building. A chimp was playing on the jungle gym when we pushed through the double doors. He took one look at me, a stranger, and ran off to the nearer of the two clipped-back trees. He swung up the stunted branches and sat in the highest crotch of the tree, his eyes flicking from Cassie to Arthur to me.

“It's all right, Max.” Cassie held her arms out to the chimp. “Come on down and say hello.”

Arthur half whispered to me, “Max is Cassie's baby. She taught him sign language when he was just a little toddler.”

I watched, fascinated, while Cassie ignored both me and her boss to speak softly, reassuringly, to the chimp. Max clung to his perch, though.

“Max has generated several strains of tumor-killing factors for us,” Arthur said while we waited.

“He's a scientist?” I asked, grinning at my own wit.

“He's a factory,” Arthur replied. “Cassie has used him to generate various factors. He's now immune to a half dozen different types of cancers.”

That made my eyebrows rise. “Could that immunity be given to people?”

With a nod, Arthur said, “Cassie's about to start field trials on human subjects.”

“My god,” I said. “If she can accomplish that she ought to get the Nobel Prize for medicine! Her and the chimp both.”

But Arthur shook his head. “Neither,” he muttered.

I was about to ask why not when Max finally decided it was safe to come down and join us. He scampered down from the tree so fast he was almost a blur and went straight to Cassie. He's bigger than she is, I realized with a start, as the chimp wrapped a long hairy arm around Cassie's waist.

Max waggled his free hand and Cassie laughed.

“He's asking you if you've brought him any food,” Cassie explained.

I felt suddenly foolish. “I've got a couple of breath mints in my purse,” I said.

“No, it's all right. I'll give him his supper in a little while.” Cassie was smiling happily, radiantly, like a real mother with a real baby. She really does love this chimp, I realized.

“You and Max seem to get along very well,” I said, thinking it was the understatement of the month.

“Max has been a wonderful helper, a real friend,” Cassie said. Her eyes shifted toward Marshak. “And now he's retired.”

“Retired?” I asked.

“Yes. He's done everything we've asked him to, and now we're not going to use him in any more experiments.”

She's talking to me, I realized, but she's still looking at Marshak.

“That's right,” Arthur said. “Max has earned a graceful retirement. We're going to put him out to stud.”

Cassie frowned at him, almost fiercely.

Max yawned conspicuously and knuckle-walked to the jungle gym.

“I think we're boring him,” Arthur said. He and I laughed.

When Arthur finally walked me back to the front entrance, I realized that the receptionist and most of the office staff had already gone for the day. It was past quitting time, although the researchers all seemed to be still in their labs or offices. A uniformed security guard sat behind the reception desk now. I saw through the glass doors that it had indeed showered; the parking lot was puddled.

“I think I'm in sensory overload,” I said honestly to Arthur. “I've got a lot of information to sort out.”

“Remember that Cassie's work with Max is strictly off the record,” he cautioned.

“Why—”

“We don't want to stir up the wackos when the field trials start,” he said. “Can't you just see the headlines:
Scientists Use Chimp Genes on Human Guinea Pigs
?”

I had to admit he was right, although I felt a surge of resentment. Why did you spend half the afternoon showing it to me if you didn't want me to write about it?

As if he could read my thoughts, Arthur said, “I just couldn't resist showing it off to you. Cassie's done a magnificent job and her work could be a major breakthrough in cancer treatment, once we get the clinical results we're hoping for.”

I said nothing as Arthur walked me to my rain-spattered car. It still looked dull and dingy. But I was thinking, He showed me Cassie and her chimp because he's proud of the work the kid's done. He's in love with the work; he's excited as hell about it. Like a kid in a toy store.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
watched Pat Hayward drive away, thinking, She's one very attractive redhead. Sharp mind, too. She appreciates the work we're doing here.

But as I stepped back inside the lab my thoughts turned to that damned question she had asked me.
Why did you leave teaching? You obviously enjoy it.

It all came surging back, like a black storm-driven tide. Even after eight years I felt nothing but fury toward Professor Wilson K. Potter, the man who had driven me out of the academic world.

The so-called quiet groves of academe are more like a jungle. I had found that out while I was still a graduate student, but I didn't let it bother me. It's just part of the academic world, the backbiting, the personality clashes, the jockeying for position. It was a lot worse in the other departments, I thought. At least in the sciences you had your research and you saw to it that it got published with your name on it. Maybe your professor stuck his name in there first, but everybody knew who really did the work.

When I got an assistant professorship in the department of molecular biology, the competition and gossip and infighting didn't stop, they became more
intense. There were a handful of us snotty new assistant professors, each of us full of our own self-importance and determined to reach that one cherished goal: a full professorship. That meant tenure, a safe position for life, an academic home that no one could threaten. I was going to be the one who beat out all the others, I knew that just as surely as I knew that one day I'd get the Nobel Prize for my research.

At first I had almost enjoyed the competition. I saw myself as a sassy young upstart invading the sacred halls of scholarly power. I was intent on making my mark. I was going to get to Stockholm, no matter what.

But I didn't reckon with the quiet, implacable Professor Wilson K. Potter, the department chairman. He was a slight, spare man, almost completely bald, with innocent blue eyes and a constant little half smile playing on his lips. The kind who could knife you in the back without a shred of remorse. Potter had his own ideas about who he would appoint as a full professor and who deserved a Nobel Prize.

I wasn't too worried about Potter. The man was notorious for putting his own name on his graduate students' work and claiming their ideas and sweat as his own. But since everybody knew it, it didn't really matter too much. The anti-Semitic little creep made life as difficult as he could for me, but I held my temper and wrote off Potter as one of the annoyances in life that had to be endured. He wouldn't be department chairman forever. I was young enough to think that I could wait him out. After all, I intended to stay at Columbia for the rest of my life.

It was the cancer patent that tripped me up.

My first warning of trouble came at the annual Christmas cocktail party in the faculty club. A man approached me. He looked several years younger than I, but already soft, round-faced, starting to bloat. Still, he looked prosperous in a way that scientists seldom attained. Most of the other faculty members were in their usual well-worn tweeds or skirts and blouses. This guy was in a dark blue three-piece suit and an actual school tie.

“You're Professor Marshak, aren't you?” he asked me. I had been standing at the bar, getting a refill on my glass of white wine while I squinted through the smoke and laughing conversations and tinkling ice cubes at a certain sultry-looking professor of Romance languages sipping champagne across the crowded lounge. She was wearing a black sheath and looking bored with the older men surrounding her.

“Arthur Marshak,” I answered.

“I'm Greg Barrow.” He put out his hand. I took it briefly; it felt slightly clammy, but that might have been because he'd been holding his drink in it.

“What department are you in?” I asked. It was a standard question at faculty bashes; an icebreaker, like asking one's astrological sign.

“Actually, I'm not a faculty member. I'm with the university's legal staff.”

“A lawyer?” I drew back in mock horror.

Greg Barrow chuckled tolerantly. “I'm afraid you're going to like lawyers even less in a few days.”

“How so?”

“It's this patent you've applied for.”

“What about it?”

“The rights belong to the university.”