“I’m glad, Dr. Braun, that you agreed to fit me into your hectic schedule.” Devin Sloane’s lips parted in a dazzling display of straight, white teeth. “And I hope the chateaubriand is to your liking.”
Helmut sliced the steak with his knife; a fork would have done the job. Great heaven, he hadn’t had a meal like this in . . . why, he had never had a meal like this. He put another slice of beef into his mouth, savoring the texture and taste. He hadn’t particularly wanted to meet with Sloane tonight; demanding benefactors were usually boring, bothersome pains-in-the-neck. But at least Sloane seemed to appreciate the value of Helmut’s time.
Helmut swallowed, then sipped from his wineglass. “When your assistant mentioned the Iceman of the Alps, I could not resist the invitation.” He sliced another bite of the luscious chateaubriand. “Curiosity, I confess, has caused me to fritter away more hours than anything else. But I suppose that is what makes a good researcher, no?”
“Indubitably.” Devin Sloane lifted his glass and swirled the liquid. “I myself am a very curious man, Dr. Braun. Curiosity compelled me to go to Europe last weekend, and after my return curiosity demanded that I see you as soon as possible.”
“Whatever for?”
Sloane smiled and set his glass on the table, then stared at Helmut with a look of implacable determination. “Because I want the same thing Lucifer promised Eve in the creation myth. Do you remember what it was? Fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.”
Intrigued, Helmut lowered his knife and fork. “Isn’t that what most intelligent men seek? We are all engaged in the pursuit of knowledge; we all yearn to know all a man can know.”
“Yet we are limited by our very finiteness.” Sloane’s dark eyes sparkled like the wine. “Man’s brain, as complex as it is, is restrained by certain biological factors. I’m well aware of the theory that genetic manipulation might be able to coax the brain cells into dividing one more time, thereby doubling its size—”
Following Sloane’s thought, Helmut cut in: “But the head would then be too large to squeeze through the birth canal.”
“Exactly.” Sloane’s fist pounded the table with an emphatic thump. “The average man today possesses a one and a half quart brain with ten billion nerve cells and ten times as many glial cells, but the average intelligent man uses only 10 percent of what is often mistakenly referred to as his ‘gray matter.’” His square jaw tensed visibly. “I’m willing to bet the average teenager uses only 2 percent.”
“So what would you have science do?” Helmut frowned. “In particular, what would you have me do? I am a geneticist, Sloane. I am not a psychosurgeon or a neurologist.”
“I am not pursuing those dead ends.” Sloane lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Forget psychosurgery; ignore the quacks who are experimenting with electrical stimulation of the brain. I have no use for those who would have us pop a pill or meditate to biofeed our way to greater intelligence or mental health.” Sloane leaned back, a feral light gleaming in the luminous depths of his eyes. “You, sir, are German. You should understand.”
Helmut shrugged to hide his confusion. “Ja, I am German. But what has that to do—”
“Your forefathers.” Sloane broke into an open, friendly smile. “Have you forgotten your own heritage? Your people were light-years ahead of other nations. They saw the dire necessity of improving human stock through eugenics. They knew that we humans have been inching down the genetic staircase and since World War II we have only accelerated our decline. Radiation, certain drugs, dyes, food additives, plastics, and other environmental agents are destroying the future of our race.”
Struggling to mask his uneasiness, Helmut painted on a neutral smile. “The Nazis were defeated, Mr. Sloane. And Mengele’s experiments horrified the world. You cannot be suggesting that we—”
“Mengele was an amateur. He had not one-tenth of the knowledge today’s average schoolchild has available at his fingertips,” Sloane answered in a low, composed voice. “And you are quite right to shudder at the thought of Mengele’s horrific experiments. I am no Nazi, Dr. Braun. Hitler and his associates made the mistake of thinking they possessed superior genes. I am not so deluded. I know that my DNA, for instance, is not all it should be. As much as any man, I stand in the need of genetic improvement.”
An easy smile played at the corner of the billionaire’s mouth. “What’s that old hymn? It’s me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer? I’d be the first to admit I’m as debased as my neighbor. While I’m healthy, reasonably well-bred, and of above-average intelligence, even I cannot escape the gradual genetic erosion that affected my parents and grandparents. Therefore even I am in need of a holy touch—and that’s why I need your help.”
A chill shock held Helmut in place. He lifted his hand to reach for his glass, then saw that his fingers trembled. He dropped his hand into his lap, then looked up and met Sloane’s gaze. “I assume you have a plan.”
“Of course I do.” Sloane cupped his wineglass, then stared thoughtfully at the dark liquid. “My plan is threefold. The first phase involves the new pediatric hospital—a program I am underwriting, by the way. My public role is discreet, of course, but make no mistake, the program is completely under my direction. I’ve approved every doctor and specialist; I’ve even been consulted about the décor in the parents’ waiting room.”
Helmut forced himself to glance away, to slice another piece of beef. “I haven’t much interest in pediatrics.”
“Your talents are needed elsewhere. But the new Ethan Jefferson Pediatric Hospital for Genetic Research will concentrate exclusively on genetic illnesses—cystic fibrosis, certain cancers, sickle cell anemia, Tay-Sachs, and so on. Patients will be treated through gene therapy, and parents will be counseled so they don’t reproduce again and compound the problem. In every consultation and publication we will proclaim that every child has a right to full educational opportunities, healthful nutrition, and a sound genetic heritage. Best of all, the hospital will be designed to aid the poor—all cases will be charity cases, and medical care will be given without cost to the patient.”
With an effort, Helmut swallowed a slice of suddenly tasteless steak. “Gene therapy is an emerging science. Your success will be limited.”
“Only in the first few years.” Sloane’s eyes glittered with restless passion. “Then, gene by gene, we will creep back up the genetic ladder. Using cell fusion, recombinant DNA, and germline therapy, we will improve the basis of the human race.”
Helmut froze with his hands on his knife and fork. “Germline therapy?” His voice rasped. “But that procedure goes against the established protocols of genetic research.”
“The standards are being pushed back even as we speak.” Reflected light from the chandelier glimmered over Sloane’s handsome face like beams of icy radiance. “The National Institutes of Health has been put on notice. Germline therapy is the logical next step—and it’s the one I want you to take with me, Dr. Braun. It is the second phase of my plan, and I’m sure you can understand why it must remain a private matter.”
Helmut lowered his utensils, then wiped his hands on his napkin, shaken by Sloane’s hideous and alluring proposal. Germline therapy, which involved injecting a fertilized egg with an artificial human chromosome carrying specially designed DNA, had not yet been approved by the National Institutes of Health. When the NIH approved gene therapy in 1987, doctors promised they would never alter any patient’s egg or sperm.
But germline therapy would be a gigantic step forward in genetic research. A doctor would not have to insinuate the new gene into millions of cells in order to cure a patient’s diseased organ. One single cell— a fertilized egg—would result in a disease-resistant human being.
Times were changing rapidly . . . and the thought of being in the front wave of research was tantalizing.
“My work at the children’s hospital will be slow and laborious,” Sloane said, watching Helmut through half-closed eyelids. “But through germ-line therapy I have an opportunity to take a giant step forward. With one procedure, I believe I can bring mankind to the brink of perfection.”
“How?” His mind spinning in a new direction, Helmut croaked the question. “You are talking about cataloging and carefully evaluating up to 100,000 different genes, not to mention the thousands of nucleotides in a single gene. I would rather be asked to find one particular snowflake in a blizzard than to do what you are suggesting. It’s impossible.”
A wry but indulgent gleam appeared in Sloane’s eye. “It would be impossible if we were working from contemporary DNA. But, my friend, I have already found the key to perfection, and I have it safely locked away in a vault. The future fell into my possession last weekend when I visited the fabled Iceman of the Alps.”
A hundred bits of the evening’s conversation collided in Helmut’s head like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. The Iceman, intelligence, genetics, germline therapy— He lifted his hand to his chin and regarded his host with somber curiosity. “You’re talking about the Iceman’s DNA.”
Sloane cast Helmut a bright look of eagerness. “I knew you’d understand. I have searched throughout the world, Dr. Braun, and I believe you are the man who can help me restore mankind’s potential. The rewards for your work on this project will be greater than you can imagine, both financially and professionally. The money I have granted thus far is a mere pittance, I am prepared to spend far more. And when our project is completed, your name will be lauded across the entire world, honored throughout the millennium to come. Mankind will be all he was designed to be; he will use 80, possibly even 90 percent of his brain. Have you any idea how such a project could change the future of mankind?”
Helmut began to wonder just what Sloane wanted of him. “What, exactly, does this project involve?”
Sloane lifted a warning finger. “I am saying no more—yet.” He sank back in his chair and folded his hands. “I cannot share the complete details of my intended experiment until I hear more from you, Dr. Braun. If we are to venture together on this road to the future, we must be of one mind and one determination, wedded in intent and purpose.”
Helmut lifted his hands. “What could you possibly want to know about me? My work is a matter of public record. I’ve been working to isolate genetic markers for cancer and other diseases—”
“I know about your current work; I have at least a half million dollar stake in the outcome,” Sloane interrupted smoothly. “What I want to know is if you are willing to leave all that behind for the second phase of my research project.”
Despite his initial misgivings, Helmut felt his excitement rise. “If the project has to do with germline testing, I will make the time. What are assistants for, if not to leave me free for critical work?”
“Well said.” Sloane’s eyes darkened. “What about your wife, Dr. Braun? This research might require a great deal of your time . . . and all your discretion.”
Helmut shrugged. “Olivia and I are married to our careers as well as each other. After twenty years of marriage, Mr. Sloane, I can assure you that my wife understands the demands of my work. Her own patients keep her busy at all hours of the day and night. She operates a very successful obstetrical practice.”
“Amazing.” Sloane’s face creased into a sudden smile. “There is one other concern, Doctor, and a crucial question only you can answer. The experiment will make it necessary to involve at least one other person in a terribly important role.”
“Another researcher?”
“A subject. Someone who must not be fully aware of the experiment’s implications. Can you, Doctor Braun, participate in my project under such a condition?”
Helmut felt his mouth go dry. He had chosen to work in the field of genetics precisely because there were few living, breathing humans involved in his research work. Olivia handled the occasions that called for a brilliant bedside manner because he had the social graces of an ox.
Yet, with rewards so great . . .
From some place deep inside he summoned an ounce of courage. “Will the subject be harmed or altered in any way?”
Sloane shook his head. “Absolutely not. Our test subject will not even be aware of the experiment. Partially informed, of course. But not completely.” He must have sensed Helmut’s reticence, for he continued: “May I take the liberty of reminding you of Hippocrates’ thoughts? Though we remember him as the medical ethicist who told physicians to ‘do no harm,’ Hippocrates also admonished physicians to perform their duties calmly and adroitly, concealing most things from the patient. He told his students to give necessary orders with cheerfulness and sincerity, turning the patient’s attention away from what is being done to him while revealing nothing of his future or present condition.”
Sloane’s dark eyes moved into Helmut’s. “Can I count on you to agree with Hippocrates?”
“You are absolutely certain the subject will not be harmed?”
“Completely.”
Helmut pressed his lips together as a persistent memory niggled for his attention. If he accepted, his research partners could continue his present projects, but he would be able to devote only the barest amount of time to Lara Godfrey’s case. Though he had made her a promise, which mattered more—helping only one woman, or charting the course of mankind’s future?
He shifted in his chair. “You spoke of a three-phase plan, but we have only discussed two.”
“Phase one is public, phase two is private, and phase three is confidential.” A secretive smile softened Sloane’s mouth. “Please, doctor, be patient with me. All will be revealed in good time.”
Helmut tilted his head, considering. The man certainly had a right to his little secrets, and he’d already given Helmut more than enough to consider. Though he wasn’t certain the Iceman’s DNA would prove to be of any great worth, he would have a tremendous edge over other researchers if he began working with germline therapy now.
He lifted his wineglass. “Mr. Sloane, I would be delighted to participate in the second phase of your program. I will devote my utmost concentration to your project.”
Honest appreciation shone from Sloane’s dark eyes. “Let us drink to our work, then, and to the child who is to come.”
Helmut clinked his glass against Sloane’s. “The child?”
“The fruit of the tree of knowledge,” Sloane answered. “The son of Homo Tyrolensis, the most perfectly preserved human genetic specimen in existence.”