Prizes

  “Isa!” Jerry was in a state of unbridled euphoria. “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “What’re you talking about?” she asked groggily. “Where are you?”

  “Where I’ve been every night for the past half century, at ‘our’ office—and that’s the bad news. Last night while you were snoozing, I came to the absolute end of the Aussie tapes. I can now tell you with certainty that they give us mega zilch.”

  “God, that’s a downer. What’s the good news?”

  “The good news was my sudden notion that they didn’t catch the explosion early enough. Our last possible chance was to get the data right from the source. So I did what I should have done long ago. Somewhat misleadingly referring to myself as ‘Pracht from MIT,’ I contacted Las Campanas in Chile, where the blowup was first spotted. And down there they’ve got tapes starting only an hour after the event began.

  “I got them to send the data on Internet, from the moment they saw the blast. I’ve looked it over, and guess what?”

  “Please hurry, I’m going to faint.”

  “There was a small peak at—would you believe—4.0175 centimeters, which faded into the noise after a few hours. But it was there. The guy calculated that, based on the decay rate, it must have had a pretty high amplitude at the beginning.

  “What’s more, none of the theorists he consulted could explain why the peak should have been where it was in the first place. But your theory takes care of all that, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, Jerry. I’m so excited I don’t know what to say—I owe you so much. Thank you, thank you for everything.”

  “You may not believe this, Isa,” he joked, “but I’m actually happier than you … since I don’t have to see any more of those crazy expressionistic films.”

  Isabel laughed. And then—if such were possible—he endeared himself to her even further by saying softly, “Hey, listen, let me speak to Ray, he deserves a bit of congratulations too.”

  She glanced at her father’s bedroom door, and was sorely tempted to tell him the news. But she realized that since he was on such strong medication, it might be dangerous to wake him.

  “He’s zonked at the moment. If I let him rest, he’ll enjoy it more later. But I will call my mom.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But if you want to know the truth, I’m beat too. I’ll drop over tomorrow morning at eight sharp with an assortment of pastries. Well, Isa, as they say in California, have a nice day.”

  The moment he hung up, she dialed the West Coast.

  Muriel’s number seemed to ring endlessly. Isabel assumed that her mother was in deep slumber and would wake slowly, but to her surprise, the sleepy voice that finally answered was Peter’s.

  “Hi,” Isabel said jauntily. “What’re you doing home?”

  “Terri and I are just house-sitting for Mom,” he answered. His tone seemed strangely subdued. And even when she told him the news and he congratulated her, he did not perform his characteristic verbal cart-wheels.

  Isabel began to sense that something was wrong. “Where’s Mom?” she asked anxiously.

  “I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but she’s taken the red-eye to Boston.”

  “Why?” Isabel asked. “Did someone from Berkeley—”

  “No,” he cut her off. “It’s nothing to do with you. There’s a … a kind of problem. I’m sure she’d want to talk to you herself.”

  “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?” Isabel persisted.

  “Listen, I’ve said too much already. I think you’d better hear the rest from her.” He reluctantly conveyed the details of Muriel’s flight. She would, in fact, be arriving within the hour.

  “Peter, is this something very serious?”

  Her brother hesitated and then said gravely, “Yeah, sort of.”

  “As in life-and-death serious?”

  There was silence, followed by a whispered, “I guess so. Just try to stay loose till you see her.”

  Isabel put down the phone. She, who had been so exuberant scarcely an hour earlier, was now shaken to the core of her being.

  Her mother was flying to Boston with ominous news. Whose life, she wondered, was in danger?

  55

  SANDY

  Sandy forged professional links with as much zeal as he avoided sentimental ones. Since he was based on the West Coast, it was only natural that he established ties in the Pacific science community.

  A great deal of work on aging and longevity was being done in Japan—at Keio University, in Tokyo, and at Osaka Bioscience Institute, to cite but two of the laboratories where he had ongoing collaborations on “immortality genes.”

  And yet the most important discovery in Sandy’s life was Kimiko Watanabe. To be precise, it was she who found him.

  They had in common not merely a passion for science, but a history of personal loss. Kimiko’s husband, a geneticist, had died of cancer at an obscenely early age, leaving her with twin sons, a pension ample to raise them—but no means of spiritual support. Yet he had shared so many of his scientific ideas with her that she almost felt capable of carrying on his work—with the slight obstacle that she only had a high school degree.

  Given token encouragement by his former colleagues, Kimiko applied to study genetics at half a dozen Japanese universities. And was turned down flat.

  One day, while she was rummaging through her late husband’s files, she came across an offprint from Experimental Gerontology on “Synthesizing Telomerase.” It was inscribed to Akira Watanabe with warmest personal greetings from the author, Sandy Raven, Ph.D., California Institute of Technology, USA.

  She now recalled her husband mentioning the stimulating conversations he had had with his colleague on the other side of the Pacific. For reasons she could not comprehend, this spurred her into making a reckless gesture.

  Perhaps it was because her countrymen tended to view Americans—especially Californians—as being freer spirits, less bound by convention. In any case, Kimiko thought it might be a worthwhile gamble writing to Sandy and asking his help.

  Her instincts were perfect. He read her letter and immediately sensed a fellow victim. He spared no effort in arranging for Kimiko to spend a trial year at Cal Tech as a special student. Although there were no further guarantees, she jumped at the chance, and, packing the boys, made the long journey—across more than just an ocean—to Pasadena.

  Aware that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she worked like a demon, and at the end of the year was offered a place in a formal degree program on a full scholarship.

  In the months preceding her arrival, she and Sandy had exchanged dozens of faxes. On several occasions he had telephoned her to confirm the details of her travel and housing arrangements. He even helped her to make initial contacts with the local expatriate Japanese community.

  And yet, curiously, from the moment she arrived, all personal contact ceased. Communication between Sandy’s office and Mrs. Watanabe was now through his redoubtable secretary, Maureen.

  At first Kimiko was working too hard to notice. But gradually the silence became so pronounced that she began to worry that she had in some way offended her benefactor.

  But even if that were so, the good news that she would be staying on provided the perfect pretext for righting things with Sandy.

  Merely through their telephone conversations, Maureen had grown to like Kimiko a lot. Her voice was gentle, her manner charming. On such small things the course of history can turn.

  “Will it be possible for me to see the professor in person for a moment?” she appealed to Maureen. “I know how busy he is and I would not take up much of his time.”

  Maureen knew her orders. Sandy’s schedule was strictly classified and only she knew on which hours of which day in a given week he would be coming to the campus.

  Moreover, to maximize his privacy, Sandy would frequently alter his plans. His swift visits were confined to the lab team meetings, conferences with his grad students, and whatever
dreaded administrative tasks he had to perform.

  His secretary’s brief was clear: “Don’t clutter up my life.” And yet on this occasion Maureen felt insubordination would in the long run be the wiser course.

  “Listen, Kimiko. My boss is a bit of an oddball, and even I can’t guarantee that you’ll get to see him. But why not take a chance on coming by on Tuesday, at say four o’clock …”

  “In the morning?” she asked affably.

  “No, he’s not that weird. Anyway, come around and I’ll do the best I can.”

  Maureen herself was surprised.

  The grateful visitor was so pert and petite that she looked like a young graduate student. She was dressed modestly but elegantly in a green skirt and matching sweater which set off a single strand of pearls. Her dark eyes seemed to sparkle with life.

  When Maureen buzzed Sandy to announce Mrs. Watanabe’s presence, he bristled.

  “No way, I’ve got a meeting with the dean,” he complained.

  Overhearing the dialogue, Kimiko self-effacingly announced that she had to leave. The secretary motioned her to remain as she responded through the phone to her boss, “Come on, Sandy—that isn’t till four-thirty. Why don’t you just pop out for a quick hello?”

  Sandy acceded grudgingly, while simultaneously shoring up his defenses. Reluctantly, he went out to shake hands with the grateful young Japanese woman—and send her on her way.

  He had pictured Mrs. Watanabe as a woman with rings of worry around her eyes, drained of humor, tired, and very likely embittered by the harsh blows fate had dealt her. He did not expect her to be pretty. Certainly not young and vibrant, with a flawless porcelain complexion.

  She smiled as she held out her hand, and with the hint of a respectful bow politely uttered, “I had to come by and thank you so much for everything, Dr. Raven.”

  The cloistered Sandy was momentarily tongue-tied. Her radiance had pierced his defensive armor. He recovered sufficiently to ask, “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  “But you have to see the dean,” Maureen scolded mischievously.

  Sandy ignored her and motioned the lissome visitor to follow him into his office, while Maureen grinned with satisfaction.

  Kimiko monopolized the time with varied expressions of gratitude. The best way to thank Sandy, she had correctly planned, was to show how much she had learned at Cal Tech—and to demonstrate a knowledge of his work.

  As she talked, Sandy searched his mind for a pretext to see her again.

  He tried to look at her without staring. Her presence was unsettling: her face, her figure—why, after years of looking at women as if they were broccoli, did he suddenly notice how shapely this one was? Part of him longed for her to leave so he could return to his sheltered life, while another part longed to keep her there.

  Yet she diffidently rose, thanked him for his time and, again with a trace of a bow, prepared to take her leave.

  “No—wait,” he spluttered, pressing a button. “You haven’t even had coffee.… Maureen, uh, would you bring us two espressos? And, uh, call the dean and say I’ll be late.”

  As she prepared the refreshments, Maureen found herself humming “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  Meanwhile, Kimiko was herself hearing sounds of her own. An emotional wake-up call.

  After the initial formal awkwardness, she began to see Sandy as something more than a figure in a white lab coat. For there was no mistake about the way this intense, intelligent man was gazing at her. She was on the verge of blushing.

  What really captivated Sandy was the strength of her personality. The conversation had quickly passed from a routine discussion of her courses to the real center of her life: the twins.

  One minute she was talking about Hiroshi and Koji, and the next he was discussing Olivia and how much he missed her. She found his unabashed pride in his daughter enormously endearing.

  He in turn noticed the obvious pleasure she took in talking about her boys.

  “I am happy to say that they are very industrious. I mean, they have a difficult schedule since I also send them to Japanese school in the afternoons.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I’ve heard about your high-pressure academic system. To be frank, it sounds a bit severe.”

  “It’s a way of life,” she answered. “They’ll have to sink or swim in our society. You must come and meet them sometime. I suppose you are probably too busy.”

  “No,” he swiftly replied. “As it happens, I’m very free at the moment. When would be convenient for you?”

  Had Kimiko suggested that very evening, he would have readily accepted. But being diplomatic, she proposed dinner the following week.

  Sandy spent the intervening days absorbing all the latest books on Japanese culture and society. He was determined to make a good impression, and was too insecure to believe he already had.

  What he liked most of all was the fact that she made no attempt to camouflage her motherhood. The boys sat at the table with them in their modest apartment near the campus, making polite informed conversation when spoken to.

  At the stroke of eight they excused themselves and retired to their room to study.

  “What time do they go to sleep?” Sandy asked.

  “Never before midnight. They have two sets of homework.”

  “Well, at least they can catch up on the weekends.”

  She laughed. What a lovely shape her mouth was, he thought.

  “They go to school all day Saturday.”

  “God—do they ever rebel?”

  “No, they understand. It’s normal in Japan.”

  “Just a guess, but I’d say you don’t go to sleep before three.”

  “You’re right, Sandy. But you got me this chance, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “You haven’t. And yet we Americans have a saying, all work and no play … You’re a very attractive woman. In fact, I only wish I were ten years younger.”

  “Why?” she looked at him with undisguised affection. “You are not exactly an ancient person. And you are a very attractive man.”

  She can’t mean that, he thought. I’m too much of a nerd for someone like her.

  Still, they talked until midnight. When she excused herself to say good night to Hiroshi and Koji, Sandy realized that it was time to go. Yet when she returned, they continued talking for another hour. Only then did he force himself to take his leave, but not without making another date.

  “What about Sunday?” he asked. “The boys deserve a little break. Why don’t I take you all to Universal Studios?”

  “Oh, they would love that,” she responded.

  “It’s a little silly, but I thought you might enjoy it too,” he remarked.

  “I know I will.”

  With its fires and floods and man-eating sharks and other catastrophes, the studio provided dozens of opportunities for reassuring hugs.

  Long after he dropped them back at their apartment, Sandy could still feel the touch of the boys on his neck, and especially of Kimiko’s hand slipped spontaneously into his as they walked back to the car.

  “What do you normally do on weekends?” Kimiko asked.

  “Well, as you probably gathered, I live a peculiar life. On weekends I go shopping.”

  “There’s nothing strange about that,” she offered.

  “In San Francisco?” he asked jovially. “It’s a few hundred miles away.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “That is a bit unusual. Is there something special there?”

  Revealing his enormous enthusiasm, he told her about the garages and their brainy proprietors.

  She nodded. “That seems like an important part of your work. You should not let us disturb you.”

  “Then why don’t you come with me?” he quickly added, “I mean, the boys too.”

  She thought for a split second. “I would have to propose one condition or I would not feel right.”

  “Name it.”

  “I would have them miss
Japanese school so we could go on a Saturday. Otherwise it would not be fair to you.”

  Two days instead of one? It was a bounty that he dared not dream of.

  They left at dawn and drove slowly on the Pacific Coast Highway, stopping for an early coffee on the pier at Monterey, where Sandy bought little bowls of food for the boys to feed the seals.

  A short while later he booked them all into a luxurious three-bedroom suite near the top of the Four Seasons Clift Hotel in San Francisco. They immediately left again to explore Silicon Valley.

  Here Kimiko saw another side of Sandy. Whereas he was timid with adults, even with her at times, he was a kind of benevolent godfather with the young scientists. The fledgling inventors adored him and treated her and the boys like colleagues, especially after they realized that she understood perfectly what they were talking about.

  That evening they went to the crystal-chandeliered French Room for dinner on their own, leaving the boys to eat in the room. Kimiko had not forgotten their obligations—the makeup work their Japanese teacher had set for them as a condition for missing school.

  Yet she only pecked at her food, and Sandy realized at once what was wrong.

  “Kimiko,” he said earnestly, “how can we be friends if we don’t tell each other the truth. You’re having real qualms, aren’t you?”

  She nodded nervously.

  “But you’re right,” he insisted. “I feel exactly the same. We shouldn’t have left them up there on their own.”

  She nodded again.

  A moment later he had settled the bill and they were back in the elevator to rejoin Hiroshi and Koji. When they had completed their second dinner, as a special treat he ordered them all waffles and ice cream for dessert.

  At last the boys were asleep, and Kimiko and Sandy were alone. Really alone.

  He knew what he wanted to happen, but was afraid that one false move would shatter the perfection that they had shared so far. And yet in accepting his invitation to come away, she must have known this moment was inevitable.

  He just could not tell how she had prepared to face it. Then she told him without words, excusing herself to take a shower and reappearing primly, but fetchingly, in the towel bathrobe provided by the hotel.