“This laboratory, like most of the other labs in this section, is devoted to the identification and analysis of problematic DNA sequences—that is to say, genes with some hereditary weakness, or genes that have mutated into something . . . undesirable. The latter being the case with your people. Since genes are always mutating—due to the effects of random radiation, pollution and chance—we have a saying, ‘A genetic engineer’s work is never done!’ Ha, ha, ha.”
Nick smiled weakly.
“Now,” Capek continued with a fresh burst of energy, “let me show you what progress we have made with the Alta-Ty problem.”
He led them to a viewscreen and began flicking switches. The lights in the lab dimmed and the screen lit up with two rows of things that looked like elbow macaroni.
“That is the karyotype—the pattern of chromosomes—for a normal human being. Forty-six chromosomes in all, twenty-three donated by either sex.”
Another slide flashed on the screen, and this time one row of the pairs had an extra member.
“Human mongoloidism, the closest analogue we have to the Alta-Ty problem, occurs when the zygote receives three chromosomes in the twenty-one position, giving it a total of forty-seven—one extra.”
Another slide. Both rows of macaroni were nearly a third longer, and the one on the left was divided into two equal groups.
“This is the Alta-Tyberian karyotype. Seventy-two chromosomes, thirty-six from the female and eighteen apiece from each male.”
“What?” Nick said.
“Two different males. Each Alta-Ty female needs two different males to reproduce. One male supplies eighteen chromosomes, the other supplies eighteen, the female supplies thirty-six.”
“Far out,” Nick said. He turned to Hali. “Two men and a woman . . . How do you do it? I mean, what are the logistics?”
Hali blushed and smiled. “It is less a problem of logistics than of finding three people who will love each other equally, without jealousy or competition.”
Nick thought about the people he knew; how many did he love enough to have children with? Then he understood why the population of Alta-Ty was so small.
“And here is the Mongoloid Alta-Ty karyotype,” Capck was saying.
“I can’t see any difference,” Nick said.
“There isn’t any, at least not on this level. The problem rests within the genes, in the DNA sequence itself. So much for the trisomy analogue.”
“Does that mean you cannot help us?” Hali asked, her voice tightening again, sliding up an awful octave and scraping like fingernails on slate.
“No, no, no,” Capek said. “It simply means that we have more work to do. The problem is within the gene. You see, each chromosome represents approximately three-thousand genes. And each gene is a thread of DNA involving some thousand little message units. The units in the middle of the thread determine what enzyme will be produced, the units at the beginning and the end, when and how much. Any one of these little message units might be the cause of the aberration.”
He led them to another machine, a dark metal cylinder
which reached all the way to the ceiling, and sat down at the holocube console next to it.
“This,” he said, “is a photon microscope, the most powerful magnifying device we have. It’s been interfaced to give a three-dimensional image in the holocube.”
He pressed buttons and again the lab grew dark. Within the holocube a cloud of stars appeared.
“Those are the atoms. With the help of the computer we can make the electron bonds visible.”
He pressed more buttons and fine lines appeared connecting the dots into a fabulously intricate web, a spiral staircase shape Nick recognized immediately as the double helix of DNA.
“Two hundred years ago,” Capek said, “scientists would have given their lives to see what we’re seeing now. DNA— the blueprint of life. That spiral structure contains all the necessary information for building a living, thinking, sentient being; for determining the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his intelligence and longevity, even his happiness.”
For a time they gazed at the holocube and nobody said a word. Then Capek said, “The next step will be discovering what sequence of message units is responsible for the different Alta-Ty characteristics and finally locating the specific message units responsible for the deformity. The replicon men will take it from there.”
III
On their way out of the building they relinquished their sterile suits to the attendant, who bundled them into a sterilizer. Hali put on her dress and Nick his cape, and together they stepped outside into the sunlight and fresh air.
Next, Nick said, they would be visiting a replicon shop. One of the very best replicon men had been assigned to the Alta-Ty problem, a genetic engineer named Hiram Scolpes—the same Scolpes who was responsible for the Scolpes Cipher, which had made the awesomely complex prospects of totally synthesized polynucleotide chains an only frighteningly complex actuality; the same Scolpes who had midwifed two of the greatest Lifestylers of all time, Sir Etherium and Lex Largesse.
“You hold him in high regard,’’ Hali remarked as they crossed a green on their way to Post 51, where Scolpes was located. “It is the first time I have detected enthusiasm in your voice.”
“Is it?” Nick laughed. Then he nodded. “When I was a kid I used to go over to his laboratory and bother him with all kinds of stupid questions. None of the other grownups would waste time talking to me, but he was always kind and patient. I guess he was the only adult I ever really admired. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I wanted to be the greatest genetic engineer ever and midwife Lifestylers and win the Nobel Prize.” Nick laughed again. “I even got as far as medical school. I lasted four whole months.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The work was too hard. I couldn’t cut it—so I quit.”
“And you took a nice easy job in public relations so your mind could take a nap?”
“This isn’t such an easy job,” Nick said. “You have to deal with Alta-Tyberian women who scream at you if you’re five minutes late—”
“One half hour. Mr. Harmon. You were one half hour late, and I did not scream at you, I merely raised my voice.”
“Pardon me,” Nick said, and the way he said it made Hali giggle. She reached out and squeezed his hand—four long thin fingers, flesh slippery as silk, a wholly new sensation. Nick felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Because Dr. Scolpes was presently involved with viral design and not actual synthesis, the work was mostly mathematical and suitable for his office. Naturally this was far more comfortable than his lab, where sterile suits and constant ultraviolet showers were required by law.
A Cyber 9000 computer, a microfiche scanner, a blackboard, a desk, a chair, a cot; these were the bedrock office furnishings. Covering them like a layer of compost were thousands of notepapers, loose microfiches and envelopes on subjects as diverse as The Political History of the Late 20th Century and Teaching Your Dog to Communicate in a Symbolic Language, old-fashioned books with crumbling yellow pages and peeling spines, molecular models dusty with age, mugs crusted with stimu-caff, technical magasettes and—this was one of Scolpes’ passions—ancient cassettes of classical music played by artists with names like Oistrakh and Horowitz and Casals. (Scolpes had been known to say that his life’s work would be completed if he ever found a gene for “musicianship”—then he would retire and spend the rest of his life learning to play the cello. Fortunately for mankind he was almost tone-deaf and the existence of said gene remained highly speculative.)