Raymond excused himself saying that he had a few things to take care of. He promised he’d catch up with them for lunch.
The Roses found Dr. Wentzel to be an affable man, tall and fit, probably in his mid fifties. He greeted them with an air of colleagueship, his knee-length white lab coat adding a layer of professionalism over a gray sweat suit.
“Jerome is my father’s name; please call me Jerry,” Dr. Wentzel pleaded as he subdued his animated hands long enough to shake theirs. “Welcome to BRI. Sorry I missed the party last night. I had just returned from a conference in Asia and hadn’t quite recovered from the jet lag.”
He inquired about the weather in Pittsburgh, their flight down to Houston and how they enjoyed last night’s party. Social amenities satisfied, he gestured toward a door on the far side of the office. “If you’ll be kind enough to follow me, I’ll give you a quick look at my pet project before we move on.
Jerry’s lab was a ceramic tile and stainless steel environment. Near the room’s center stood a floor-to-ceiling structure that could have been a double bank of elevators except for the two ship’s hatch doors.
“We call that our ‘flux encapsulator,’ “Wentzel said, grinning broadly. Behind rimless glasses, his eyes danced from Diane to Vincent and back again. Eliciting no response, his grin faded. “Just a little play on Back to the Future, he mumbled.
“Oh, right,” Diane said with a forced chuckle while she strained to remember details of the movie.
Two young women wearing blue scrubs emerged from a glass office that held multiple wall-mounted monitors. Wentzel introduced them as his lab assistants, Fran Kushner and Penny Eaglin. Diane remembered Fran from the party.
Jerry explained that Penny and Fran, both registered nurses, were monitoring the physical and emotional health and cognitive performance of four research subjects who had been residing in the “encapsulator” for three months and would remain there for three more, barring any problems.
Jerry added, “Working with NASA and other agencies, we’ve created an analog environment that simulates the tight living conditions of space travel. The data from this study will help us to design protocols for healthcare during extended space missions, such as visits to the Moon or Mars.”
The Roses could have spent the rest of the morning there asking questions, but Jerry consulted his watch and said they had to move on. They said their goodbyes to the nurses and followed Wentzel out into the hall.
Diane regretted her choice of shoes as her clopping footfalls echoed in the marble corridor. She would have happily traded her fashionable black pumps for the squeaky running shoes that Jerry wore.
A right turn into a block-long hallway led to the laboratory of Pete Sabedra, the cigar smoking refugee from Hematec. Pete, a chemist, was a jolly soul. He reported that he was working on a blood test to determine the presence of a specific breast cancer antigen. His hearty “welcome aboard” was a bit premature since they had not been offered, nor had they accepted, positions at BRI. Nevertheless, they shook hands and moved on to the third floor, then to the forth.
None of the earlier parts of the tour, although impressive, prepared Diane and Vincent for their introduction to the laboratory and offices that encompassed most of the top floor at BRI, the former domain of a scientist named Dr. Harry Lee.
From the marbled fourth floor elevator lobby, Jerry Wentzel led them along an opulent hallway to a set of ebony doors, opened them with a flourish and stood aside. “This is the lab bench area,” he said. “The data area is on the other end. Make yourselves at home. Go exploring. Feel free to ask any questions.”
Diane stepped through the doorway and whispered, “Wow.” The laboratory was enormous and absolutely pristine. Several work stations were situated along rows of stainless steel counters, still wearing their factory sheen. Each area had its own hood and vacuum system to remove any noxious chemicals. The counter tops held the usual test tube racks, centrifuges and microscopes. Glass-fronted upper cabinets held flasks and beakers, and other glassware.
Diane walked slowly along the counters, running her hand on the cool metal surfaces, mentally “decorating” the lab to suit her needs—spectrophotometer here, chromatography setup over there— preparing the space to receive the treasures from her expeditions.
She is transported back to the jungle, to her sources: usually a shaman, but sometimes the mother of a sick child or a beekeeper or a fisherman or a drifter.
She is shown a leaf, its blades resembling a devil’s fork. It is crushed and masticated and mixed with mud, then applied to an old man’s skin lesions. And eureka—a native cure is found! A scab of tree bark is crumbled and boiled and strained through woven palm fibers and fed to a scrawny infant with diarrhea. And hallelujah—a life is saved! She trembles with the joy of such discoveries. She is humbled by the privilege of peering into the pharmacopoeia of native lore. Leaves, fronds, bark, seeds, flowers, soil, roots, fungi are collected, pressed, dried, prepared for the lab where they are screened for bioactive compounds. The specimens are processed, assayed, distilled, scanned, isolated, fractionated, deconstructed; like playing a symphony backwards to find the lead notes—the ones that give rise to the music. The results are digitized, analyzed and synthesized.
Then back to the jungle craving another dose of eureka.
Vincent broke through her ruminations, “Di?”
Slightly disoriented, she turned toward the sound of his voice.
He beckoned to her from the triple wide doorway connecting to the next room. “You have to see this contraption!”
She followed him into the data area, weaving through rows of counters and desks, towards a floor-to-ceiling glass cubicle with an exit sign over it. Inside the glass walls, a rectangular frame stood about eight feet tall, five feet wide.
Jerry Wentzel stood beside the structure, wearing an impish grin, as Diane approached. “Your husband is trying to figure out what it is; would you like to hazard a guess?”
“It looks like an oversized airport metal detector, but I’m sure Vincent has already covered that one.” After studying it for a few moments, she shrugged and said,” Okay, if it’s not a carwash for Mini Coopers, I’m out of guesses.”
Jerry laughed and turned to Vincent who held up his hands in surrender.
“I give up.” he said.
“This was Harry Lee’s tinker toy. We named her ‘Maggie,’” Jerry said as he reached over and tapped a touchscreen on a control panel mounted outside the glass wall. He tapped the panel in several more spots and turned to Vincent. “Okay. I’m going out that door. When I’ve closed it behind me, you push ‘enter’ to start up the system.” Vincent nodded without total comprehension. Jerry grinned, “You’ll hear a brief blast of noise—that’s just part of the process.”
He walked through the frame and out the back door. Vincent pressed “enter” on the screen as he had been instructed. Two electronic eyes, about ankle high on either side of the inner frame, switched on.
Jerry Wentzel re-entered from the hallway. As he passed through the frame, a pleasant female computer voice said, “Hello, Jerry Wentzel.”
“Interesting,” Diane said when Wentzel rejoined them. “Are you wearing some sort of magnetic tag?”
“Good guess. You try it,” Jerry said, touching the screen. He looked down at Diane’s pumps. “But you’d better remove your shoes first. They could have metal shanks.”
Diane, looking puzzled, glanced down at Jerry’s Adidas, then obediently stepped out of her shoes.
Jerry explained. “There’s a powerful magnetic field that comes up past your ankles. If there was any metal in your shoes they’d stick to a strip in the floor and you’d either step out of your shoes or fall on your face.” With that, he threw back his head and laughed.