They both stared at him for an explanation.
After a long moment, Chris said, "Nothing that matters." He got up to leave.
But Quentin continued. "Then what about that conference on neurology and gerontology at Yale last November? Two days you were supposedly taking as sick days?"
"You've been spying on me. I don't believe it."
"Believe it," Quentin said. "And believe it that misuse of company property and the misappropriation of funds is a criminal offense tantamount to stealing."
Chris moved to the door.
"Well, maybe this will tell me." Quentin was holding a black, bound ledger containing Chris's notes on the tabukari elixir and its effect on his animals all the way back to 1980. He had broken into locked files in Chris's office.
"And before you declare it's personal property, let me remind you of your contract which reads: 'All research material including equipment, animals, procedures, patents, inventions, discoveries, and notes are private property of Darby Pharmaceuticals.' Do I make myself clear?"
A photocopy of Chris's notes sat in front of Ross, who stared at Chris silently and without expression.
"And by the way," Quentin continued, his face all aglow, "that mouse that died horribly a few weeks ago? Well, I checked the files and found he was purchased over six years ago-I repeat, six years ago. Now, I don't know much about mice, but that struck me as unlikely, so I called Jackson and they confirmed that the original order of twenty such mice was placed in 1980. When I told them it was the same mouse, they said that was outright impossible because its life span was eleven months. There had to be some mistake because no mouse under the sun-no matter what breed or hybrid-lives six friggin' years."
They stared at him for an answer. "So what do you want?"
"What we want is for you to sit down and tell us all about your tabukari elixir."
7
"Am I being fired or not?"
They had read everything in his log. The entire medical history of his mice was in those notes, including Methuselah's-six years of secret employment at Darby. If they wanted to, he could be out the door and facing charges of grand larceny.
"Fired?" Ross Darby stood up and came around his desk. "If you've developed something that's multiplied the lifespan of mice, I want to know what it could do for humans. And I want you to find out. In fact, I'd like you to work on it full time."
Christ! The genie was out of the lamp, and they wanted him to dance with it. "What about Veratox?"
"It's quite clear the synthesis won't work, and we've spent more than enough money to find out. We appreciate your efforts, but these things happen."
"We still have another shipment of raw stock coming, no?"
"I need not get into it, but we don't." Ross was being evasive.
That explained the stoical attitude. Veratox was a bust, and Chris's elixir had fallen into their laps to make up the losses.
"So," Ross sang out, "what can it do for humans?"
Chris glanced at Quentin, who sat back waiting for him to spill. If he resisted or protested, they could still fire him, retaining his notes and the contents of his lab. Which would mean his genie would be dancing with someone else. "I don't know."
"Then how did you know about its longevity powers?"
"Rumors from New Guinea villagers."
"Such as?"
He measured his words. The exposure was too sudden. "That it can retard the aging process."
But Chris said nothing about Iwati. Neither did his name appear in the notes nor speculations about how the stuff might double or triple human lifespan or more. Only pharmacological and biological history of his mice-dosages, procedures, vital signs, blood and tissue chemistry, neurophysiology, and so forth.
"Well, I'm curious why all the secrecy," Darby said. "You worked on it since 1980 and never breathed a word."
"It didn't strike me as profitable research given the limitations."
"Not while you were here, that is," Quentin said.
"Pardon me?"
Quentin's face had a look of cagey cleverness he used to impress Darby. "I'm just wondering if you kept everything under wraps so you could perfect the stuff, then jump ship with the patent to start your own company."
"Quentin, I'm a biologist, not a crackerjack entrepreneur like yourself."
"I'm not interested in motives," Ross interjected. "You've developed a compound that's multiplied the lifespan of mice. That's one hell of a breakthrough. And that's what I'd like you to develop for us. Are you interested?"
To Chris, Ross Darby was the kind of businessman Ayn Rand would have swooned over. In less than twenty years he had taken his company out of his garage and into this multimillion-dollar complex. "Sure."
"You mentioned limitations."
"Accelerated senescence, rapid aging-what afflicted Methuselah."
"Then its elimination should be a prime objective," Ross said. "I have to admire you for pulling it off without notice. What bothers me is what that says about the quality of our bookkeeping." He glanced at Quentin. "I'd like to see these mice, if you don't mind."
Chris took them to the back lab and the cages of mice, each hooked up at the skull to supplies of tabulone.
"You've invested half a dozen years and increased the lifespan of mice by a factor of six, so you must see hope for the human race."
"Find the right chemicals," Chris said, "and there's no reason we can't extend our warranties without limit-like these guys."
Ross studied the mice as if he were glimpsing magical creatures. "An appealing prospect, especially when you're my age."
"We've got a huge baby boomer generation out there eating their oat bran and jogging their asses off," Quentin piped in. "We're talking about a billion-dollar molecule." His face glowed red at the prospect.
"What's the composition?" Ross asked.
Chris opened his log notes to a ring diagram he had drawn.
Ross studied it. "A steroidal structure, except the C and D rings are reversed. I've not seen anything like it before."
"I doubt anybody has," Chris said. What made the compound unique was the spiral ring system-two rings coming off a common carbon atom, something not found in steroidal structures.
"What's the plant?"
"A vine with small orchidlike flowers. I'm told it grows nowhere else in the world."
"That's what they said about the apricots," Ross muttered. He studied the diagram.
"Where did you get the elucidation and synthesis done?" Ross was concerned that outside labs could compromise Darby's exclusive patent on the compound, especially if the molecular profile got out. But Chris had anticipated all that. Without revealing its potentials, he had gotten analyses done at MIT, Northeastern University, and private labs without incurring interest. In his favor was the fact that nobody did steroid research anymore.