O’Donnell booted up his computer and scrolled through the genetic structures of the microbes he had applied to each of the twelve plants. The three-dimensional diagrams on the screen were relatively simple, not at all as complicated as human genes, not even as complicated as the genes he had altered when designing microbes for AgriTech, Inc. But his previous work had been dedicated to promoting the growth of plants. This project was bent on rendering them impotent.
For well over an hour, O’Donnell stared zombie-like at the screen as he used the cursor to rearrange molecules of RNA. There’s got to be some sequence that will completely inhibit the chemical process, he thought as his fingers tapped the keyboard.
Aaron Weiss told himself that the real advantage to spending the morning with Fabio Bianco was that it kept Kurt Jaeckle off his neck. The leader of the Martians had cornered Weiss at breakfast in the wardroom and droned on about the importance of his team, his work, his dreams, his goals—himself— until Bianco had shown up and rescued the reporter.
But now Weiss was gasping as he struggled to keep pace with Fabio Bianco. The old scientist was supposed to be a walking catalogue of every geriatric malady known to Western man. Yet he seemed spry as a young chicken and agile as a cat as he led Weiss down the length of the connecting tunnel.
“Must be the weightlessness,” Weiss muttered between gulps of air that never quite seemed to satisfy the aching in his lungs.
Bianco was in the middle of a lecture he had begun at breakfast.
“You ask why we need a space station for this research,” he said as his spindly arms moved surely from handhold to handhold. “The truth is that ninety percent of the research conducted on this station for this particular project can be performed on Earth at far less expense.”
“But not with as much fun,” said Weiss.
Bianco brought himself to a sudden stop. Weiss crashed into him, then tumbled backwards. His Minicam tugged at the cord around his neck. He managed to snag a handhold.
“Fun? We are not here for fun, Mr. Weiss. What we do here is serious, perhaps the most serious work being done anywhere, by anyone. What we are doing up here is creating new life-forms that will be completely subservient to man. There are people on Earth who do not want this work to be done.”
“Fundamentalists, creationists. I know the scene,” Weiss said as he adjusted his hat.
“Those, of course. But also people with sophisticated academic backgrounds. They think we are creating monsters that will be set loose upon the land. They agree that our environment is in a sorry state, but they see science and technology as the culprits. To a certain extent they may be correct. However, they do not understand that the world has crossed the Rubicon. The die is cast. The answer to our problems is not to turn away from science. The answer lies in more science, but an intelligent, refined science.”
Bianco gave himself a gentle shove in the direction of Jasmine. Weiss followed.
“Eventually, we will begin projects that will benefit from micro-gee,” said Bianco. “But for now, the great advantage of this station is that it is not on Earth. No government controls us. We allay the fears of the ignorant by being in space, out of their sight. And it avoids their court battles.”
The Japanese were very polite and not nearly as secretive as Weiss had expected from the previous night’s abortive visit. Hisashi Oyamo forbade Weiss to film anything with his Minicam, but ordered a tech to take the reporter on a tour of the module. Weiss was free to ask any question that came to mind. His problem was that he didn’t know enough about genetic engineering to formulate an intelligent question. The main activity seemed to be the spinning, shaking, cooking, and freezing of thousands of vials of colored liquids. In English that was clipped and formal, the tech explained that the liquids contained different types of genetically engineered microbes.
“Are they color-coded?” asked Weiss.
“Ah yes,” said the tech with a toothy smile.
The second stop was ELM. Despite his space-sickness pad, Weiss felt a wave of nausea as soon as he passed through the hatchway. He first suspected the hideous color combination of pastel salmons and blah grays rather than the clean whites and yellows of Jasmine. Then he realized an additional reason for his disorientation: the equipment was placed higher on these walls to accommodate people of taller stature. The desktops of the workstations were higher, as well.
Weiss was not offered a tour of ELM. As Bianco and Chakra Ramsanjawi slowly drifted along the module’s aisle, Weiss was confined to a corner under the humorless eye of a male tech. Weiss tried to cajole him into a conversation, but received only guttural German in response.
“Right. And you don’t know English,” said Weiss.
The tech bared his teeth.
This lack of hospitality was at odds with the demeanor of Ramsanjawi, who seemed to engage Bianco in warm conversation. Even the distance could not conceal the look of satisfaction on Bianco’s face. He was obviously impressed by the work of the Europeans as he had not been with the Japanese. Maybe it was continental pride, thought Weiss.
The last stop was The Bakery. Weiss had managed only a quick glance into the dimly lit module the previous night before being shooed away by Freddy Aviles. Under the bright fluorescents, the interior was a blend of pastel yellows and blues. The scheme was far less disorienting than ELM’s sickening decor, and Weiss wondered whether Americans shared a genetic predilection for these colors.
Thora Skillen rushed forward to meet them as soon as they cleared the hatch. Her handshake reminded Weiss of a slab of dead mackerel and her manner was as sharply abrupt as her features. She informed Weiss that he had the run of the module, but he could not film or touch anything. Then she quickly ushered Bianco toward her office, as if bursting to fill his ear with news. Or gossip.
Weiss parked himself in the center of the module. A centrifuge whirred to a stop, its arms slowly coming into focus and folding down as if exhausted. A tangle of multicolored tendrils appeared on a computer monitor, the three-dimensional image rotating as a woman worked the keys. Weiss decided that, except for the color schemes and the heights of the workstations, seeing one orbital lab module was seeing them all. Whatever Thora Skillen had been so anxious to tell Bianco was probably far more interesting than watching adults play with colored water.
Weiss moved slowly toward Skillen’s office, which, as with the other two lab modules, was located in an aft corner. Pretending to be intensely interested in the colored vials hanging from the inert centrifuge’s spindly arms, Weiss strained his ears toward Skillen’s closed office. Through the accordion door he could barely make out snatches of conversation. He edged past the centrifuge and peered intently into a humming microwave oven.
“His presence is very disrupting,” said Skillen. Her voice sounded like fingernails on sandpaper.
“I do not like his presence any more than you do,” Bianco replied.
Weiss felt a chill crawl up his spine. Were they talking about him?
“Can’t you do anything about him?” Skillen asked.
“There is nothing I can do. It was all arranged without my knowledge.”
“But you’re the CEO.”
“I am not omnipotent. The arrangement was made with Trikon NA. It is legitimate. We may not like it, but we must live with it.”
“You read my memo.”
“I did,” said Bianco. “That is how O’Donnell came to my attention.”
“Then you understand how disruptive he has been.”
“Dr. Skillen,” said Bianco, “I appreciate your ardent commitment to the project, but I do not appreciate your attempts to brand O’Donnell a scapegoat. The fact remains that you have fallen behind the research pace set by the other groups. O’Donnell cannot be the sole reason.”