“Bring it with you when you come to visit us,” Eric said, “in Hawaii.”
The head of the lab, Ray Hough, came in and spent the rest of the day in his office, reviewing papers. By general agreement it was considered poor form for the graduate students to discuss other jobs while Professor Hough was present. So around four o’clock they all met at Lucy’s Deli on Mass Ave. As they crowded around a couple of small tables, a lively discussion ensued. Rick Hutter continued to argue that the university was the only place where one could engage in ethical research. But nobody really listened to him; they were more concerned with the claims that Vin Drake had made. “He was good,” Jenny Linn said, “but it was a sales pitch.”
“Yes,” Amar Singh said, “but at least one part of it was true. He’s right that discoveries do follow new tools. If those guys have the equivalent of a new kind of microscope, or a new PCR-type technique, then they’re going to make a lot of discoveries quickly.”
“But could it really be the best research environment in the world?” Jenny Linn said.
“We can see for ourselves,” Erika Moll said. “They said they’d pay airfare.”
“How’s Hawaii this time of year?” Jenny said.
“I can’t believe you guys are buying into this,” Rick said.
“It’s always good,” Karen King said. “I did my tae kwon do training in Kona. Wonderful.” Karen was a martial arts devotee, and had already changed into a sweat suit for her evening workout.
“I overheard the CFO say they’re hiring a hundred people before the end of the year,” Erika Moll said, trying to steer the conversation away from Karen and Rick.
“Is that supposed to scare us or entice us?”
“Or both?” Amar Singh said.
“Do we have any idea what this new technology is they claim to have?” Erika said. “Do you know, Peter?”
“From a career standpoint,” Rick Hutter said, “you’d be very foolish not to get your PhD first.”
“I have no idea,” Peter said. He glanced at Amar, who said nothing, just nodded silently.
“Frankly, I’m curious to see their facility,” Jenny said.
“So am I,” Amar said.
“I looked at their website,” Karen King said. “Nanigen MicroTech. It says they make specialized robots at the micro- and nano-scale. That’s millimeters down to thousandths of a millimeter. They have drawings of robots that look like they’re about four or five millimeters long-maybe a quarter of an inch. And then some that are half that, maybe two millimeters. The robots seem very detailed. No explanation how they could be made.”
Amar was staring at Peter. Peter said nothing.
“Your brother hasn’t talked to you about this, Peter?” Jenny asked.
“No, this has been his secret.”
“Well,” Karen King continued, “I don’t know what they mean by nano-scale robots. That would be less than the thickness of a human hair. Nobody can fabricate at those dimensions. You’d have to be able to construct a robot atom by atom, and nobody can do that.”
“But they say they can?” Rick said. “It’s corporate bullshit.”
“Those cars aren’t bullshit.”
“Those cars are rented.”
“I have to get to class,” Karen King said, standing up from the table. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Nanigen has kept a very low profile, but there are a few brief references in some business sites, going back about a year. They got close to a billion dollars in funding from a consortium put together by Davros Venture Capital-”
“A billion!”
“Yeah. And that consortium is primarily composed of international drug companies.”
“Drug companies?” Jenny Linn frowned. “Why would they be interested in micro-bots?”
“The plot thickens,” Rick said. “Big Pharma behind the curtain.”
“Maybe they expect new delivery systems?” Amar said.
“Nah, they have that already, with nano-spheres. They don’t need to spend a billion dollars on that. They must be expecting new drugs.”
“But how…” Erika shook her head, puzzled.
“There’s more,” Karen King said, “from the business websites. Not long after they got the funding, Nanigen was challenged by another micro-robotic company in Palo Alto, saying Nanigen had made false representations to raise money and they didn’t really have the technology they said they did. This other company was also developing microscopic robots.”
“Uh-huh…”
“What happened?”
“The threatened lawsuit was withdrawn. The Palo Alto company declared bankruptcy. And that was the end, except the head of their company was quoted as saying Nanigen did have the technology, after all.”
“So you think this is real?” Rick said.
“I think I’m late for class,” Karen said.
“I think it’s real,” Jenny Linn said. “And I’m going to Hawaii to see for myself.”
“I am, too,” Amar said.
“I don’t believe this,” Rick Hutter said.
Peter walked down Mass Avenue with Karen King toward Central Square. It was late afternoon, but the sun still felt warm. Karen carried her gym bag in one hand, keeping the other hand free.
“Rick gives me a pain,” she said. “He acts like he’s being ethical when he’s really just lazy.”
“How do you mean?”
“Staying in the university is safe,” Karen said. “A nice life, comfortable and safe. Except he won’t admit that. Do me a favor,” she added, “and walk on the other side of me, okay?”
Peter moved to Karen’s left side. “Why?”
“So my hand is free.”
Peter looked at her right hand. She held her car keys in her fist, the key shaft protruding from between her knuckles like a knife blade. Hanging from the key chain was a canister of pepper spray, close to her wrist.
Peter couldn’t help smiling. “You think we’re at risk here?”
“The world is a dangerous place.”
“Mass Ave? At five in the afternoon?” They were in the heart of Cambridge.
“Colleges don’t report the actual number of rapes in their communities,” Karen said. “It’s bad publicity. Wealthy alumni won’t send their daughters.”
He kept looking at her clenched fist, the key poking out. “What will you do with the keys you’re holding that way?”
“Straight hit to the windpipe. Instant crippling pain, maybe puncture the trachea. If that doesn’t take him down, spray full in the face close-range. Kick down hard on the kneecap, break it if you can. By then he’s down, and he’s not going anywhere.”
She was serious, almost grim. Peter suppressed an urge to laugh. The street before them was familiar, mundane. People were getting off work, heading home for dinner. They passed a harried-looking professor in a wrinkled corduroy jacket, clutching a stack of blue exam papers, followed by a little old lady with a walker. A group of joggers up ahead.
Karen reached into her purse, pulled out a small folded knife, flipped open the thick serrated blade. “Got my Spyderco knife, I can gut a bastard if it comes to that.” She glanced up, saw his expression. “You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you?”
“No,” he said. “It’s just-you’d really gut someone with a knife?”
“Listen,” she said. “My half-sister is a lawyer in Baltimore. She’s walking to her car in the garage, two o’clock in the afternoon, and she’s attacked by some guy. Knocked down, hits the concrete, loses consciousness, beaten and raped. When she comes to, she has retrograde amnesia, she can’t remember anything about the attacker, how it happened, what he looks like. Nothing. One day in the hospital and they send her home.
“So there’s a guy in the firm, a partner, he has scratches on his throat, and she thinks maybe it’s him. Some guy in her own firm, followed her out and raped her. But she doesn’t remember, she can’t be sure. And she’s just so uncomfortable. Eventually she leaves the firm, moves to DC, has to start again at a lower-paying job.” Karen held up her fist. “All because she didn’t carry her keys like this. She was too nice to protect herself. Bullshit.”