On impulse, Marsha called to Jean: “I think I’ll be skipping lunch; you go whenever you want. Just don’t forget to put the phone on service.”
Busy with the typewriter, Jean waved understanding.
Five minutes later, Marsha was going sixty-five miles an hour on the interstate. She only had to go one exit and was soon back to small country roads.
The Crocker Preschool was a charming ensemble of yellow cottages with white trim and white shutters on the grounds of a much larger estate house. Marsha wondered how the school made ends meet, but rumor had it that it was more of a hobby for Martha Gillespie. Martha had been widowed at a young age and left a fortune.
“Of course I remember VJ,” Martha said with feigned indignation. Marsha had found her in the administrative cottage. She was about sixty, with snow white hair and cheery, rosy cheeks. “I remember him vividly right from his first day with us. He was a most extraordinary boy.”
Marsha recalled the first day also. She’d brought VJ in early, worried about his response since he had not been away from home except when accompanied by Janice or herself. This was to be his first brush with such independence. But the adaptation had proved to be harder for Marsha than for her son, who ran into the middle of a group of children without even one backward glance.
“In fact,” Martha said, “I remember that by the end of his first day he had all the other children doing exactly what he wanted. And he wasn’t even two!”
“Then you remember when VJ’s intelligence fell?” Marsha asked.
Martha paused while she studied Marsha. “Yes, I remember,” she said.
“What do you remember about him after this occurred?” Marsha asked.
“How is the boy today?”
“He’s fine, I hope,” Marsha said.
“Is there some reason you want to upset yourself by going through this?” Martha asked. “I remember how devastated you were back then.”
“To be honest,” Marsha said, “I’m terrified the same problem might happen again. I thought that if I learned more about the first episode, I might be able to prevent another.”
“I don’t know if I can help that much,” Martha said. “There certainly was a big change, and it occurred so quickly. VJ went from being a confident child whose mind seemed infinite in its capability, to a withdrawn child who had few friends. But it wasn’t as if he was autistic. Even though he stayed by himself, he was always uncannily aware of everything going on around him.”
“Did he continue to relate to children his own age?” Marsha asked.
“Not very much,” Martha said. “When we made him participate, he was always willing to go along, but left to his own devices, he’d just watch. You know, there was one thing that was curious. Every time we insisted that VJ participate in some kind of game, like musical chairs, he would always let the other children win. That was strange because prior to this, VJ won most of the games no matter what the age of the children involved.”
“That is curious,” Marsha said.
Later, when Marsha was driving back to her office, she kept seeing a three-and-a-half-year-old VJ letting other children win. It brought back the episode in the pool Sunday evening. In all her experience with young children, Marsha had never come across such a trait.
“Perfect!” Victor said as he held one of the microscope slides up to the overhead light. He could see the paper-thin section of brain sealed with a cover slip.
“That’s the Golgi stain,” Robert said. “You also have Cajal’s and Bielschowsky’s. If you want any others you’ll have to let me know.”
“Fine,” Victor said. As usual, Robert had accomplished in less than twenty-four hours what would have taken a lesser technician several days.
“And here are the chromosome preparations,” Robert said, handing Victor a tray. “Everything is labeled.”
“Fine,” Victor repeated.
Taking the preparations in his hands, Victor headed across the main room of the lab to the light microscopes. Seating himself before one, he placed the first slide under the instrument. It was labeled Hobbs, right frontal lobe.
Victor ran the scope down so that the objective was just touching the cover slip. Then, looking through the eyepieces, he corrected the focus.
“Good God!” he exclaimed as the image became clear. There was no sign of malignancy, but the effect was the same as if a tumor had been present. The children didn’t die of cerebral edema, or an accumulation of fluid. Instead, what Victor saw was evidence of diffuse mitotic activity. The nerve cells of the brain were multiplying just as they did in the first two months of fetal development.
Victor quickly scanned slides of other areas of the Hobbs brain and then studied the Murray child’s tissue. All of them were the same. The nerve cells were actively reproducing themselves at a furious rate. Since the children’s skulls were fused, the new cells had nowhere to go other than to push the brain down into the spinal canal, with fatal results.
Horrified yet astounded at the same time, Victor snatched up the tray of slides and left the light microscope. He hurried across the lab and entered the room which housed the scanning electron microscope. The place had the appearance of a command center of a modern electronic weapons system.
The instrument itself looked very different from a normal microscope. It was about the size of a standard refrigerator. Its business portion was a cylinder approximately a foot in diameter and about three feet tall. A large electrical trunk entered the top of this cylinder and served as the source of electrons. The electrons were then focused by magnets which acted like glass lenses in a light microscope. Next to the scope was a good-sized computer. It was the computer that analyzed multiple-plano images of the electron microscope and constructed the three-dimensional pictures.
Robert had made extremely thin preparations of the chromatin material from some of the brain cells that were in the initial process of dividing. Victor placed one of these preparations within the scope and searched for chromosome six. What he was looking for was the area of mutation where he’d inserted the foreign genes. It took him over an hour, but at last he found it.
“Jesus,” Victor gulped. The histones that normally enveloped the DNA were either missing or attenuated in the area of the inserted gene. In addition, the DNA, which was usually tightly coiled, had unraveled, suggesting that active transcription was taking place. In other words, the inserted genes were turned on!
Victor tried a preparation from the other child with the same results. The inserted genes were turned on, producing NGF. There was no doubt about it.
Switching to preparations made from VJ’s blood, which must have taken much more patience on Robert’s part since appropriate cells would have been harder to find, Victor introduced one within the electron microscope. Within thirty minutes he located chromosome six. Then, with painstaking effort, he scanned up and down the chromosome several times. The genes were quiescent. The area of the inserted gene was covered with the histone protein in the usual fashion.
Victor rocked back in the chair. VJ was all right, but the other two children had died as the result of his experiment. How could he ever tell Marsha? She would leave him. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could live with himself.
Abruptly he stood up and paced the small room. What could have turned the gene back on? The only thing Victor could imagine was the ingestion of cephaloclor, the same antibiotic that he had used during the early embryological development. But how could these children have gotten the drug? It was not a common prescription, and the parents had been specifically warned that both children were deathly allergic to it. Victor was sure neither the Hobbses nor the Murrays would have permitted anyone to administer cephaloclor to their sons.