Chapter 15

The museum was in a high-ceilinged room overlooking the NewGarden greenhouses. The interior walls were covered with oversized colored illustrations and grainy black-and-white photographs. In the center of the room stood a series of display pedestals dramatically lit by overhead spotlights.

“This room serves a public relations function,” explained Jurevicius. The emotional scene with Dr. Fischer did not seem to have affected him. “We use it to explain the science of what we do. Don’t feel bad, very few people know much about biotechnology and those who do are full of misinformation. We’ll skip the technical section about how we splice genes,” he gestured toward the illustrations, “and get right down to the results.”

He led them to the first pedestal, which contained a modest Petri dish. “E. coli bacteria,” Jurevicius explained almost reverently. “I should say, genetically engineered E. coli, which contain a human gene for producing insulin. It was the first biotech product, developed by Genentech in 1978. Before that, diabetics had to use insulin derived from the pancreases of slaughtered cows and pigs.”

“Sounds treyf,” Bruno commented.

“Actually, the Rabbis said it was kosher since it was injected, not eaten. But obviously the human protein works better.” Jurevicius turned toward a pedestal supporting a bowl of rice. “The next example is a product of one of our competitors. Golden rice. It turns yellow when cooked. The color comes from beta-carotene. Any idea where the genes came from?”

Bruno and the Chief exchanged blank looks. “Carrots?”

Jurevicius smiled happily. “Daffodils, actually. The point is to efficiently supplement the amount of Vitamin A in the diets of malnourished people, chiefly in Asia, where they eat a lot of rice. Vitamin A deficiency is a very serious condition. It causes blindness and is implicated in the deaths of some five million children every year. Monsanto agreed to share the technology for golden rice, free of charge, for use in underdeveloped countries. But that’s probably a devious plot on their part to gain control of the food supply, don’t you agree?”

The question took them by surprise, which also seemed to please Jurevicius. “Am I boring you?” he asked. “No? That’s good. Because it gets better.” He gestured to a pedestal featuring an ordinary-looking tomato. “This is the Flavr-Savr tomato, designed to look good, taste good, and last longer on the shelf. Its critics complained it has a fish gene inserted. That can’t be good: Fish rot and stink … don’t they?”

“Sure,” agreed the Chief.

“Feh,” added Bruno.

“So why would you put a fish gene in a tomato?”

“No idea.”

“Well, there was talk at the same time of trying to identify the gene that allows the Arctic flounder to survive in near-freezing temperatures. But that wasn’t how they made the Flavr-Savr. Actually the scientists at Calgene merely inverted one of the tomato’s own genes to slow down its aging process. No one knows how the fish gene story got started, whether it was a mistake or deliberate misrepresentation—it’s useless to speculate. But it has spread like a mutant virus—if you’ll pardon my hyperbole.”

“Why would anyone worry or complain?”

“Because they’re in the protest business. Their product is fear. To raise funds they have to scare people. When the fear starts to wear off they come up with something new. Like the monarch butterfly.” He waved in the direction of another pedestal supporting the familiar orange and black insect. “In a restricted environment, a scientist fed butterflies the pollen of a biotech corn variety. The butterflies died, proving the corn was toxic, right?”

“I’m not taking the bait on this one,” snorted the Chief.

“Good man,” Jurevicius commented. “La dose fait le poison, as we say in French. Later studies did not support the original report, but the scare persists. Protesters are everywhere. Street corners. High-priced clothing boutiques. And we’ve had our share of run-ins here, I don’t have to remind Chief Black.”

He nodded at the Chief, who had a slight grin of anticipation. “I see the horse crap right over there,” he chortled, pointing at a pedestal supporting several large clumps of dried horse manure, complete with projecting tufts of straw.

“It was brilliant, really. Entirely Dr. Fischer’s creation. He altered the gene for an enzyme in the horse’s digestive system. This allowed us to recapture unused nutrients in horse excrement by treating it with a simple reagent. In other words, we could feed the animal the same food over and over again. Not 100% of course. More like 65%, but still a significant savings. Obviously, this could have been a boon to people everywhere. It cuts down on the cost of owning animals. Reduces the amount of land and water needed to raise the crops to feed them. And the amount of pesticides and herbicides that farmers have to use …”

—“But remember, how all those chefs came over from France,” Chief Black recalled. “Talk about a difficult, obnoxious bunch of people.”

“I know all too well,” said Jurevicius, “as I am French, myself.”

The Chief reacted immediately. “I feel terrible for saying that. Let me apologize. You have no accent …”

—“Now that you mention it, I can hear it, just a little bit,” Bruno observed.

“… and I didn’t mean to generalize. I had to arrest several of them and they did nothing but complain about the food and accommodations. You’d think I was running a hotel.”

“They wouldn’t have liked that either,” Jurevicius observed. “They are all pompous asses, without exception. I came here several years ago when my parent company in France became the largest investor in NewGarden.” He stole a glance at his watch. “Come, I’d like to show you my contribution.”

He led them through the greenhouses. Each room recreated a different environment: a rice paddy, a wheat field, a field of sunflowers. Finally they stopped in a large expanse planted with corn. Jurevicius grabbed an ear and husked it on the spot. The kernels were bright blue in color.

“This is our most successful product. We call it Scarecrow Corn. It is corn that’s genetically modified to keep birds away. I’d prefer not to tell you where the gene came from that performs this trick. Let’s just say it is not from a fish …”

“But is it edible for people?”

“Entirely harmless, but it doesn’t taste very good. The idea is to plant the fields with, say, 15% Scarecrow Corn and the rest with our parent company’s insect-resistant cultivar. That mixture is very effective in keeping both the birds and the bugs away. The resulting crop is intended as animal feed. The pigs don’t seem to mind the taste, it’s equally nutritious, and the violet color immediately identifies it, so it doesn’t get mixed up with human food stocks.”

“Very impressive.”

Jurevicius led them to the next room. What they saw there caused them to gasp in astonishment. Flitting from tree to tree were crows. More than a dozen of them. All of them a brightly colored, iridescent blue.

“A harmless publicity stunt,” explained Jurevicius. “We spliced a gene from the hyacinthine macaw into the DNA of crows and sent them to Seattle the winter we launched Scarecrow Corn. We thought having brightly colored birds stealing their garbage might cheer them up during the rainy season. This would send a message that good things are on the way. Of course we also rendered them sterile so they wouldn’t permanently affect the corvine gene pool. Nevertheless, we sustained protests from the usual host of environmental groups.”

“Polite, but nasty,” said the Chief, recalling his arrests. “They kept complaining about the coffee.”

Bruno didn’t notice. The violet crows fascinated him. They were quite tame. One perched on his shoulder and stared at him. Bruno felt uncomfortable with the formidable beak so close to his eyes. He transferred the crow to his hand, but it immediately flew off to rejoin its buddies.

A moment later, they were back in the museum and Dr. Jurevicius was concluding his tour. “Here’s the thought I’d like to leave you with.” He pointed to an empty pedestal. “This represents all of the people who have ever been harmed by biotech gone awry. It’s empty. Thirty years. No casualties.”

As if on cue, Rhonda appeared and Jurevicius thanked them for their time. “I think you understand some of our concerns now and our need for security,” he said. “Please let Dr. Fischer know as soon as Master Quentin decides about our offer.”

“Quite a performance,” Chief Black commented under his breath to Bruno, as Rhonda escorted them past the silent lobby guards.

“Never seen anything like it,” Bruno agreed.

Just then Rhonda pulled up abruptly. “I fowrgot to give you something.” She ran back to her desk—as much as anyone can run in high heels—and picked up a slim package, which she handed to Bruno. “It’s our annual repowrt,” she said, turning her head to catch his eye. Her jerky movements and the quizzical, almost beseeching, quality of her gaze reminded him of the bird’s behavior in the aviary a few minutes before.

“I thawght you might find it interesting,” Rhonda said.

As Bruno reached to take the package, he noticed with a start that her eyes were the same shade of violet as the crow’s plumage. “Psychic overload,” Bruno muttered to himself. He grabbed the envelope and hurried for the door.