Another question. This one from a singularly unattractive woman near the back. He barely let her finish her sentence before he roared into his answer.
"You must understand the difference between what is visible-and thus easy to ascertain and comprehend-and what is underneath the surface, which is, in almost all cases, far more defining than something that can be touched and seen. When it comes to the question of human existence, understanding that difference is essential. All of us carry a unique genetic profile in our cells. That profile includes expressed genes, those things easily recognizable, such as eye and hair color, size of various features, et cetera, and that is called a phenotype. But we also have genes that are not expressed, recessive if you will, that make up an individual's genotype. If I can use a mundane but clear example: Think of a birthday present, nicely wrapped and handed to you. The wrapped package is a phenotype. You can tell something about what is inside by the size and the weight and possibly the sound. But you can't tell exactly what it is-you can't define it-until you open it. The contents-in many ways, the essence-are the genotype.
"What I hope you take away from our conversation this evening is the complexity of the ethical dangers inherent in tampering with either phenotype or genotype. Does it really matter to the moral structure of the universe if we use transgender engineering to produce perfect-looking strawberries? No, of course not. But does it matter if, because of our interference, we create something that looks beautiful but has no taste? That is no longer functional or serves the purpose for which it was originally created by nature? That's what each of us must decide.
"Thank you and good night."
Joseph Fennerman practically raced off the stage, sat at a small desk off to the side where he impatiently signed books for half an hour, then threw his coat and muffler across his shoulders and, waving away his well-wishers and admirers, rushed outside to his stretch limousine that was waiting in front of the University of London's urban campus. He tapped on the dark, tinted window to alert the driver to his presence and jumped into the back, a good six feet away from the front seat, rubbing his hands together to brush off the cold and the rain. The driver didn't bother to turn around.
"I'm waiting for a young woman," Fennerman said, smothering his nervousness with an awkward cough. "She'll be here momentarily." He tried but was unable to make out a fragment of the man's face in the rearview mirror. He remembered from the initial pickup that he was handsome and young, with smooth, pale features and well-groomed blond hair. Not the sort of face that would be surprised or anxious at the thought of his having dinner with a too-skinny woman.
"She was already here, Dr. Fennerman," the driver said. "She said she'll meet us a couple of blocks away, at the corner of Melton and Euston Square."
"Why?" Fennerman asked. The little twitch in his left eye was suddenly back and doing its work. It occurred to him that the driver had an American accent. Not a very refined one, either. Broad and harsh. He hadn't noticed that earlier. "Why didn't she just stay here?"
"It's where she parked her car. I guess she had to get something out of it. I told her I could drive her, but she didn't want to wait."
Fennerman grunted and nodded, said, "Fine, fine," and kept rubbing his hands together as the driver took him two blocks away. When the long black car pulled up to the curb at Euston Square, the back door opened. Looking up in anticipation, Fennerman was more than a little annoyed when a man slid in next to him.
"You've got the wrong car," Fennerman told him with an exasperated sigh. When the man didn't move, he added an impatient "You've made a mistake."
"I don't think so," the man said. Then, turning to the driver, he said, also in a jarringly harsh American accent, "Have I made a mistake?"
Fennerman, facing the front seat, demanded to know what was going on.
"Just taking on another passenger," the driver told him. "It won't be for long."
"This is unacceptable," Fennerman said. "In my hotel room I have the name of the event organizer who booked your car service and I will definitely make a complaint. Now take me back to the lecture hall."
"You flying to Washington tomorrow?" the man in the backseat now asked.
"How do you know that?"
"I'm a psychic." The man held his hand over his eyes as if envisioning the future. "Three o'clock meeting at the Hubert H. Humphrey Building. Two hundred Independence Avenue. Southwest. You want the room number?"
"Take me to the lecture hall," Fennerman told the driver again. "Take me back immediately and let me off."
"Meeting your young lady?" the man next to him said.
"Yes." It took Fennerman only a moment to make an unpleasant and frightening connection. It was what he did for a living: make connections between thoughts. "How do you know about her?"
"Move forward. There's something up there I want you to see."
Fennerman hesitated, then slid toward the driver and jutted out his chin until it almost touched the glass shield that separated the front seat from the back. Slumped all the way forward in the seat, unmoving, her head resting limply between her knees, sat the woman he had talked to at the lecture hall. He also saw the large, ugly wound running from her spine around to her ribs and the pool of blood that was still accumulating under her body.
"Oh my God," he said, his eyes blinking furiously and uncontrollably. He looked at the driver's face in the rearview mirror now, then turned to stare at the face of the man sitting beside him. "What's happening?"
"I read one of your books. The one about actions and consequences," the man said. "You should have realized. You made that appointment; now there are consequences."
"What consequences?" Fennerman asked, his voice hoarse and his throat dry.
"We're gonna have to fuck with your genotype," the man said and moved so quickly that Fennerman barely saw what happened. All he knew was that there was a sharp stinging at his throat and the black leather car seat was suddenly splattered with red. Fennerman felt himself choking, heard a loud and harsh gurgling noise, like a clogged drain trying to disperse its contents or a neglected fountain struggling to increase its water pressure.
Dr. Joseph Fennerman, physiologist, scientific ethicist, and internationally esteemed observer of the complexity of human life, was dead before he could even realize that his throat had been cut. The man whose reputation was made by connecting abstract theories to form precise and practical applications did not even have time to make the connection that the unpleasant noise he was listening to, the last thing he would ever hear, was the sound of himself drowning in his own blood. Long Island, New York June 14 Up until nine-fifteen this morning, Susanna Morgan had loved everything about her life. She adored her work, she was crazy about where she lived, and since the two things were so intertwined on a day-to-day basis, she felt safe in assuming it was the combination that made her so content.
Some might say too content. Two of her best friends recently broke it to her that being around her was a little bit like going into diabetic shock. They told her if she didn't cut down on her sugary disposition, they'd have to come over and slap some sense into her. This conversation came after she'd explained to them why she didn't mind staying at the office until ten o'clock at night sometimes and why she wouldn't think of asking for overtime. It was after she said "I'd pay them to let me work" that the whole slapping issue came up.