“That’s all we’ve got so far.” He paused, listening to the precise enunciation of the Englishman’s voice. “Okay. Well, tread carefully — I don’t need the police after you on top of everything else. Farrell will take care of any problems.” Potzner wondered briefly whether he should share the flickering electronic information with Dracup, then quickly decided against it. There was nothing to be gained from confirming that the Department’s hopes were resting on the conundrums of a deceased, mentally unstable geologist and his grandson’s determination to find a missing daughter. Potzner hoped the daughter was still alive, but had his doubts. He didn’t share that thought with Dracup either. He signed off and stared at the screen.
Hi Jim—
Project: RED EARTH — Status: Highly sensitive
As requested, here is an update on exactly where we are with the research — or rather, where we got to before the ‘problem’. I’ll try and keep this as simple as possible. You’ll be aware that the study of chromosomes and cell regeneration/division has been central to this research program, particularly with regard to telometric longevity and length.
Telomeres, as I’ve outlined before, are effectively the ‘tip’ of any given chromosome, and we became convinced that the composition and length of these tips was the key to understanding the ageing process with its associated links to health in old age and the human life span. Now, a cell’s normal life is around 50 divisions, and tests on a cross-section of human subjects have shown that cells that have stopped dividing have much shorter telomeres.
Telomeres become shorter with time because unlike the rest of a chromosome, they don't replicate during cell division. The shortening of these tips acts like a sort of clock, which ultimately causes the cell to slow down and stop working. There has been some experimentation with an enzyme called telomerase that slows the erosion of these telomeres — and lab experiments with this enzyme have met with some success, although I wouldn’t personally consider these to be spectacular. What it did tell us — or what we understood from the results of these experiments — is that we were on the right research track.
The right track. Potzner ran a hand through his greying crew cut. So close. So near to a breakthrough. How could it have happened? Just as he was coming to terms with the possibility of salvation, just as he had begun to dare to hope… His fists bunched and he read on.
Then came the Red Earth material — well, you remember how we found the telometric loop anomalies — it proved the point. These were super telomeres like we’d never seen before in any subject. There appeared to be no degeneration or shortening of telometric strands despite the obvious age of the material. I can now say conclusively that the age of the subject was in excess of 500 years — possibly older — at the time of death. Death was caused not by ‘normal’ cell senescence but by something else. What that is right now I can’t say — I’d need more tissue samples to reach a conclusion as the original material is breaking down rapidly, which is no surprise given that we had to perform an invasive operation just to get through the resin block. Incidentally, we are still unsure of the composition of this outer coating — whatever it is, it’s not something we’ve seen before and its preservative qualities are nothing less than astonishing. Nevertheless, the small sample we retained also seems to be degenerating too fast for us to save.
In summary, Jim, I’m real sorry — I know what this means to you, believe me, but I can’t proceed without fresh material derived from the source.
Do let me know if you need any more information at this stage.
Kind rgds
Art Keegan,
Head Dept. Molec. Biology
Mob: 07720 8732567
Potzner looked at the solitary photograph on his desk. It was a fun shot, taken before Abigail had become housebound. They were in an amusement arcade and Abi had just won the jackpot. Some passing trucker had offered to take their photo to mark the occasion. She looked so… so carefree. So happy. He picked up the frame and etched a kiss onto her celluloid cheek, then placed the photograph carefully back in its usual position. Everything’s going to be fine. We’re going to live forever, you and me, babe. Imagine that! We’re going to live forever…
He held his head in his hands and wept.
Dracup peered cautiously over the low wall. It didn’t give him much cover, but at least the sky was moonless and the expanse of the garden lay in comforting shadow. He stepped forward gingerly into the open. Immediately he felt exposed and foolish. What was he doing in a stranger’s garden in the middle of the night? And yet, it was not an unfamiliar landscape. He had been here long ago, in another life. How old had he been? Eight or nine? A pang of grief stabbed home. Natasha’s age. The thought gave him a fresh focus, and he peered into the darkness, searching for the marker he prayed was still in position. The sundial. If it had gone, leaving no reference point… No! There was something, a broken contour on the flatness of the grass.
He edged carefully up the lawn, keeping to the borders and fearful that some hidden security light would flood the garden and leave him stranded in its glare like a fly in a spider’s web. Dracup risked a glance to where Farrell stood guard at the gate. It was hard to pick the agent out, but then Dracup discerned a movement against the whitewash of the house. A second later a torch flashed once. All okay. They had simply walked up the drive, Dracup conscious of the weight of the shovel in his hand, Farrell striding ahead confidently. Business as usual for him.
The house was in darkness, with only a single light showing upstairs, candle-like behind the small window — probably the bathroom. The place was comfortably asleep. And so it should be, Dracup thought. It’s 3.30 in the morning. He held his breath as he moved slowly forward towards the object. He realized he was grinding his teeth, as he used to in his parents’ home when he wanted to creep down the old staircase without alerting the grown-ups to his presence; he imagined the noise of his teeth rubbing together would obscure any noise issuing from his own movements. Dracup shook his head. Nuts. You’ve always been a bit nuts. Now the stillness had a volume all of its own which seemed more unsettling.
Something rustled in the hedgerow and he dropped to his haunches, crouching low. He waited thirty seconds. Nothing jumped out at him. No lights flicked on. Keep moving. He took a breath and went forward again. Sara would be home by now, fast asleep in her own bed. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s somewhere else altogether. He shook his head, unable to sustain the thought. He felt diminished without her, as if some central process inside him had been shut down.
Enough. Concentrate. He reached the object and squatted next to it, running his hands over the stone column. Relief washed through him. The sundial still presided over the garden, a solid connection between now and the past. He traced the Roman numerals. Five, six, seven. Dracup looked to see the direction of the angle created by the VII. He measured seven reasonable paces from the dial and found himself by the herbaceous border. With some misgivings and considerable sympathy for the owners he began to dig. The noise jarred his senses, and he worked the shovel as cautiously as he could into the stiff earth, keeping one eye nervously on the Farrell corner of the property.