“That’s good. You and Joe will have to move out on short notice. I’m still working out the details, don’t have time to get into it now. Don’t ever let anyone tell you the job of Veep is as worthless as a bucket of warm spit.”
Sandecker hung up without another word. Austin stared at the phone in his hand.
He pushed speculative thoughts aside and soon was engrossed in the file on his desk. It didn’t take him very long to learn that Pyramid was no ordinary corporation.
CHAPTER 20
GAMAY HAD BEEN AWAKENED EARLIER THAT DAY BY THE thin shafts of sunlight filtering through the louvered windows. She slipped out of bed and pulled on her running shorts, sport top, and shoes. Quietly exiting through the screened-in porch, she did a series of warm-up exercises, walked around the back of the lodge to the start of a trail, and began a slow jog that gradually accelerated into a steady rhythm.
Feet crunching on the shell pathway, Gamay ran with an athletic grace, using a loose-boned economy of motion that assured that, if she were ever reincarnated, she’d come back as a cheetah. She ran every morning, a habit that went back to her tomboy days, hanging out on the streets of Racine with a gang of boys.
Gamay heard footfalls and turned to see Dr. Mayhew coming up from behind.
He caught up with Gamay and ran beside her.
“Good morning, Dr. Trout!” he exhaled. “Enjoying your run?”
“Yes, very much, thank you.”
“Good.” He clicked on his quick smile. “See you at breakfast.”
Mayhew stepped up his pace and continued past Gamay until he disappeared around a corner.
The legendary Florida humidity soon nudged the coolness of early morning aside, and Gamay returned to her room drenched in perspiration. She showered and dressed in a fresh pair of shorts, a tank top, and sandals, and she followed the sound of voices to the dining room.
Dr. Mayhew waved Gamay over to join the group she had met the previous night and pointed to an empty chair. The consensus at the table was in favor of the brie-and-tomato omelet. It was cooked to perfection, and served with homemade oatmeal bread.
Noting Gamay’s gusto, Mayhew said, “The cooking here is one of the perks we insisted upon before marooning ourselves on Bonefish Key.”
He drained the rest of his coffee mug and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Then he reached under his chair and handed Gamay a plastic bag with a clean lab coat in it.
“Ready for the tour, Dr. Trout?”
Gamay rose and buttoned herself into the coat.
“Anytime you are, Dr. Mayhew.”
He replied with the inevitable switched-on smile.
“Follow me,” he said.
They took an unmarked shell path in a direction opposite that of the nature trail and came upon a one-story cinder-block building painted a light mossy green. The air vibrated with the hum of unseen electric motors.
“Resource cultivation is done in this building,” Mayhew said. “It may look like a garage, but this lab is on the leading edge of biomedical research.”
The dimly lit building housed dozens of large, lighted fish tanks. A couple of white-coated technicians armed with clipboards moved from tank to tank. They paid no attention to the newcomers, except for a casual wave. The air was heavy with a wet, fishy smell.
“These seawater tanks are precisely maintained to duplicate exactly the habitat of the marine organisms they contain,” Mayhew explained.
“How many different organisms are you researching?” Gamay asked.
“Dozens of species and subspecies. Let me show you the current reigning star of the show.”
Mayhew went over to a tank that housed several vibrantly colored red blobs, each about the size of a grapefruit. Short, pointed tentacles surrounded their mouths. They festooned the rocks inside the tanks.
“Lovely,” she said. “This must be the sea flower that I read about it in the scientific journals.”
“The staff likes to give common names to the creatures,” Mayhew said. “Saves wrapping our tongues around Latin locutions. There’s the sea star and the sea blossom, and so on. Ironic, when you realize that these exquisite creatures are efficient killing machines superbly engineered to attract small fish close enough to sting and devour.”
“There’s another irony,” Gamay said. “Despite being poisonous, they may be able to cure disease.”
“Killing and curing aren’t mutually exclusive. Curare is a good poison that’s used in medicine. Botox too.”
“Tell me about the sea star, Dr. Mayhew.”
“Gladly. That little beauty is related to another sponge discovered in 1984. Harbor Branch Oceanographic was diving off Bermuda in the Sea-Link submersible. They found a piece of sponge in the sub’s suction tube. The sponge contained a chemical that in lab tests killed cancer cells.”
“I read about that in the scientific journals. An exciting discovery,” she said.
Mayhew nodded.
“And frustrating as well,” he said.
“In what way, Dr. Mayhew?”
“Scientists searched for another twenty years for a whole sponge without success. Then someone had a brainstorm: why not dive deeper and find the sponge’s true habitat? On the first dive, they found enough sponges to support years of research. The scientists had been looking for the sponge in places where other stuff was growing. Their sponge grew at a depth of a thousand feet, where the bottom was practically bare.”
“Did you use the same search procedure for the sea star?” Gamay asked.
“Essentially. We found fragments of an unknown specimen not far from the Harbor Branch dives, did a habitat profile, and, as that TV chef says, Bam! We found whole sponges that also contained the cancer-killing chemical.”
“Does the star’s potential live up to its beauty?” she asked.
“The Harbor Branch specimen produced a chemical dozens of times more potent than the most powerful drug. The star is almost twice that strong.”
“Do I detect a note of smugness in your voice, Dr. Mayhew?”
The scientist widened his mouth in a smile that for once did not look pasted on his face.
“We’ve got a long slog ahead of us before we can license the chemical to a pharmaceutical company, which would take the compound through clinical tests. We have to find a way to produce the chemical in quantity. Harvesting sponges in the wild isn’t feasible economically or ecologically.”
“I’m sure you’ve looked into raising sponges through aquaculture,” Gamay said.
“We’re researching that possibility. Better still would be culturing the microorganisms that produce the chemical. That would support our ultimate goal of synthesizing the chemical for wider distribution.” He shrugged. “First, we have to figure out how it works.”
“You have your job cut out for you, Dr. Mayhew.”
“True, but the potential rewards are mind-boggling. Ocean biomedicine is expected to be the greatest source of pharmaceuticals in the future.”
Gamay cast her eyes around the lab.
“What’s in the other tanks?” she asked.
“More sponges, different varieties. Each specimen has its own chemical characteristics. We’re looking at cures for a host of human ailments. For instance, we’ve got corals that produce potential antibacterial and antiviral agents, and painkillers many times more powerful than morphine but without addictive qualities. The possibilities are endless.”
Mayhew attempted to move the tour along.
“I’m a bit puzzled,” Gamay said, subtly resisting the push of his guiding hand. “I’m sure I read on your website that you were doing research on other invertebrates. I haven’t seen any species of Cnidaria.”
The question seemed to catch Mayhew by surprise. He dropped his hand from her elbow and glanced reflexively at the door to a walled-off section of the lab.
“Jellyfish? Well . . .”
Mayhew may have been an accomplished scientist, but he was an amateur at cloak-and-dagger. Gamay’s eyes followed the direction of his revealing glance, and she gave him her most charming smile. Taking him by the arm, she urged him toward the door.