The desk-sized electron microscope was one of two EMs in Lima; the other belonged to the leading hospital. Rather than stand in line to use the hospital equipment, Michael had decided to take his chances with Dr. Gustavo Mozombite, head of the new Structural Molecular Biology Center at the Universidad de Lima.
Thankfully, the learned doctor had a background in medicine and spoke excellent English. He had welcomed Michael with typical Latin generosity, listened to a brief history of the native patient, then lifted a brow when Michael pulled out his case of slides.
“You mean to examine the tissues now?”
“As soon as possible,” Michael answered. “I must return to Iquitos this afternoon.”
“Then let us not waste time.”
Now Michael crossed his arms as Dr. Mozombite adjusted the transmission electron microscope to examine one of the specimens he had brought from Iquitos. They stood in a small, darkened room with the image projected onto a television screen. The EM used a beam of electrons rather than light to illuminate a specimen and magnified the image by focusing its beam with magnets rather than a glass lens. Because electrons have shorter wavelengths than visible light, the EM could achieve much higher magnification than a light microscope. The machine’s spectacular capability meant that Michael and Dr. Mozombite could not only see brain cells, but small viruses, broken fragments of protein and DNA, even cell debris.
“It takes time to learn how to read and interpret what we will see here,” Dr. Mozombite said, his face gray in the monitor’s glow. “I had to learn the difference between a cell membrane, a discarded nucleus, and other building blocks of a cell. After you learn what is normal, you learn to identify what is not.”
Michael stared at the screen, unable to believe he’d been staring at the same specimen only hours before. The EM had created a window to another world, a microscopic universe filled with good and evil, friends and foes . . .
With one hand expertly controlling the image, Dr. Mozombite pointed out cell walls, a cluster of cell debris, a cell with a broken wall.
“Here.” With one hand Dr. Mozombite pointed to the screen, with the other he pressed a button that snapped a photograph of the image. “This is odd. These sticks—do you see them?”
Michael squinted, adjusting his perspective until he saw several sticklike objects among the microscopic cell debris. The sight sent a tide of goose flesh rippling up each arm. “I see them.”
Mozombite cast him a shrewd glance. “I am guessing, but could they be amyloid plaques?”
“I know what they are.” Michael’s voice rasped against his throat. “They are scrapie-associated fibrils—now known as PrP, or prion proteins.”
“Are these the cause of your patient’s death?”
Michael shook his head. “The man died from acute sepsis resulting from a bowel perforation.”
“The infection killed him first, then. But surely this encephalopathy would have proved fatal within a few months.”
Michael let the silence stretch a moment, then looked directly at the professor. “The patient lived in an indigenous tribe—I doubt he had ever left the jungle until yesterday. Before he died, he told a clerk—perfectly lucidly—that he had been healed of the ‘shuddering disease.’ He had supposedly been near death, but sought help from a shaman of another tribe. He said the shaman healed him.”
Mozombite said nothing as he pulled other specimens from Michael’s tray. Together they watched silently as the rodlike images appeared in slide after slide.
Finally Mozombite flipped the light switch. He sank onto a stool, rubbed his chin with two fingers, then folded his arms and lifted his chin.
“I have learned to curb my cynicism regarding native medicine,” he said. “The Indian healers do offer amazing cures for jungle diseases. What they lack are cures for modern diseases, evidenced by the hundreds of unfortunate deaths in Brazil, where entire villages have been wiped out by malaria and measles.” He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “I doubt your patient’s story was true. Prion diseases are new; the natives would have no knowledge of how to treat them.”
“How do we know for certain? If this tribe has truly been isolated, perhaps they do know of the disease. What if they’ve seen it in jungle animals? What if they ate the animals and became infected? While we were misidentifying prion diseases as Parkinson’s and palsy, they might have identified it and found a cure.”
Tilting his head to one side, Mozombite gave Michael a slanted look. “A bold assumption, Dr. Kenway.”
“It’s a bold disease, Dr. Mozombite. So—if you were in my situation, with this evidence in hand, what would you do?”
“With the rise of BSE-infected cattle and the corresponding threat to our international food supply?” A muscle clenched along the man’s jaw. “Neurology is not my field, but I’ve read enough to be alarmed for the planet’s future. Plus . . . given the evidence in this man’s brain, I think it’s important to determine how he became infected. If prioninfected animals have reached this continent, we need to know.” He rubbed his chin for another moment, then met Michael’s gaze. “If your patient’s story is true, Dr. Kenway, I’d risk everything I owned to find that healing tribe.”