Elixir. Part 11

She ill.u.s.trated her point with diagrams on the board. "Each time a cell divides, telomeres of offspring cells become shorter and shorter. In healthy young cells, there is an enzyme called 'telomerase' containing the genetic code for restoring telomeres, allowing cells to divide by keeping the telomeres long. But as the cell gets old, the telomerase activity decreases and the telomeres get shorter until after a half a dozen replications in mice-fifty in humans-the sequence shortens until the cells die.

"But as we've discovered, cells treated with Elixir don't senesce. Instead, telomeres in treated animals held their length while cells continued to replicate. My guess is that tabulone activates the genes that produces telomerase, thereby maintaining a constant supply to keep the telomeres long and cells young."

"How does that jive with the literature?" Chris asked.

"Well, all aging studies. .h.i.t the same brick wall: how to switch on telomerase production indefinitely." She held up an ampule of Elixir. "It's the magic bullet. It triggers an endless source of telomerase-the Fountain of Youth, if you will."

Betsy's reasoning was brilliant. But it also raised some fundamental questions. "Are you saying, then, that the cells of our bodies are genetically programmed to die?" Vartan asked.

Betsy hesitated to answer because of the enormity of the implications. "No, because that would mean that death is an evolutionary necessity. And, frankly, I don't believe that aging is the result of evolutionary forces," she answered. "And the reason is that Nature is a red-toothed demon that kills off most animals before they reach reproductive age, and those that make it almost never live long enough for aging to have become part of the natural selection process."

Chris felt a warm flow of satisfaction because it was the same conclusion he had reached years ago. More than that, he felt considerable admiration for Betsy and pride that a scientist with such fierce intelligence and authority was on his team.

Betsy continued, "There are so-called 'big-bang' exceptions like the Pacific salmon which seem genetically programmed to sp.a.w.n and die within a few days. But on balance, death seems clearly to be the result of cell deterioration at the molecular level and not natural selection."

"Which means that aging could be stalled as long as the cells are protected," Chris added.

"Exactly, and tabulone appears to do just that. As long as the antioxidant binds to the DNA telomere sequence, cell death will not occur."

"What about the rejuvenating effect?" Chris asked.

Betsy nodded in antic.i.p.ation of the query. "My guess is that it reverses the process. Say we started Jimbo on treatment on his twenty-seventh out of a max of thirty replications. As Elixir turns on the telomerase gene, instead of going twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, death!, the replications went twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five until he reached a steady state. Telomere lengths were restored with each division, and in the meantime he experiences moderate rejuvenation. That's still conjecture, but the important thing is that tabulone is a natural telomerase activator."

Chris was dumbfounded: What Betsy was describing was a breakthrough in cell biology. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances such findings would be winged to every major scientific journal. But they were sworn to secrecy.

The next step-Phase 2-was the rapid senescence problem. While the molecular work would be conducted by the others, Chris would concentrate on determining dosages-when exactly senescence began and how to reverse it.

"There's one more thing," Betsy said. Her expression had suddenly darkened. "While our successes don't guarantee prolongevity for humans, we're moving inexorably closer. I need not remind you how stupendous a discovery that is. But it's imperative we consider the higher implications before we blindly push onward."

There was a hushed moment.

"In fact, I suggest we stop right where we are."

"Stop? What are you saying?" It was Quentin from the rear of the room-the first words he had uttered in nearly two hours.

"I know how you feel, but there are some serious moral and social ramifications to what we're doing."

Quentin bolted upright in his chair. "Betsy, let me remind you that this project is guided by FDA protocol and good manufacturing principles as with all our work at Darby."

"I know that, Quentin, but Elixir is not like any other pharmaceutical in history. We're not talking about adding ten years to a person's life but doubling or tripling it."

"I fail to see the problem."

"The problem is we're no longer playing scientist, but G.o.d. And, frankly, I don't have the credentials! I'm asking, do we really want to open that door?"

"What door, for G.o.dsakes?" Quentin was losing his composure by the second.

"To all the nightmare potentials. If suddenly we introduce a compound that keeps the next generation from dying, the population in a hundred years would be twenty-six billion. Meanwhile, resources run out, the environment is devastated, and wars erupt between the Elixirs and the Elixir-nots-"

Quentin cut her off. "Betsy, your nightmare may be the only hope for patients suffering multiple sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's Disease... or Alzheimer's."

That was intended to ingratiate Chris. But from Quentin it was a smarmy jab. He didn't give a d.a.m.n about ethics or humanity. His sole interest was his billion-dollar dream.

"The potential impact is unimaginable," Betsy continued, "and we had better think about it while we still have time."

The others nodded in agreement. Sensing a conspiracy, Quentin shot Chris a look for help. But Chris remained silent. "You mean you want to pull the plug because it might be too successful?"

"Yes-because we should be working on improving the quality of the life, not trying to prolong it."

"Prolonging it is improving the quality, d.a.m.n it!"

"Then we should get Public Citizen or some other watchdog agency to monitor its development."

"Jesus Christ! We don't need to have Ralph Nader and his people hanging over us again."

Four years ago, the medical arm of Nader's consumer group got the FDA to withdraw one of Darby's high-profit arthritis drugs because it caused heart failure in some patients. The very mention of the organization made Quentin apoplectic.

"Please," said Vartan holding up his hands. "Betsy's making an important point. There are too many big unknowns to grapple with. It's only ethical we rea.s.sess matters."

Derek and Stan agreed. It was clear that they had discussed matters among themselves already. Only Quentin and Chris were hearing the dissent for the first time.

Chris felt the battle lines divide them. He did not like being on the same side as Quentin. He also felt the rising expectation to say something. It was his project, after all. Suddenly his people were talking about halting a seven-year investment of his mind and soul-and at the very threshold of the kingdom. And they were expecting him to resolve what smacked of being the ultimate conflict between science and ethics.

No longer able to stall, he said, "I think you're both right. Betsy, you raise some troublesome potentials, things we should consider. But unwanted possibilities are no reason to call a halt. Cocaine or heroin are dangerous when abused, but lots of people take them and n.o.body's twisting their arms. Should we stop manufacturing them because it's become a social problem? Of course not, because of all the legitimate uses in medicine. Even nuclear fission: It's not innately evil, just one of its potential applications."

"That's like saying climb the mountain because it's there: Knowledge for its own sake," Betsy said.

"Yes, but I see nothing wrong with that."

"Not all knowledge is good."

"True, but science shouldn't be prohibited from extending frontiers, especially in human biology. Like cloning, prolongevity was bound to be discovered, so why not do it right? And we're the best team there is."

"Hear, hear!" shouted Quentin and flashed Chris a thumbs-up. The man was a d.a.m.n fool, and Chris resented the a.s.sumption of complicity.

"Then maybe you can tell us what exactly our objective is," Betsy said, "because I've lost sight."

Iwati's face rose up in Chris's mind. Never grow old.

"Our objective is to continue the headway we've made with an eye to moving to clinical. The fact is, the accelerated senescence may stop us before our conscience does."

Another flashcard image-Sam in the hospital, looking up at Chris, wondering who he was.

"If you're worried about it being too successful," Quentin said, "why not modify the compound so that it's good for, say, for ten or twenty years-chemically fine-tune it, kind of?"

Betsy took a deep breath of exasperation. It was a ludicrous suggestion. "Even if we discovered some built-in timers for molecules, activation would const.i.tute ma.s.s murder."

"Oh h.e.l.l, you can work out something," Quentin snapped back. "The point is that if Elixir can add a decade or two to human life, I'm all for it. So is Darby Pharms and so is the human race, d.a.m.n it! We're not going to have a work stoppage. Period! Besides, we don't even know if it works on humans."

"Frankly, I hope it doesn't," Betsy said, and picked up her things and left.

The meeting was over, and Derek, Stan, and Vartan exited without a word.

When they were alone, Quentin turned to Chris. "What the h.e.l.l's wrong with her? This might be the greatest discovery in all of science, and she's trying to f.u.c.king sabotage it. Jesus! Where the h.e.l.l did you find that woman in the first place?"

Chris looked at the big pink musk-melon face. The same face that for weeks would mooch into his lab to check on progress, to reiterate how important Elixir was to the company, to remind him how there would be no Elixir project without Quentin. Chris did all he could to keep from whacking that face. "Quentin, I'm sure you have work to do."

Quentin gave him an offended look then left.

Chris's insides felt scooped out. Maybe they would talk, but they were not going to shut the project down. No way. He needed Betsy, but if she became a liability, he would ask her to find another lab.

He was about to leave when he looked back at the chalkboard notes and diagrams. Do we really want to open that door?

And a small voice in his head, whispered: Yes, oh yes.

Dexter had messed up-yielded to a crazy nostalgic impulse. A last-ditch effort to bathe in the fires of spring. But when the time came, Chris wouldn't be so foolish. No way.

10.

JULY 1.

Quentin arrived at two-thirty and paced in circles around George Washington and his horse for half an hour. In a shoulder bag he carried unmarked hundred-dollar bills. But not twenty-five thousand of them. Over the week he had raised only $1.5 million-a million shy of what he owed.

It was a cool drizzly day, and only a few people were in the Garden. Quentin's stomach was a cauldron of acid. He chewed Tums, thinking that Antoine was being cagey, probably waiting to see if he had brought police or narcs. The thought had never crossed his mind. About three o'clock a kid in jeans and a slicker approached him. "He's waiting for you in the lounge across the street." He pointed to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel then took off in the opposite direction.

Quentin crossed Arlington Street, feeling relief they were meeting in a civilized place. The lounge was dim and only a couple of businessmen sat by the window. A waiter directed Quentin to a table in the far corner where a man sat, but it was not Antoine Ducharme.

"How's the finger?" asked Vince Lucas.

Instantly, Quentin's hand began to throb. The finger had a permanent crook which made Vince smile.

"Where's Antoine?"

"Let's just say it's inconvenient for Antoine to travel."

Quentin sat and the waiter took their orders-a Chivas on the rocks for Quentin, a second Perrier for Vince. Quentin clenched the bag of money between his feet. He could not stop trembling. All he could think of was his daughter, Robyn.

"You got a problem?" Vince asked. "You seem a bit jumpy."

"It's just I'm out of breath from running over," he stammered and mopped his face with the napkins.

The waiter brought the drinks. Lucas's eyes were deep black and totally unreadable. He wore a gray suit, blue shirt, and paisley tie, like a stockbroker. Quentin's heart pounded so hard that he wondered if Lucas could hear it. He called the waiter back to bring some nuts. When the waiter left, Lucas said, "Do you have the money, Mr. Cross?

"Oh, sure." He shoved a handful of nuts into his mouth.

Lucas reached over and pulled the bag over. Quentin started to protest, but choked it back. It took Lucas a few seconds to estimate the contents. "Where's the rest?"

"That's what I want to talk to Antoine about."

Lucas sighed. "Mr. Cross, I told you a long time ago that I speak for Antoine, understand? And he's not happy." His eyes had hardened into flat onyx marbles.

Suddenly a thought occurred to Quentin-an interesting one that sent a ripple through his bowels. He finished his drink and flagged the waiter for a refill. Meanwhile, Lucas watched him squirm and gobble down nuts-his face an uncompromising blank.

"We're both businessmen, correct?" Quentin began. "And you're successful I a.s.sume. I mean, you're well dressed and all..." He tapered off.

More gaping silence as Lucas tried to read Quentin.

"As you may recall, I'm the Chief Financial Officer of a very reputable pharmaceutical company-"

"Cut the blah-blah and get to the point."

"Okay, there's nearly a million and a half dollars in there. I know it's short, and I have every intention of paying the balance, but frankly, I simply can't raise that kind of money without serious consequences. But Darby Pharms is on the verge of something with cosmic potential."

The waiter came with more nuts and Quentin's drink.

"How old are you, Mr. Lucas?"

Lucas narrowed his eyes at Quentin without response then checked his watch.

"I'd guess thirty-five." Quentin removed a half-eaten roll of Tums from his pocket and placed it on the table. "What would you pay for a compound that could freeze you at thirty-five for another hundred years?"

Lucas glanced at the Tums then gave Quentin the same menacingly blank look. "You asking me real questions, or is this your idea of conversation? By the way, you've got three minutes."

Quentin felt a burst of panic. "For what?"

"To settle the rest of your debt." Quentin's mind flooded with all sorts of horrors-being dragged to a waiting car outside, or maybe even shot dead right here with a silencer, fast when n.o.body was looking. He glanced desperately to the table of businessmen at the window.

"They're with me," Lucas said. "You were saying?"

Oh, G.o.d. Quentin thought. There was no compromising these people. No extensions. No second chances. It was all he had left. "Look, please. I'm serious. I'm... I'm talking about something historic.... Something we're developing while we speak, in fact. It's for real. What if those weren't antacids but pills that prevented you from aging?"

"What's the catch?"

"There is no catch."

"Sounds like bulls.h.i.t."

"It's not. It works. The stuff exists. I'm telling you, it's for real."

"How many people have you tried it on?"

"n.o.body yet, but it works on lab animals-mice and monkeys."