Peter said, “You don’t think the beetle makes it?”
“Not necessarily, no. It might have taken on bacteria, and let the bacteria make the ketone for it.” That was a fairly common event in nature. Making chemicals for defense consumed energy, and if an animal could incorporate bacteria to do the work on its behalf, so much the better.
“This ketone is found elsewhere?” Peter said. That would suggest it was of external bacterial origin.
“In several caterpillars, yes.”
“By the way,” he said, “why are you working so late?”
“We all are.”
“Because?”
“I don’t want to fall behind,” she said, “and I assume I’ll be gone next week. In Hawaii.”
Jenny Linn held a stopwatch while she watched a complex apparatus: leafy plants under one large flask were being eaten by caterpillars, while an air hose connected the first flask to three more flasks, each with more plants but no caterpillars. A small pump controlled air flow among the flasks.
“We already know the basic situation,” she said. “There are 300,000 known species of plants in the world, and 900,000 species of insects, and many of them eat plants. Why haven’t all the plants vanished, chewed down to the ground? Because all plants long ago evolved defenses against insects that attack them. Animals can run away from predators, but plants can’t. So they have evolved chemical warfare. Plants produce their own pesticides, or they generate toxins to make their leaves taste bad, or they release volatile chemicals that attract the insect’s predators. And sometimes they release chemicals that signal other plants to make their leaves more toxic, less edible. Inter-plant communications, that’s what we are measuring here.”
The caterpillars eating the plants in the first flask caused the release of a chemical, a plant hormone, that would be carried to the other flasks. The other plants would increase their production of nicotinic acid. “I’m looking to measure the rate of response,” she said. “That’s why I have three flasks. I’ll be cutting leaves from various places to measure nicotinic acid levels in them, but as soon as I cut a leaf from the next plant…”
“That plant will act like it’s under attack, and it will release more volatiles.”
“Right. So the flasks are kept separate. We know the response is relatively rapid, a matter of minutes.” She pointed to a box to one side. “I measure the volatiles with ultra high-speed gas chromatography, and the leaf extraction is straightforward.” She glanced at her stopwatch. “And now if you’ll excuse me…”
She lifted the first flask, and began cutting leaves from base upward, setting each aside in careful order.
“Hey, hey, hey, what is going on here?” Danny Minot entered the lab, waving his hands. Red-faced and rotund, he was dressed in a tweed sport coat with elbow patches, a rep tie, and baggy slacks, and looked for all the world like an establishment English professor. Which was not far wrong. Minot was getting a doctorate in science studies, a mélange of psychology and sociology, with liberal doses of French postmodernism thrown in. He had degrees in biochemistry and comparative literature, but the comparative literature had won out; he quoted Bruno Latour, Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, and others who believed that there was no objective truth, only the truth that’s established by power. Minot was here in the lab to complete a thesis on “scientific linguistic codes and paradigm transformation.” In practice it meant he made a pest of himself, bothering people, recording conversations with the other grad students as they did their work.
They all despised him. There were frequent discussions about why Ray Hough had let him in the lab in the first place. Finally somebody asked Ray about it, and he said, “He’s my wife’s cousin. And nobody else would take him.”
“Come on, people,” Minot said, “nobody works this late in this lab, and here you all are.” Waving his hands again.
Jenny snorted disdainfully. “Hand-waver.”
“I heard that,” Minot said. “Meaning what?”
Jenny turned her back on him.
“Meaning what? Don’t turn your back on me.”
Peter went over to Danny. “A hand-waver,” he said, “is somebody who hasn’t worked out his ideas and can’t defend them. So when he presents at a colloquium, and he comes to the parts he hasn’t worked out, he starts waving his hands and talking fast. Like the way someone waves their hands and says, ‘Et cetera, et cetera.’ In science, hand-waving means you don’t have the goods.”
“Not what I am doing here,” Minot said, waving his hand. “The semiotics are completely garbled.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But as Derrida said, techno-translation is so difficult. I am attempting to indicate all of you in a gestural mode of inclusiveness. What’s going on?”
“Don’t tell him,” Rick said, “or he’ll want to come.”
“Of course I want to come,” Minot said. “I am the chronicler of life in this lab. I must come. Where are you going?”
Peter briefly told him the entire story.
“Oh yes, I am definitely coming. The intersection of science and commerce? The corruption of golden youth? Oh definitely—I’ll be there.”
Peter was getting a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner of the lab when Erika walked over. “What are you doing later?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“I thought maybe I could stop by tonight.”
She was staring right at him. Something about the directness of her manner put him off. “I don’t know, Erika,” he said, “I might be working here late.” Thinking: I haven’t seen you for three weeks, since the last time.
“I’m almost finished, myself,” she said. “And it’s only nine o’clock.”
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
“It doesn’t appeal to you, my offer?” She was still staring at him, scanning his face.
“I thought you were seeing Amar.”
“I like Amar, very much. He is very intelligent. I like you too. I always have.”
“Maybe we’ll talk later,” he said, pouring milk in his coffee, and moving away so quickly that it spilled a little.
“I hope so,” she said.
“Trouble with your coffee?” Rick Hutter said, glancing up at Peter and grinning. Under a halogen lamp, Rick was holding a rat upside down, measuring its swollen rear paw with a small caliper.
“No,” Peter said, “I was just, uh, surprised at how hot it was.”
“Uh-huh. I’d say, surprisingly hot.”
“Is that a carageenen prep?” Peter said, changing the subject. Carageenen was the usual method to produce edema in the paw of a lab animal. It was a standardized animal model for edema, employed in labs around the world to study inflammation.
“Correct,” Rick said. “I injected carageenen, making the paw swollen. Then I wrapped the foot in an extract from the bark of Himatanthus sucuuba, a medium-size rain-forest tree, and now we are—hopefully—demonstrating its anti-inflammatory properties. I already demonstrated it for the tree’s latex. Himatanthus is an extremely versatile tree, it heals wounds and cures ulcers. The shamans in Costa Rica say this tree also has antibiotic, anti-fever, anti-cancer, and anti-parasite qualities, but I haven’t tested those claims yet. Certainly the bark extract has reduced this rat’s swelling remarkably fast.”
“You determined what chemicals are responsible for the anti-inflammatory response?”
“Researchers in Brazil attribute it to alpha-amyrin cinnamate and other cinnamate compounds, but I haven’t verified that yet.” Rick finished measuring the rat, set it down in the cage, and typed in a measurement and time in his laptop. “Tell you one thing, though: extracts from the tree appear to be completely nontoxic. One day you might even be able to give this to pregnant women. Huh, look at that.” He pointed to the rat as it moved around the cage. “It’s not limping at all anymore.”
Peter slapped him on the back. “Better be careful,” he said, “or you’ll have some pharmaceutical company beating
you to your results.”
“Hey, I’m not worried. If those guys were really in the business of developing drugs, they’d already be working on this tree,” Rick said. “But why should they take the risk? Let the American taxpayer fund the research, let some graduate student spend months to make the discovery, and then they swoop in and buy it up from the university. And then they sell our discovery back to us, at full price. Sweet deal, huh?” He was starting to wind up for one of his tirades. “I tell you, these Goddamned pharma—”
“Rick,” Peter said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Oh sure, yeah. Nobody wants to hear it, I know.”
“I have to spin down my naja venom.”
“No problem.” Rick hesitated, glanced over his shoulder at Erika. “Listen, it’s none of my business—”
“That’s right, it’s not—”
“But I hate to see a good guy like you fall into the clutches of somebody who is…well…Anyway, you met my friend Jorge, who does computer science at MIT? If you want to know what’s really going on with Erika, call this number—” he handed Peter a card—“and Jorge will access her phone records, including voice and text messages, and you can find out the truth about her, uh, promiscuous ways.”
“Is that legal?”
“No. But it’s damn useful.”
“Thanks anyway,” Peter said, “but—”
“No, no, keep it,” Rick insisted.
“I won’t use it.”
“You never know,” Rick said. “Phone records don’t lie.”
“Okay.” It was easier to keep the card than argue. He slipped it in his pocket.
“By the way,” Rick said, “about your brother…”
“What about him?”
“You think he’s on the level?”
“About his company?”
“Yeah, Nanigen.”
“I think so,” Peter said. “But to be honest I don’t know a lot about it.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He’s been pretty secretive about the whole thing.”
“But you think it’s innovative?”
Yes, I think it’s innovative, Peter thought, peering through the scanning microscope. He was looking again at the white pebble, or micro-bot, or whatever the thing was. Trying to account for his brother’s explanation that it wasn’t a cockpit but just a slot for a micro-power-pack, or a control unit. It didn’t look like a slot for anything. It looked like a seat facing a tiny, highly detailed control panel.
He was still puzzling over this when he became aware that the lab around him had become absolutely silent. He looked up, and saw that the microscope was also displaying on a large flat-panel screen mounted on the wall. Everybody in the lab was staring at it.
“What the hell is that?” Rick said.
“I don’t know.” Peter flicked off the monitor. “And we’re not going to find out, unless we go to Hawaii.”
Chapter 3
Maple Avenue, Cambridge
27 October, 6:00 a.m.
O ne by one, all seven of the graduate students decided to take Vin Drake up on his offer. They collected data, they wrote out descriptions of their research, and they sent letters and information to Alyson Bender at Nanigen. One by one, they were informed that Nanigen would fly them to Hawaii; and for simplicity they would travel as a group. As October ran to its end, their days were devoted to preparations for departure. All seven had a lot to do—finishing experiments, getting their research projects in shape to leave them for a while, and, of course, packing. They planned to leave early on a Sunday morning out of Boston’s Logan Airport, with a connection through Dallas, arriving in Honolulu that same afternoon. They would, by general agreement, stay four days, returning toward the end of the week.
Early on a gray, cold Saturday morning, the day before the flight, Peter Jansen was in his apartment working at his computer. Erika Moll was there, too, cooking bacon and eggs and singing “Take a Chance on Me.” Peter abruptly realized that he had forgotten to turn on his phone that morning—he’d turned it off the night before, when Erika had unexpectedly shown up. He turned on the phone and placed it on his desk. A minute later, the phone buzzed. It was a text message from his brother, Eric.
He stared at the message. Was this a joke? Had something happened? He typed back:
He watched the screen, but there was no answer. After a few minutes, he dialed Eric’s number in Hawaii, but got his voice mail. “Eric, it’s Peter. What’s up? Call me.”
From the kitchen, Erika said, “Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody. Just trying to get my brother.”
He scrolled to the message from his brother. It had come in at 9:49 p.m. So it had arrived last night! Which had been afternoon in Hawaii.
Peter dialed his brother again, but again got voice mail. He hung up.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Erika said.
He brought the phone to the table, set it beside his plate. Erika wrinkled her nose; she didn’t like phones at meals. She was scooping eggs onto his plate, saying, “I followed my grandmother’s recipe, with milk and flour—”
The phone rang.
He grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Peter?” A woman’s voice. “Peter Jansen?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“It’s Alyson Bender,” she said. “From Nanigen.” He had an image of the blond woman with her arm around Eric’s waist. “Listen,” she said, “how soon can you get over here to Hawaii?”
“We’re scheduled to fly tomorrow,” he said.
“Can you come today?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“It’s important.”
“Well, I can check the flights—”
“Actually, I took the liberty of booking you on one that leaves in two hours. Can you make it?”
“Yes, I think—what’s this about?”
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Peter.” She paused. “It’s about your brother.”
“What about him?”
“He’s missing.”
“Missing?” He felt dazed; he didn’t understand. “What do you mean, missing?”
“Since yesterday,” Alyson said. “There was a boating accident. I don’t know if he told you that he bought a boat, a Boston Whaler? Anyway, he did, and he was out yesterday, on the north side of the island, and he had mechanical difficulties…there was big surf, crashing against the cliffs. The engines lost power, the boat drifted in…”
Peter felt light-headed. He pushed the plate of eggs away. Erika was watching him, her face pale. “How do you know this?” he said.
“There were people on the cliffs, they saw the whole thing.”
“And what happened to Eric?”
“He tried to start the engines. He couldn’t. The surf was high, the boat was going to be smashed on the cliffs. He dived into the ocean and swam…for shore. But the currents…he never made it to shore…” She took a breath. “I’m very sorry, Peter.”
“Eric’s a good swimmer,” Peter said. “Strong swimmer.”
“I know. And that’s why we continue to hope he’ll return,” she said. “But, uh, the police have told us that, well…The police would like to talk to you, and go over everything with you, as soon as you get here.”
“I’m leaving now,” he said, and hung up. Erika had gone to the bedroom and brought his bag, already packed for the following day.
“We’d better go,” she said, “if you’re going to make that flight.” She put her arm around his shoulder, and they headed downstairs to the car.
Chapter 4
Makapu‘u Point, Oahu
27 October, 4:00 p.m.
I t was said to be a tourist spot: Makapu‘u Point, high cliffs on the northeastern tip of Oahu, with a spectacular view of the ocean in all directions. But once there, Peter was not prepared for the barren desolation of the place. A harsh wind whipped the scrubby green brush at his feet, and tugged at his clothes, forcing him to lean forward as he
walked. He had to speak loudly: “Is it always like this?”
The policeman beside him, Dan Watanabe, said, “No, sometimes it’s very pleasant. But the trades kicked up last night.” Watanabe wore Ray-Bans. He pointed to a lighthouse off to the right. “That’s Makapu‘u Lighthouse,” he said. “Automated years ago. Nobody lives there anymore.”
Directly ahead, they looked down the black lava cliffs at surging ocean two hundred feet below. The surf boomed, smashing against the rocks. Peter said, “Is this where it happened?”
“Yes,” Watanabe said. “The boat ran aground over there—” he pointed to the left—“but the Coast Guard got it off the rocks this morning, before it broke up in the surf.”
“So his boat was somewhere offshore when it got into trouble?” Peter looked out at the ocean, which was rough, high swells and whitecaps.
“Yes. He was drifting in the water for a while, witnesses said.”
“Trying to start the engine…”
“Yes. And drifting toward the surf.”
“And what was the mechanical difficulty?” Peter said. “I understand it was a new boat.”
“Yes. Couple of weeks old.”
“My brother was experienced with boats,” Peter said. “My family always had a boat on Long Island Sound, we were out there every summer.”
“These waters are different,” Watanabe said. “You’re looking at deep ocean.” He pointed. “Nearest land out there is three thousand miles away, the mainland. But that’s not the point. It’s pretty clear what got your brother in trouble was ethanol.”
“Ethanol?” Peter said.
“State of Hawaii puts ten percent ethanol into all the gas that’s sold here, but the ethanol screws up small engines. There’s cut-rate gas dealers who put way too much ethanol in their gas—up to thirty percent. It clogs fuel lines, and anything rubber or neoprene can turn to gunk. It’s caused a hell of a mess on boats. People have to put in new steel fuel tanks and lines. Anyway, we think that’s what happened to your brother. The carburetors were clogged, the fuel pump might have failed. Whatever it was exactly, he couldn’t restart the engines in time.”