“It’s exciting to come to the lab,” said VJ.
“Your mother thinks you ought to spend more time with kids your own age,” Victor said. “That’s the way you learn to cooperate and share and all that kind of stuff.”
“Oh, please!” VJ said. “I’m with kids my own age every day at school.”
“At least we think alike,” Victor said. “I told your mother the same thing. Well, now that we have that cleared up, how do you want to get to the lab—ride with me or bike?”
“Bike,” VJ answered.
Despite the chill in the air, Victor had the sunroof open on his car and the wind tousled his hair. With the radio turned to the only classical station he could get, he thundered over an ancient bridge spanning the swollen Merrimack River. The river was a torrent of eddies and white water, and it was rising daily thanks to winter snow melting in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, a hundred miles to the north.
On the street before Chimera, Inc., Victor turned left and drove the length of a long brick building that crowded the side of the road. At the end of the building, he took another left, then slowed as he drove past a manned security checkpoint. Recognizing the car, the uniformed man waved as Victor passed under the raised black and white gate onto the grounds of a vast private biotechnology firm.
Entering the nineteenth-century red-brick mill complex, Victor always felt a rush of pride that came with ownership. It was an impressive place, especially since many of the buildings had had their exteriors restored rather than renovated.
The tallest buildings of the compound were five stories high, but most were three, and they stretched off in both directions like studies in perspective. Rectangular in shape, they enclosed a huge inner court which was spotted with newer buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.
At the western corner of the property and dominating the site was an eight-story clock tower designed as a replica of Big Ben in London. It soared above the other buildings from the top of a three-story structure built partially over a concrete dam across the Merrimack. With the river as swollen as it was, the millpond behind the dam was filled to overflowing. A thunderous waterfall at the spillway in the center of the dam filled the air with a fine mist.
Back in the old days when the mill turned out textiles from southern cotton, the clock tower building had been the power station. The entire complex had been run by waterpower until electrification had shut the main sluice and quieted the huge paddle wheels and gears in the basement of the building. The Big Ben replica had chimed its last years before, but Victor was thinking of having it restored.
When Chimera had purchased the abandoned complex in 1976, it had renovated less than half of the available square feet, leaving the rest for future expansion. In anticipation of growth, however, all the buildings had been equipped with water, sanitation, and power. There was no doubt in Victor’s mind that it would be easy to get old Big Ben going again. He made a mental note to bring it up at the next development meeting.
As Victor pulled into his assigned parking spot in front of the administration building and pulled the sunroof shut, he paused to review his day. Despite the pride the expansive site evoked, he recognized he had some mixed feelings about the success of Chimera. In his heart Victor was a scientist, yet as one of the three founding partners of Chimera, he was required to assume his share of the administrative responsibilities. Unfortunately, these obligations were increasingly taking more time.
Victor entered the building through the elaborate Georgian entranceway, replete with columns and pediments. The architects had paid painstaking attention to detail in the restoration. Even the furnishings were from the early nineteenth century. The lobby was a far cry from the utilitarian halls of MIT where Victor was teaching back in 1973 when he first started talking with a fellow academician, Ronald Beekman, about the opportunities afforded by the explosion of biotechnology. Technically, it was a good marriage, since Victor was in biology and Ronald was in biochemistry. They had combined forces with a businessman by the name of Clark Fitzsimmons Foster, and in 1975 founded Chimera. The result was better than their wildest expectations. In 1983, under the guidance of Clark, the company went public and they’d all become enormously wealthy.
But with success came responsibilities that kept Victor away from his first love: the lab. As a founding partner, he was a member of the Board of Directors of the parent company, Chimera. He was also senior vice president of the same company in charge of research. At the same time he was acting director of the Department of Developmental Biology. In addition to those duties he was the president and managing director of the enormously lucrative subsidiary, Fertility, Inc., which owned an expanding chain of infertility clinics.
Victor paused at the top of the main stairs and gazed out of the multipaned arched window at the sprawling factory complex that had been brought back to life. There was no doubt about the satisfaction he felt. In the nineteenth century the factory had been a huge success, but it had been based on exploitation of an immigrant working class. Now its success rested on firmer ground. Chimera’s foundation stood on the laws of science and the ingenuity of the human mind in its endeavor to unlock the mysteries of life. Victor knew that science in the form of biotechnology was the wave of the future, and he gloated that he was at the epicenter. In his hands was a lever that could move the world, maybe the universe.
VJ whistled as he freewheeled down Stanhope Street. He had his down parka zipped up to keep out the cold wind, and his hands were crammed into mittens filled with the same insulation the astronauts used.
Switching his bike into the highest gear possible, he caught up to the pedals. With the swish of the wind and the whine from the tires, he felt like he was going a hundred miles an hour. He was free. No more school for a week. No more need to pretend in front of the teachers and those kids. He could spend his time doing what he’d been born to accomplish. He smiled a strange, unchildlike grin. His blue eyes blazed and he was happy his mother was nowhere near to see him. He had a mission, just like his father. And he could not let anything interfere.
VJ had to slow when he reached the small town of North Andover. He pedaled up the center of the main shopping street and stopped in front of the local bank, where he parked his bike in a metal rack and locked it with his Kryptonite lock. Slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, he climbed the three brownstone steps and went inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Frank,” the manager said, twisting around in his swivel desk chair. His name was Harold Scott and VJ generally tried to avoid him, but since his desk was just to the right of the entrance, it was difficult. “May I talk with you, young man?”
VJ paused, considered his options, then reluctantly detoured to the man’s desk.
“I know you are a good customer of the bank,” Harold said, “so I thought it would be appropriate if I discussed with you some of the benefits of banking here. Do you understand the concept of interest, young man?”
“I believe so,” VJ answered.
“If so, then I wanted to ask why you don’t have a savings account for your paper route money?”
“Paper route?” VJ questioned.
“Yes,” Harold answered. “You told me some time ago that you had a paper route. I assume you still have it since you are still coming into the bank on a fairly regular basis.”
“Of course I still have it,” VJ answered. Now he remembered having been previously cornered by the same man. It must have been a year ago.
“Once your money is in a savings account, it begins to work for you. In fact your money grows. Let me give you an example.”
“Mr. Scott,” VJ said as the manager got some paper from a drawer at his desk. “I don’t have a lot of time. My father expects me at his lab.”
“This won’t take long,” Harold said. He then proceeded to show Victor what happened to twenty dollars left in The North Andover National Bank for twenty years. When he was finished, he asked: “What do you say? Does this convince you
.”
“Absolutely,” VJ said.
“Well then,” Harold said. He took some forms from another drawer and quickly filled them in. Then he pushed them in front of VJ and pointed to a dotted line near the bottom. “Sign here.”
Dutifully VJ took the pen and signed his name.
“Now then,” Harold repeated. “How much would you like to deposit?”
VJ chewed his cheek, then extracted his wallet. He had three dollars in it. He took them out and gave them to Harold.
“Is this all?” Harold questioned. “How much do you make a week with your paper route? You have to start a habit of savings early in your life.”
“I’ll add to it,” VJ said.
Taking the forms and the bills, Harold went behind the teller’s window. He had to be buzzed in through the plexiglass door. When he returned, he handed VJ a deposit slip. “This is an important day in your life,” Harold said.
VJ nodded, pocketed the slip, then went to the rear of the bank. He watched Mr. Scott. Thankfully a customer came in and sat down at his desk.
VJ buzzed for the attendant for the safe deposit vault. A few minutes later he was safely in one of the privacy cubicles with his large safe deposit box. Putting his saddlebags carefully on the floor, he unzipped them. They were filled with tightly bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills. When he was finished adding them to those already there, he had to use both hands to heave the box back up and into its slot in the vault.
Back on his bike, VJ left North Andover, heading west. He pedaled steadily and was soon in Lawrence. Crossing the Merrimack, he eventually entered the grounds of Chimera. The security man at the gate waved with the same kind of respect he reserved for Dr. Frank.
As soon as Victor reached his office, his very pretty and very efficient secretary, Colleen, cornered him with a stack of phone messages.
Victor silently groaned. Mondays were all too frequently like this, keeping him from the lab, sometimes for the entire day. Victor’s current and primary research interest involved the mysteries of how a fertilized egg got implanted in a uterus. No one knew how it worked and what were the factors necessary to facilitate it. Victor had picked the project many years ago because its solution would have major academic and major commercial importance. But with his current rate of progress he would be working on it for many years to come.
“This is probably the most important message,” Colleen said, handing over a pink slip.
Victor took the paper, which said for him to call Ronald Beekman ASAP. “Oh, wonderful,” Victor thought. Although he and Ronald had been the best of friends during the initial phases of the founding of Chimera, Inc., their relationship was now strained over their differing views about the future of the company. Currently they were arguing about a proposed stock offering that was being championed by Clark Foster as a means of raising additional capital for expansion.
Ronald was adamantly opposed to any dilution of the stock, fearing a hostile takeover in the future. It was his belief that expansion should be tied directly to current revenues and current profits. Once again, Victor’s vote was to be the swing vote, just as it had been back in 1983 over the question of going public. Victor had voted against Ronald then, siding with Clark. Despite the incontrovertible success of going public, Ronald still felt Victor had sold out his academic integrity.
Victor put Ronald’s message in the center of his blotter. “What else?” he asked.
Before Colleen could respond, the door opened and VJ stuck his head in, asking if anybody had seen Philip.
“I saw him earlier at the cafeteria,” Colleen said.
“If anybody sees him,” VJ said, “tell him that I’m here.”
“Certainly,” Colleen said.
“I’ll be around,” VJ said.
Victor waved absently, still wondering what he would say to Ronald. Victor was certain they needed capital now, not next year.
VJ closed the door behind him.
“No school?” Colleen questioned.
“Spring vacation,” Victor said.
“Such an exceptional child,” Colleen said. “So undemanding. If my son were here, he’d be underfoot the entire time.”
“My wife thinks differently,” Victor said. “She thinks VJ has some kind of problem.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Colleen said. “VJ is so polite, so grown up.”
“Maybe you should talk to Marsha,” Victor said. Then he stuck his hand out, anxious to move on. “What’s the next message?”
“Sorry,” Colleen said. “This is the phone number for Jonathan Marronetti, Gephardt’s attorney.”
“Lovely!” Victor said. George Gephardt was the director of personnel for Fertility, Inc., and had been supervisor of purchasing for Chimera until three years ago. Currently, he was on a leave of absence, pending an investigation regarding the disappearance of over one hundred thousand dollars from Fertility, Inc. Embarrassingly enough, it had been the IRS that had first discovered that Gephardt was banking the paychecks of a deceased employee. As soon as he had heard, Victor ordered an audit of the man’s purchasing bills for Chimera from 1980 to 1986. Sighing, Victor put the attorney’s number behind Ronald’s.
“What next?” Victor asked.
Colleen shuffled through the remaining messages.
“That’s about all the important ones. The rest of these I can handle.”
“That’s it?” Victor questioned with obvious disbelief.
Colleen stood up and stretched. “That’s all the messages, but Sharon Carver is waiting to see you.”
“Can’t you handle her?” Victor asked.
“She’s demanded to see you,” Colleen said. “Here’s her file.”
Victor didn’t need the file, but he took it and placed it on his desk. He knew all about Sharon Carver. She’d been an animal handler in Developmental Biology before she’d been “terminated because of dereliction of duty.” “Let her wait,” Victor said, standing up. “I’ll see her after I see Ronald.”
Using the rear entrance to his office, Victor started off for his partner’s office. Maybe Ronald would be reasonable face to face.
Rounding a corner, Victor spotted a familiar figure backing out of a doorway and pulling a cart. It was Philip Cartwright, one of the retarded persons whom Chimera had hired to work to the extent of their abilities; they were all valuable employees. Philip did custodial and messenger work, and had been popular from his first day on. In addition, he’d taken a particular liking to VJ over the years and had spent lots of time with him, particularly before VJ started school. They made an improbable pair. Philip was a big, powerfully built man with scant hair, closely set eyes, and a broad neck that sloped from just behind his ears to the tip of his shoulders. His long arms ended in spadelike hands, with all the fingers the same length.
As soon as Philip saw Dr. Frank, there was a wide smile of recognition, displaying a mouthful of square teeth. The man could have been frightening, but he had such a pleasant personality, his demeanor overcame his appearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Frank,” Philip said. He had a surprisingly childlike voice despite his size.
“Good morning, Philip,” Victor said. “VJ is here someplace and was looking for you. He’ll be here all week.”
“That makes me happy,” Philip said with sincerity. “I’ll find him right away. Thank you.”
Victor watched him hurry off with his cart, wishing all the Chimera employees were as dependable as Philip.
Reaching Ronald’s office, which was a mirror image of his, Victor said hello to Ronald’s private secretary and asked if her boss was available. She kept Victor waiting for a few minutes before ushering him in.
“Does Brutus come to praise Caesar?” Ronald asked, looking up at Victor from under bushy brows. He was a heavyset man with a thick mat of unkempt hair.
“I thought we could discuss the stock offering,” Victor suggested. From Ronald’s manner and tone, it was clear he was in no mood for conversation.
>
“What’s there to talk about?” Ronald said with thinly disguised resentment. “I’ve heard you’re for a dilution of stock.”
“I’m for raising more capital,” Victor said.
“It’s the same thing,” Ronald said.
“Are you interested in my reasons?” Victor asked.
“I think your reasons are very clear,” Ronald said. “You and Clark have been plotting against me since we went public!”
“Oh, really?” Victor questioned, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Such ridiculous paranoia began to give him the idea the man was cracking under the strain of his administrative duties. He certainly had as much if not more than Victor and neither one of them was trained for such work.
“Don’t ‘oh, really’ me!” Ronald said, heaving his bulk to his feet. He leaned forward on his desk. “I’m warning you, Frank. I’ll get even with you.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Victor said with disbelief. “What are you going to do to me, let the air out of my tires? Ronald, it’s me, Victor. Remember?” Victor waved his hand in front of Ronald’s face.
“I can make your life just as miserable as you’re making mine,” Ronald snapped. “If you continue to press me to sell more stock, I promise I’ll get even with you.”
“Please!” Victor said, backing up. “Ronald, when you wake up, call me. I’m not going to stand here and be threatened.”
Victor turned and left the office. He could hear Ronald start to say something else, but Victor didn’t stop to hear it. He was disgusted. For a moment he considered throwing in the towel, cashing in his stock, and going back to academia. But by the time he got back to his desk, he felt differently. He wasn’t about to let Ronald’s personality problems deny him access to the excitement of the biotechnology industry. After all, there were limitations in academia as well; they were just of a different sort.