No longer able to stall, he said, "I think you're both right. Betsy, you raise some troublesome potentials, things we should consider. But unwanted possibilities are no reason to call a halt. Cocaine or heroin are dangerous when abused, but lots of people take them and nobody's twisting their arms. Should we stop manufacturing them because it's become a social problem? Of course not, because of all the legitimate uses in medicine. Even nuclear fission: It's not innately evil, just one of its potential applications."
"That's like saying climb the mountain because it's there: Knowledge for its own sake," Betsy said.
"Yes, but I see nothing wrong with that."
"Not all knowledge is good."
"True, but science shouldn't be prohibited from extending frontiers, especially in human biology. Like cloning, prolongevity was bound to be discovered, so why not do it right? And we're the best team there is."
"Hear, hear!" shouted Quentin and flashed Chris a thumbs-up. The man was a damn fool, and Chris resented the assumption of complicity.
"Then maybe you can tell us what exactly our objective is," Betsy said, "because I've lost sight."
Iwati's face rose up in Chris's mind. Never grow old.
"Our objective is to continue the headway we've made with an eye to moving to clinical. The fact is, the accelerated senescence may stop us before our conscience does."
Another flashcard image-Sam in the hospital, looking up at Chris, wondering who he was.
"If you're worried about it being too successful," Quentin said, "why not modify the compound so that it's good for, say, for ten or twenty years-chemically fine-tune it, kind of?"
Betsy took a deep breath of exasperation. It was a ludicrous suggestion. "Even if we discovered some built-in timers for molecules, activation would constitute mass murder."
"Oh hell, you can work out something," Quentin snapped back. "The point is that if Elixir can add a decade or two to human life, I'm all for it. So is Darby Pharms and so is the human race, damn it! We're not going to have a work stoppage. Period! Besides, we don't even know if it works on humans."
"Frankly, I hope it doesn't," Betsy said, and picked up her things and left.
The meeting was over, and Derek, Stan, and Vartan exited without a word.
When they were alone, Quentin turned to Chris. "What the hell's wrong with her? This might be the greatest discovery in all of science, and she's trying to fucking sabotage it. Jesus! Where the hell did you find that woman in the first place?"
Chris looked at the big pink musk-melon face. The same face that for weeks would mooch into his lab to check on progress, to reiterate how important Elixir was to the company, to remind him how there would be no Elixir project without Quentin. Chris did all he could to keep from whacking that face. "Quentin, I'm sure you have work to do."
Quentin gave him an offended look then left.
Chris's insides felt scooped out. Maybe they would talk, but they were not going to shut the project down. No way. He needed Betsy, but if she became a liability, he would ask her to find another lab.
He was about to leave when he looked back at the chalkboard notes and diagrams. Do we really want to open that door?
And a small voice in his head, whispered: Yes, oh yes.
Dexter had messed up-yielded to a crazy nostalgic impulse. A last-ditch effort to bathe in the fires of spring. But when the time came, Chris wouldn't be so foolish. No way.
10
Quentin arrived at two-thirty and paced in circles around George Washington and his horse for half an hour. In a shoulder bag he carried unmarked hundred-dollar bills. But not twenty-five thousand of them. Over the week he had raised only $1.5 million-a million shy of what he owed.
It was a cool drizzly day, and only a few people were in the Garden. Quentin's stomach was a cauldron of acid. He chewed Tums, thinking that Antoine was being cagey, probably waiting to see if he had brought police or narcs. The thought had never crossed his mind. About three o'clock a kid in jeans and a slicker approached him. "He's waiting for you in the lounge across the street." He pointed to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel then took off in the opposite direction.
Quentin crossed Arlington Street, feeling relief they were meeting in a civilized place. The lounge was dim and only a couple of businessmen sat by the window. A waiter directed Quentin to a table in the far corner where a man sat, but it was not Antoine Ducharme.
"How's the finger?" asked Vince Lucas.
Instantly, Quentin's hand began to throb. The finger had a permanent crook which made Vince smile.
"Where's Antoine?"
"Let's just say it's inconvenient for Antoine to travel."
Quentin sat and the waiter took their orders-a Chivas on the rocks for Quentin, a second Perrier for Vince. Quentin clenched the bag of money between his feet. He could not stop trembling. All he could think of was his daughter, Robyn.
"You got a problem?" Vince asked. "You seem a bit jumpy."
"It's just I'm out of breath from running over," he stammered and mopped his face with the napkins.
The waiter brought the drinks. Lucas's eyes were deep black and totally unreadable. He wore a gray suit, blue shirt, and paisley tie, like a stockbroker. Quentin's heart pounded so hard that he wondered if Lucas could hear it. He called the waiter back to bring some nuts. When the waiter left, Lucas said, "Do you have the money, Mr. Cross?
"Oh, sure." He shoved a handful of nuts into his mouth.
Lucas reached over and pulled the bag over. Quentin started to protest, but choked it back. It took Lucas a few seconds to estimate the contents. "Where's the rest?"
"That's what I want to talk to Antoine about."
Lucas sighed. "Mr. Cross, I told you a long time ago that I speak for Antoine, understand? And he's not happy." His eyes had hardened into flat onyx marbles.
Suddenly a thought occurred to Quentin-an interesting one that sent a ripple through his bowels. He finished his drink and flagged the waiter for a refill. Meanwhile, Lucas watched him squirm and gobble down nuts-his face an uncompromising blank.
"We're both businessmen, correct?" Quentin began. "And you're successful I assume. I mean, you're well dressed and all…" He tapered off.
More gaping silence as Lucas tried to read Quentin.
"As you may recall, I'm the Chief Financial Officer of a very reputable pharmaceutical company-"
"Cut the blah-blah and get to the point."
"Okay, there's nearly a million and a half dollars in there. I know it's short, and I have every intention of paying the balance, but frankly, I simply can't raise that kind of money without serious consequences. But Darby Pharms is on the verge of something with cosmic potential."
The waiter came with more nuts and Quentin's drink.
"How old are you, Mr. Lucas?"
Lucas narrowed his eyes at Quentin without response then checked his watch.
"I'd guess thirty-five." Quentin removed a half-eaten roll of Tums from his pocket and placed it on the table. "What would you pay for a compound that could freeze you at thirty-five for another hundred years?"
Lucas glanced at the Tums then gave Quentin the same menacingly blank look. "You asking me real questions, or is this your idea of conversation? By the way, you've got three minutes."
Quentin felt a burst of panic. "For what?"
"To settle the rest of your debt." Quentin's mind flooded with all sorts of horrors-being dragged to a waiting car outside, or maybe even shot dead right here with a silencer, fast when nobody was looking. He glanced desperately to the table of businessmen at the window.
"They're with me," Lucas said. "You were saying?"
Oh, God. Quentin thought. There was no compromising these people. No extensions. No second chances. It was all he had left. "Look, please. I'm serious. I'm… I'm talking about something historic… Something we're developing while we speak, in fact. It's for real. What if those weren't antacids but pills that prevented you from aging?"