Adam and Anya Coopersmith had become relentless hunters in the dark jungle of the immune system, and slowly but surely they were nearing their prey. Somewhere, among the benign and benevolent cells that whirled through the body, lurked a secret predator whose sole savage purpose was the destruction of the human fetus growing peacefully inside the womb.
It was the final act, and, in true Agatha Christie fashion, the killer was about to be exposed. Thus far it had left certain clues. But the evidence was merely circumstantial and not sufficient to make a definitive identification.
Moreover, to further complicate the plot, the interferons—three clusters of proteins code-named somewhat unimaginatively alpha, beta, and gamma—were like an army that guarded against viruses. The alpha squad was produced by white blood cells; the beta, by cells of connective and other tissues; and the gamma, by T-lymphocytes, which are the natural killer cells in the normal immune response against disease-causing viruses.
Here the skills of chemist Giancarlo Pisani came into play. And together, in assay after assay, sometimes painstakingly changing the parameters by a mere .01 percent, they were seeking traces of the invisible. A hint of a shape. Anything distinctive that could be placed on a laboratory Wanted poster.
After testing with various pore sizes, they established the molecular weight of the unidentified killer at between ten and thirty thousand kilodaltons.
Coincidentally, the same as gamma interferon.
They put the mystery substance through more elaborate tests, including an affinity column containing microscopic plastic beads coupled with antibodies to the suspected toxin. After passage through the column, toxic activity was removed from the solution and bound by the bead, again suggesting that gamma interferon was the culprit.
A final series of multimedia investigations left no further doubt: gamma interferon was indeed a double agent—immensely useful against many diseases, but lethal for healthy pregnancies.
The question now was how to destroy the would-be enemy while preserving the victim it tenaciously stalked.
It was doubly appropriate that the breakthrough should occur on their anniversary. They were hard at work in the lab, testing Anya’s hypothesis that there might be a very subtle structural rearrangement of the specific atoms comprising the gamma molecule in the reproductive area.
With the help of crystallographer Simon Hillman, they visualized the conventional molecule on a 3-D video screen and superimposed it on fetal tissue.
Wearily pressing the enter key on her computer, Anya glanced perfunctorily at the screen, which she expected to show her bleary eyes yet another near-miss.
What she saw, however, made her blink into focus, move closer to the screen and finally let out a squeal.
Adam, who was just unpacking their millionth Chinese takeout, dropped the carton and ran over, thinking perhaps she had hurt herself.
“Look, Adam. Look.”
He just stared at the screen. His jaw dropped.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured. “You were right. I never thought I’d live to see this moment. The receptor molecules are different—subtly different—but enough to cause all the damage we’ve been trying to prevent.”
She nodded mutely.
He was dizzy. “After all this time, I’m suddenly at a loss for something to do.”
Anya beamed. “We just wait for the ultimate scientific reaction—the telegram from Stockholm.”
The final step was almost anticlimactic. It would be a matter of pharmacological trial and error to develop a receptor uniquely designed to protect nature’s treasured prize.
At this point the pair recruited every team in the lab, ordering that all other research be tabled so that the finish line could be reached at the greatest possible speed.
By late fall they had created a drug—dubbed MR-Alpha to commemorate the still-vivid memory of the man who had started Adam on this quest so long ago.
Clarke-Albertson put the drug on their fastest track for commercial development and FDA sanction, while Adam’s and Anya’s moods oscillated between ecstasy and frustration.
“How long does it take to get government approval?” Anya asked.
“That depends on the circumstances,” Adam replied, thinking briefly of a moment long ago when he had helped administer an unapproved drug to save the life of a man who was now his sworn enemy, and whose threatened vengeance still hung over him like the sword of Damocles.
“Approval can take two months or two years,” Prescott Mason commented.
“Well,” Adam warned, “if they don’t make it snappy, I’m gonna pull a John Rock.”
“Who is this ‘Rock’ person?” Anya asked.
“He’s a legend, and the story’s absolutely true,” Adam replied. “He was a central figure in the creation of the first oral contraceptive, which he duly submitted for FDA approval. But after a while he grew impatient with the bureaucratic road blocks. So one morning he simply showed up at the agency’s headquarters and announced to the receptionist that he had come to receive approval for his pill.
“After she made a number of nervous phone calls, she politely explained to Rock that he would be hearing from the agency very soon. The good doctor chose to interpret this literally. So he sat down on a little chair, pulled out a sandwich and said, ‘In that case, I’ll just wait.’ I guess it was the first sit-in in the history of the FDA.”
“And what was so amazing,” Mason jumped in, “was the old boy succeeded. Somehow his presence galvanized the authorities into approval that very afternoon.”
“Well, I’m willing to go to Washington,” Anya offered cheerily.
“Don’t worry,” Mason reassured her. “They’re finally starting to clear up the logjam. And besides, we’ve got two full-time lobbyists doing a slightly subtler imitation of John Rock. Anyway, this won’t be a very controversial call—”
“And more important,” Adam interrupted, “Anya’s going to sit down and study for her qualifying exams. I’ve always wanted to be married to a doctor.”
It took six months for Mason to achieve Washington’s blessing, and by then Anya had already passed her examination.
Thus, when the good news was phoned through by one of Clarke-Albertson’s “men on the spot,” the toasts could be raised to “Dr. Coopersmith and Dr. Coopersmith.”
Before they had even received their first advance from Clarke-Albertson, Adam and Anya decided to spend it on a house.
They purchased one of the stateliest homes on Brattle Street, a stone’s throw from the poet Longfellow’s house. Clarke-Albertson provided the down payment and guaranteed the mortgage.
Unfortunately, the plumbing and electricity were as venerable as the building itself. And since vintage pipes and wires do not improve with age, they had to engage a specialist architect to perform, as Adam jokingly put it, “a circuit transplant.”
Anya, with irrepressible optimism, insisted upon designating a room for Heather, and planned to have Adam invite her over to choose the color scheme.
They also spent many hours in the kitchen. The original pretext was that Anya could teach the young girl Russian cooking. But the recipes just gave them something to do with their hands while they conversed in increasingly intimate terms. Exchanging their feelings about life, love, marriage, Adam, and—inevitably—Toni.
“You know, I’m not trying to take your mother’s place,” Anya commented affectionately, “but I want you to feel that this is your home too. And you needn’t wait for your allotted time to come over.” She paused. “In fact, Adam and I thought you might like to have this.”
She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a newly made front-door key. Offering it, she added, “You don’t even have to call to say you’re coming.”
The young girl was deeply touched. “I’d like very much to give you a big hug,” she said shyly.
“Darling,” the older woman answered lovingly, “the feeling is mutual.”
But not long after the Coopersmiths had bought their mansion, Adam shocked his wife and himself by proposing that they take a sabbatical.
“And do what, Adam?” Anya asked. “The lab is your life.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he replied. “Why don’t we actually take that long holiday we’ve been promising ourselves?”
“Where would you like to go?” she asked, delighted at Adam’s rush of enthusiasm.
“Actually, a distant star would be perfect,” he replied with a smile. “But since we’re not qualified astronauts, would you settle for a trip around the world?”
“That would be wonderful,” she enthused. “Do you want to start westward or eastward?”
“I was thinking of west,” Adam answered. “We could stop in California and see some of our colleagues. Then Hawaii. After that, we’ll play it by ear. I’ve got some long-standing invitations to lecture down under, and that might even make it tax deductible for Uncle Sam. But in any case, we’ll definitely visit your parents on the way home.”
Anya was thrilled. And they embraced warmly.
“Tell me,” he asked, “aren’t we the happiest couple in the world?”
“I think so,” she murmured. “But we could find out empirically when we travel.”
Unselfishly, Heather encouraged them. “You guys deserve some time by yourselves. I mean, even old people go on honeymoons, don’t they?”
Adam and Anya laughed at what they hoped was meant to be a joke, and then he asked seriously, “But if we go, what’ll happen to you on our weekends?”
“Well, something tells me Mom’ll let you make up the time when you get back. And if she’s so horny that she has to go to Washington while you’re gone, I can always stay with Auntie Lisl.”
“From what I understand,” Anya remarked, “I don’t think Toni likes her very much.”
“Yeah, most of the time,” Heather conceded. “But when it comes to a place to dump me, I’m sure she’ll make an exception.”