_Friday, June 5
8:39 P.M.
_
Days later, Alexa Hampton was still considering herself one of the
luckiest people alive. When she'd regained consciousness the next week
in Lenox Hill Hospital, hooked up to oxygen and being fed by an IV, she
noticed that the nurses were looking at her strangely and whispering to
each other. Finally she couldn't stand it anymore and asked why.
"It was what you did," a young Puerto Rican woman declared, gazing at
her in awe through her rimless glasses. "No one can believe it."
Then she explained. What they couldn't believe--as reported by the New
Jersey firefighters--was that she had single-handedly wrenched open the
steel-door air lock of the laboratory at the Dorian Institute. At the
time firefighters were on the other side vainly trying to dismantle the
door with their axes. Yet she'd just yanked it aside like paper. It was
reminiscent of those urban legends of superhuman strength in times of
crisis, like the story of a panicked woman who hoisted an overturned
Chevy van to free a pinned child. Later, though, some of the New Jersey
fire crew went back and looked again. The steel hinges had literally
been sheared off. . . .
How did she do that? More important, though, symptoms of her stenosis
had entirely disappeared and she felt better than ever in her life. The
stem cell technology pioneered by Karl Van de Vliet had indeed produced
a miracle. She even had a new kind of energy, periodically. It was
unlike anything she'd ever felt.
Other things were new as well. She'd been seeing a lot of Stone Aimes
and helping him finish his book on the Gerex Corporation's successful
clinical trials with stem cell technology. After all the publicity
following the fire at the Dorian Institute, the manuscript was
generating a lot of buzz. A paperback auction was already in the works,
with a half-million floor, and Time had abruptly taken a second look at
the "first serial" excerpt his agent had been trying to place with them
and come up with six figures. The only part Stone hadn't reported was
the ghastly side effect of the early Beta experiment, the Syndrome,
because Kristen Starr had disappeared. He had no proof and his
publisher refused to print potentially libelous speculation.
In the meantime, Winston Bartlett hadn't been seen in public since that
tragic day. The business press speculated he had become a Howard
Hughes-like recluse in his Gramercy Park mansion. Ally had tried
several times to reach him through his office to find out what he
wanted to do about the design job, and each time she was told he would
get back to her. He never did.
Maybe he was still recuperating. When the firefighters pulled him out
of the flaming wreckage, his clothes were singed from the electricity
that had coursed through his body, his heart was stopped and he
appeared to be dead. In fact, he was dead.
The paramedics immediately began intensive CPR. Moments later, his
heart was beating again. Then he declared he was well enough that he
didn't need to go to a hospital. He had his Japanese henchman, Kenji
Noda, help him to his McDonnell Douglas and he disappeared into the
night.
Oxygen had not been to his brain for . . . No one knew how long. The
paramedics said he awoke in what seemed another reality.
Was he still alive? There had been no reports otherwise, but he most
certainly had withdrawn from the world.
Karl Van de Vliet, for his part, had been hospitalized for severe
burns. He remained in the trauma unit at St. Vincent's Hospital, but
when Alexa tried to go visit him, she was told he wasn't accepting
visitors but was doing well. Katherine Starr was dead from a massive
concussion, along with the two researchers, Debra Connolly and David
Hopkins, who had been in the wrong place when the steel racks
collapsed. And Alexa never been able to find out what happened to
Kristen Starr. Officially, nobody by that name was there.
But business was business. With the clinical trials over, the pending
sale of the Gerex Corporation to Cambridge Pharmaceuticals was
proceeding on autopilot, handled by Grant Hampton, who stood to make a
bundle or so he bragged to Alexa. The Dorian Institute had been closed
and all the remaining records moved to a converted facility near
Liverpool.
After six days in Lenox Hill, Ally went home, and three days after that
she had returned to her desk at CitiSpace. Now, inevitably, she was
back to her workaholic habits and grueling hours.
Today, though, she had knocked off early, since Nina had taken a cab
down to join her for supper.
She marveled just thinking about it. Her mom taking a cab. By herself.
It truly was a miracle.
Their "light" repast had consisted of cold roast beef and room-
temperature stout, two of Nina's favorites. She had never been much for
cucumber sandwiches with the crust cut off. Afterward, she elected to
have a brandy.
"The trouble with having your mind back," she said as she settled onto
the couch, snifter in hand, "is that sometimes you remember things
you'd just as soon forget." Outside thunder boomed from an early
evening rainstorm, which had blown in from the northwest.
"Well, Mom, at least now you can pick and choose what you want to
remember and what you want to forget." She didn't really mind the
storm. Having her mother back was such a blessing.
It still felt odd, though, having her rescued from what had to be an
inevitable, ignominious fate. It was as though time had gone in
reverse. A miracle was very much in progress. . . .
She was experiencing a miracle too, though of a slightly different
sort. She felt pretty much normal, if occasionally shaky and uncertain
on her feet. But at unexpected times she would have bursts of energy
that defied reality. They were, in fact, scary, like that thing with
the steel door. Something weird would sometimes take control of her
body and she didn't really know what it was. . . .
Truthfully, she was feeling some of that tonight. She had joined her
mother with a brandy and was thinking about taking Knickers for an
early walk, downpour or not. She wanted to see the river through the
mists of a storm.
That was when the phone rang. She got up and made her way to the
kitchen and took the receiver off the wall.
"Hello." She was hoping it was Stone. He'd usually call early in the
evening to see what she was doing and ask if she wanted some company.
"Alexa, I need to see you," came a voice. The other end of the line was
noisy, as though a loud motor was running.
"Who--"
"I think you know who this is. If you would come down to the river,
right now, I will make it very much worth your while."
For some reason, maybe it was telepathy, Knickers had begun bouncing
about the kitchen, angling for a walk, even though she normally was
mortally fearful of thunder.
Now Ally did know who it was.
What was he doing calling her here at home, in a rainstorm? After all
these weeks.
Well, she thought, I have nothing left to fear from him or any of them.
Why not?
"It's raining," she said. "This had better be fast."
And she hung up the phone.
"Who was that, honey?" Nina asked. "I hope it wasn't anybody I know.
You were somewhat abrupt."
"Mom, they deserved whatever they got, and it's no big deal. But I
think I'm going to take Knickers out. She's making me nuts."
Ally couldn't focus on what had just happened. He had a lot of nerve.
On the other hand, she loved to be down by the river when it was this
way, shrouded in pastel mist.
"Honey, it's raining cats and dogs," Nina declared. "You're apt to
catch your death."
"No, Mom, it's letting up now. I'll be all right, really." She was
digging out her tan raincoat and rubber galoshes from the closet by the
door. Knickers immediately realized what was up and began a dance of
joy, barking as she raced to find her leash.
"Come on, honey," Ally said, taking the braided leather. "I want you
close to me."
The ride down in the elevator felt ominous, though Knickers failed to
share any of her apprehension as she bounced around the glass dome and
nuzzled Ally's legs. The thunder she was sometimes fearful of had
lessened, and that Ally thought had doubtless improved her courage.
The condominium no longer had a doorman. In hopes of trimming costs,
the condo board had sent out a secret ballot on the subject. By a
narrow margin the owners had voted to dispense with that particular
frill. Although she missed Alan and his early morning optimism about
his Off-Broadway hopes, she realized the economy was probably timely.
All those weeks when she hadn't been pulling her weight at CitiSpace,
the nut on that operation hadn't diminished any.
As she stepped onto Barrow Street, the late-spring air was unseasonably
brisk and the rain had blanked visibility down to almost nothing. On
other days this would had been that magical moment just after the sun
went down, when gorgeous fiery orange clouds hung over the Hudson, but
now there was a hint of brooding in the bleak rain. It fit the dark
mood she felt growing around her.
He wanted to meet her down by the river. Gripping Knickers' leash, she
checked the traffic lights, then marched across the West Side Highway.
The new esplanade along the river was awash in the rain and was
uncharacteristically empty.
That was lucky for Knickers. Off-the-leash time. Ally drew her close
and clicked open the catch that attached it to her collar. With a
"woof" of joy, she dashed off toward the vacant pier, then headed out.
"Baby, slow down," Ally yelled but it was to no avail. A second later,
her fluffy sheepdog was lost in the rain.
But she couldn't go far. The refurbished pier extended out into the
river for maybe the length of a football field and change. Beyond that,
there was at least half a mile of river before the shores of New Jersey
For all her enthusiasm, Knickers wasn't about to dive into the chilly
Hudson and swim for the horizon.
So where was he? He'd said "down by the river."
What to do now? She decided she might as well walk out after Knickers.
Now she was noticing something odd. The air was chilly; actually, raw
was a better description. A last blast of unusual arctic air had
accompanied the rain. She could feel the temperature on her face. She
had stupidly gone out with just a light shirt under the raincoat, yet
she didn't feel the slightest bit cold. It was as though her metabolism
had sped up, the way it did during a run, though she wasn't breathing
heavy or anything. It felt like one of those strange moments she'd been
having, when she felt superalive.
Now Knickers was returning, but she was slinking back as though fearful
of something, the rain running off her face.
"Come here, baby," Ally said, reaching out. "What is it?"
The darkness of the river flowed over her now, and for the first time
ever, she wished she'd brought along a flashlight . . .
That was when, out of the rain, she finally heard the sound. It was an
engine lowering from the sky, which Knickers must have already heard.
Then a helicopter, a McDonnell Douglas, materialized, lowering onto the
empty sports space on the pier.
The downdraft of the rotor threw spray against the FieldTurf and into
her eyes. But she gazed through it, unblinking, feeling an unexpected
sense of power entering her limbs. The rain should have felt cold, but
she didn't really notice.
Maybe, she thought, they had to meet. They were bonded.
As the pilot cut the power, the engine began to wind down--whoom, whoom,
whoom--until it came to a dead stop and there followed an unnatural
silence. Finally the door on the side opened and a metal step dropped
down.
After a moment's pause that seemed to last forever, he appeared, at
first a vague figure in the rain, but then he stepped down and came
toward her. He was wearing a white hat with a wide brim and a tan
raincoat that seemed more like a cloak than a coat.
"Alexa, I so appreciate your making time for me."
It was hard to tell in the rain, but he appeared to be strong, and
there was actually a kind of radiance about him, as though he carried
his own special luminosity. He seemed completely transformed. The
question was, transformed how? He looked years younger than the last
time she saw him.
"I thought we should talk. I've been meaning to call you. I wanted to
see how you're doing."
That's not it at all, she told herself. What do you really want?
"Actually, I've been wanting to thank you," Winston
Bartlett went on. "It turns out that you saved me after all. Your
telomerase antibodies finally kicked in. The initial ones Karl injected
in me. It just took a few weeks."
"And what about Kristen?" she asked.
His look saddened.
"You didn't hear?" He shook his head. "She . . . died in the fire."
That doesn't sound right, Ally thought. She looked like she was the
only one who was going to survive it.
"Oh yeah? How did that happen?"
"You might as well know. She was burned beyond recognition. The body
still hasn't been officially identified. When the firemen found her,
she had a shard of glass through her throat. They thought she must have
fallen on something, but I fear it's entirely possible she could have
done it to herself."
Was that story true, or a bald-faced lie? Ally wondered. Were they
still hiding her someplace?
But why was he here? He certainly hadn't come to discuss the kitchen
design job for his Gramercy Park mansion. That was now long ago and far
away.
"Alexa," he said moving toward her, "please don't be frightened but
there's something I have to find out."
He reached out with his left hand and seized her wrist. She only saw
the glint of the penknife in his right hand for an instant before he
slashed it across her palm.
"What!" she screamed and yanked her hand away. Knickers gave a loud
yelp and then howled mournfully.
Only then did she notice that there'd been just a momentary flash of
pain.
"It's okay," Bartlett said reaching to soothe Knickers. "Just a
superficial scratch. Now watch it. I want to know if Karl had time to
finish the procedure."
My God. She didn't have to watch. She could already feel it beginning
to heal.
"What's . . . what's going on? Is this--?"
"He had hopefully completed the Beta on you just before Kristy's mother
showed up. But did it work the way it was supposed to? We didn't know.
Until now."
"My God. I knew I was feeling--"
"You received just the right amount of telomerase injections," Bartlett
interjected, "to induce the Beta without any side effects. It was the
'Goldilocks dosage' Karl had been trying to calculate, just enough that
only aged or damaged cells are replaced, while healthy tissue is not
altered."
She now realized that was why she'd been having bouts of incredible
energy.
"We're the only ones," he went on. "Just us. You and me. We've been
given this gift, Alexa. And now we have the responsibility that goes
along with it." He glanced down at her hand. "By the way, how's that
cut doing?"
"What are you getting at?" It was definitely healing.
A wave of thunder boomed over the river, sending Knickers scurrying to
Ally's side.
"What I'm getting at is that you and I are now two very special people.
We both are living proof of what the Beta can achieve. The question is,
what are we going to do about it?"
She was still stunned.
"This is a lot to absorb. I'll have to think--"
"I've already thought about this and I believe it must be kept secret
at all cost. At least for now."
"But why? It's a miracle that--"
"That must be handled prudently. I need your cooperation with that."
She was having extreme difficulty getting her mind around what he was
talking about.
"I don't really know what's going on. I think I'd better see some
doctors. And Stone is finishing his book about . . . I've got to tell
him--"
"Those things cannot happen, Alexa." He looked out at the river for a
moment, then turned back. "A brand-new world has dawned. Finally all
things are possible." He moved closer to her, then reached out and took
her wrist again. She looked down and realized the cut on her hand was
all but healed. "For now, this has to be our secret, yours and mine.
Just us."
She thought about all that had happened in the weeks since her wayward
brother had accosted her running along this very river. It felt like an
eternity.
"I'm asking you not to talk about this," he continued. "To anyone. You
must give me your solemn word."
She felt the grip on her wrist get stronger.
"Now that we know the Beta can work," he went on, his voice piercing
through the rain, "I am forming an elite association, the Methuselah
Society. Membership buys a guarantee that you can stop aging; in fact,
you can pick the age you want to remain. Karl is sure he can do that,
assuming the Beta worked with you. And now we see it has. The first
memberships will naturally be somewhat expensive, but as time goes by,
the cost will be gradually scaled down to respond to market forces. One
may only join with a companion, but for obvious reasons all those who
undergo the Beta must be sworn to secrecy, on pain of death, since
there's bound to be a hue and cry and government intervention if word
leaks out that only individuals with significant resources can have
this miracle."
"I think that's obscene," she said.
"I suspected you might feel that way. Which is why we're having this
talk. As I've explained the Methuselah Society will be contingent on
the utmost secrecy, at least initially. So the question is, are you on
board with this?"
"The answer is, I'll do what I please." She was thinking what a
bombshell this would be to have in Stone's book. Stem cells--the
Fountain of Youth was no longer a dream.
Winston Bartlett had won his dice game with God. And now he was
planning to sweep the table. But he also was smart enough to realize he
had to cash in quickly and discreetly.
"Don't you realize how irresponsible that is?" he insisted.
"We stand on the threshold of a new era for humankind. But if we let
small-minded politicians get involved with this, they might decide to
forbid . . . Keep in mind that using stem cell technology to regenerate
organs is already controversial. Just imagine what the self-appointed
zealots would do with this. The good of humanity is less important to
them than their narrow-minded, bigoted constituencies."
That was when it finally dawned on her why he had lured her down here
by the river on a rainy night. What better place for a convenient
"accident" if it came to that.
She watched as he turned and raised a finger toward the open door of
the McDonnell Douglas.
The motor started and then another figure emerged and came down the
steps. She squinted through the rain and recognized Kenji Noda,
Bartlett's ever-present bodyguard. He was carrying a plastic bottle,
along with a small white towel.
He's going to chloroform me and then God knows what. I'm about to
disappear the same way Kristen did.
She stared at them both, wondering what to do.
"Alexa, I regret to say that you are either with me or you are a
problem I cannot afford to have," Bartlett said, and then he nodded to
Noda.
Shit.
She backed to the edge of the pier as Noda advanced on her menacingly,
dousing the cloth. He was a foot taller than she was and he weighed
over two hundred pounds.
Her first instinct was to run, but then she sensed an impulse to stand
her ground. Something told her to try to use her strength against him.
He wouldn't expect it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that a white car had pulled
onto the pier and was cruising down the side, slowly inching their way.
It looked like a police vehicle, probably a couple of cops curious
about the presence of a helicopter on the Field Turf.
They were approximately half a minute too late to make any difference.
Kenji Noda was five feet away and they were fifty yards away. And they
probably couldn't see what was going on anyway. The rain had chosen
that moment to begin to gush, shrouding everything in sheets of water.
Knickers was nudging at her leg, as though urging her to flee. And
again she thought about running, but an instinct told her to stand her
ground. She was feeling a sensation of power growing in her limbs.
She found herself oddly calm as Kenji Noda reached her, then wrapped
his left arm around her neck and with his right hand clamped the cloth
over her nostrils. It was infused with chloroform--she knew the smell--
but she held her breath.
Then it happened. She casually reached up and took his left arm and
pulled it away from her neck.
It was so easy. There was the same feeling of strength she'd had when
she wrenched open the air lock. Yet it was something that came and
went. She had no inkling how long it would last this time.
"I don't think you should do that," she said continuing to pull his arm
around behind him. Then she twisted it to the side and there was a
sickening snap as it came out of its shoulder socket
He groaned lightly but did not speak. Instead he reached with his right
hand and pulled an automatic out of a holster at the back of his belt
dropping the chloroformed cloth in the process. While his left arm
dangled uselessly, he brought around the pistol and tried to aim it at
her torso. Her senses, though, were coming fully alive now and she
seized his wrist and pushed it away just as he fired.
The round caught her at the outer edge of her shoulder. She felt it
enter and exit, but there was no pain, merely a mild itch. Still
holding his wrist, she picked up the white cloth and buried his face in
it. She held it against his nostrils until his body twitched and went
limp.
That was when the spotlight hit them.
"Drop your weapons and show your hands," came a basso voice over a
megaphone.
Who had a weapon? she wondered. The one pistol around was lying on the
ground next to the crumpled frame of Kenji Noda.
The police must have heard the shot and assumed they were being fired
on.
She turned around to search for Winston Bartlett and saw him retreating
to the McDonnell Douglas. Running, actually.
He saw what happened, she told herself. He's afraid of me.
"Stop and identify yourself," came the police megaphone. The spotlight
was now squarely on Bartlett, who was bounding up the retractable
steps.
Without looking back, he pulled up the steps and slammed the door. The
rotor had already begun revving higher, and in moments the chopper had
begun its ascent out over the dark river.
"You have been warned to identify yourself," came the futile megaphone.
The chopper had all but disappeared into the dark and rain when she
heard a shot fired from the direction of the police car.
It must have been an accident, she told herself. There's no way--
But the smooth hum of the engine dying away in the fog abruptly changed
tone, then started to sputter. Ten seconds later, there was silence.
She was so engaged she didn't notice the stirring at her feet. A moment
thereafter, she saw the towering bulk of Kenji Noda rise up beside her.
Then she felt his grip on her wrist and realized he was dragging, and
pulling her to the edge of the pier. Then she felt a shove and a swirl
of dark air around her, followed by the splash of cold water.
Surprisingly, it didn't really feel freezing--it just felt refreshingly
brisk. With one hand she grabbed one of the square concrete pillars
that was supporting the pier. The mysterious strength she'd had from
time to time was coming back once more.
That was when she heard a vicious howl, wolf-like, that transmuted into
a growl, and the next thing she saw was a hazy form hurtle past her and
splash into the water.
Actually, it was two forms, and the darker one was flailing while the
lighter one bore down on him, her teeth on his throat.
"No!" she screamed "Don't."
As the pair drifted past her in the current, still linked she reached
out and seized Knickers' collar, yanking her back. Then she watched
helplessly as Kenji Noda disappeared into the dark. Could he swim with
one arm?
The cops were futilely searching the wide river with their searchlight,
looking for the helicopter, for anything, but there was nothing left to
see.
She quietly made for shore, even as she and Knickers were being swept
downstream by the current When they finally reached the bank, it was
somewhere around Morton Street. Oddly enough, she wasn't cold and she
wasn't tired when she drew herself up onto the rocks, Knickers at her
side. She just lay panting for a moment.
"Come here, baby," she said drawing Knickers to her. The dog was
shivering and she knew she had to get her home soon. "Thank God you
can't talk. I think something very evil just passed from the world."
Epilogue
_Thursday, June 25
10:49 P.M.
_
"You're really something," Stone declared, falling back onto the
rumpled sheets. "What's come over you lately? Don't you ever get
tired?"
"Maybe I'm just happy to be alive," Ally said, smiling as she ran a
finger down his chest. "I'm catching up on all the living I've been
missing out on."
Her heart was definitely on the mend, in several ways. She was
beginning to think she was in love. After Steve went missing, she
thought that love would never happen again, but maybe it had.
"Know what," he said, rising up, "I've really worked up an appetite.
How about you? Think I'll make an omelet. Got any eggs left in the
fridge?"
"Should be some," she said. "But I'll pass. Anything I eat after ten
goes straight to places on my body that don't need further
reinforcement."
It was so nice just to have someone to be near again. Her nervous
system was still recovering from the harrowing experience down on the
pier. In fact, she wasn't really sure
_what _actually had happened. The crashed McDonnell Douglas was
retrieved from the water the next day, but there were no bodies aboard.
Had Winston Bartlett drowned and his body been swept out to sea by the
tide? Also, there must have been a third person, a pilot. And what
about Kenji Noda, who also was missing? Did he make it to shore? In any
case, they all had disappeared. The case was closed. And since nobody
had found a will, New York State was currently the executor of his
fortune. Eileen Bartlett was sole heir. Her waiting game had paid off
superbly. The price of her Gerex shares was doubling every two weeks.
She was about to become a very rich woman indeed.
But had Winston Bartlett really gone to a watery grave? Ally somehow
doubted it. He had too much invested in life to cash in so easily.
As she watched Stone get up and swathe himself in a huge white towel
before heading for the kitchen, she found herself replaying that
harrowing scene at the pier. She kept trying to remember something
Bartlett had said about forming some kind of society. Was she
fantasizing or had he said he was going to do that and then offer the
Beta procedure to its members? What was he going to call it? Try as she
might, she couldn't remember. She had developed a mental block that her
mind was using to shield her psyche from the horror of that evening.
That night she'd first considered going to St. Vincent's Hospital
emergency room for the gunshot wound but then she'd thought it over and
decided there were too many things to explain that couldn't be
explained Instead she just went home and washed the wound and filled it
up with Neosporin. She didn't even tell Nina. The next morning, scar
tissue was already forming. Now it was completely healed and even the
scar had all but disappeared.
Had the Beta really worked? She wanted to tell Stone about that
possibility, but she wasn't sure how he would take it. And she
absolutely did not want to end up in the book.
She pulled on a terry cloth robe and slippers and padded her way into
the kitchen. She wasn't hungry, but she felt like a glass of wine. She
poked around in the wine rack in the kitchen closet and came up with a
bottle of Bordeaux. Stone was cracking large white eggs into a
stoneware bowl.
"Sure I can't make some for you?" he asked, leaning over to buss her
hair as she searched in the drawer for a corkscrew. "I'm gonna throw in
some cheddar, but I'll leave it out if that doesn't work for you."
"I just want a glass of red wine," she said, retrieving the corkscrew.
"And I need a memory jogging. What's a word that makes you think of
living a long time? I . . . I want to look up something on the
Internet and I don't know how to start."
"What kind of word is it?" he queried. "I'm a wordsmith. Twenty
questions. Is it a noun, a verb, an adjective?"
"If I could remember that, I might be able to come up with it."
He was tossing a quarter stick of butter into the pan. "Hey, I once
learned hypnosis. Why don't you let me take you under?"
"Does that really work?"
"It's how I come up with interview stuff sometimes, from years ago. We
really do have a complicated memory system. I think everything you ever
knew is buried somewhere, maybe in a tiny little wrinkle."
She suspected he might be right. In this case the repressed info was
still there; it just had been deliberately covered over and hidden.
"So do you want to hypnotize me? You're sure you know how?"
"I'm not boasting, but I could make Methuselah remember the day he
first got out of diapers."
She stared at him. "My God, I think that's it. Methuselah. I think
that's the word I couldn't remember." She kissed him on the mouth
enthusiastically. "I've got to check something."
She popped the cork and poured herself a glass.
"Want some?"
"I'm not sure what goes with eggs at this time of night. Probably
tequila."
"Good luck. You know where to find it. There're some limes in the
fridge. Right now I'm going to fire up the Dell and do a little
search."
"Now? " His face dropped. "How about a little romantic . . . whatever?"
"Come and join me. Bring your plate. We'll go exploring in cyberspace.
It'll be a romantic voyage. I've got a hunch about something."
She walked back into the bedroom and clicked on the computer. She
sipped at her wine, deep but still fruity and delicious, as it booted
up.
"What's going on?" he asked as he wandered in. He was carrying a shot
glass of tequila and a white plate with the cheese omelette. The aroma
was seductive.
"I want to check out something. I have to be honest and confess I've
been holding out on you a little. When I saw Winston Bartlett that
night on the pier, something he said--"
"Ally, I need to do some confessing too. The time never seemed quite
right. I need to tell you something about him."
"Well, don't tell me now. I don't think I can handle anything else to
worry about tonight. Please save it."
She was logging on to AOL. Then she went to the search engine Google,
which she had found to be the best.
"I want to check out that name you came up with. It rang a bell."
She typed in Methuselah, supposedly the guy who lived for nearly a
thousand years.
There were pages and pages of references relating to that word. It
started with a five-thousand-year-old pine tree, then an article from
Modern Maturity on how to extend life, then Caltech research on a
longevity gene, then a rock band in Texas (undoubtedly very retro), a
short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and so it went.
"What, exactly, are you looking for?" he asked, holding out a folk.
"Here. Want a bite?"
She reached and tore off a fluffy corner. He did eggs perfectly.
"Thanks," she said, chewing. Now she was moving to the third page. "I
think I'm looking for an organization. And Methuselah was in the name.
At least . . . that's what I seem to remember. I'm definitely
repressing a lot."
"Well, what about that one?" he asked, pointing.
The line read, the Methuselah Society.
"That's it," she declared. "Now I remember. That's the name he used. I
swear. So it's real. I'm not crazy."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's him. That's what he said he was going to do."
She clicked on the name.
The Web page came up and it was strictly in black and white, with small
print. And there it was again, THE METHUSELAH SOCIETY. There was no
information beyond a request for a secure e-mail address.
"Looks like they want to check you out," Stone said.
"To make sure you're not connected to politics or law enforcement."
"Then why not give it a shot," Stone said. "You're on AOL. You'd have
to be a civilian."
She typed in her address and entered it. Immediately a little yellow
padlock appeared in the lower right-hand corner, indicating their
communication was secure. Then a notice materialized, a small square
flickering to life. It contained her phone number and then her name.
Next a complete financial record began to scroll down. It had been
elicited from banks, mortgage companies, credit services. There was
Value of Real Estate owned, Mortgages Outstanding, Bank Accounts,
Outstanding Obligations, Estimated Net Worth. It had all appeared in a
time span of seconds.
"Wow," Stone said. "There are no secrets left from these guys, whoever
they are. They are wired."
Then a message appeared: The minimum net worth required to be a member
is 500 Million Dollars. The fee for membership is 100 Million Dollars.
A 10-Million-Dollar retainer is required while your application is
being processed. Please be prepared to designate the ages you and your
companion wish to remain.
"My God," she said, "that's him. He's done it. Winston Bartlett is
alive and well, and selling immortality, real or not."
Then another message came up: Welcome, Alexa. Please be advised you are
already a member. But you have not yet selected a companion.
* * *
Afterword
How much of the foregoing is true or even plausible?
In late 2002, medical researchers in Dusseldorf announced they had
successfully treated heart-attack victims using stem cells harvested
from the patients' own bone marrow. The stem cells were delivered to
damaged heart muscle via angioplasty catheters, a minimally invasive
procedure. Subsequent monitoring indicated that the stem cells had
reduced the damage to heart-muscle tissue and had improved their heart
function when compared to similar patients in a control group who had
declined the procedure.
It's already happening.
The miraculous stem cell cures in this story are essentially an
extrapolation of research well underway that has been the subject of
magazine covers and is possibly the most promising and, yes,
problematic field of medical research. The clocks at the Dorian
Institute ran faster than ordinary timepieces, and research areas and
cures that currently are only speculation were made real there. But
that's why it's called fiction. As with the example cited above, many
stem cell miracles conjured here may be just over the horizon.
As for Kristen and the Methuselah Society, they are a fictional
embodiment of misgivings given voice by many, including no less an
authority than Professor Leonard Hayflick, whose Hayflick limit,
defining the process of how cells grow old could be said to be the
underpinning of modern stem cell research. He is now a leading
bioethicist who is sufficiently convinced of our potential to use stem
cells to arrest the actual aging process that he has worried about its
ramifications in print. He makes no claim that such a thing is
imminent, but he doesn't dismiss its possibility either. He has far-
reaching societal concerns about this, and he also raises biological
issues such as, if you've treated your brain malady by using stem cells
to grow new neural tissue, have you altered your mind? Are you still
you?
It's called Regenerative Medicine. Watch for it.
BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER
Nonfiction
Zen Culture
The Zen Experience
Fiction
The Moghul
Caribbee
Wall Street _Samurai_
(The _Samurai_ Strategy)
Project Daedalus
Project Cyclops
Life Blood
Syndrome
All free as e-books at
www.thomashoover.info