“If you’ll forgive the observation, Mr. Washington, your premise won’t exactly break new ground.”
“No, sir, that’s true. Some topics never lose their impact, though, and that includes most subjects where the family and children are involved. Times change, as do the expectations and reactions of a childless couple. As for medical advances…well, six months can mean a whole new ball game, so to speak.”
“And which concerns you more? The human side or science?”
“I would hope to find the two are integrated, Doctor.”
“Ah. Of course. You spoke to Dr. Kirk and Dr. Russell, I believe?”
“That’s right.”
In fact, the names had come from Smith. Remo had no idea what kind of help he could expect if Radcliff telephoned the Indiana clinic to confirm his nonexistent visit.
“I’m surprised they mentioned me at all,” said Dr. Radcliff, sounding peevish, “much less recommended that you speak to me in person.”
Remo picked up on the tone, deciding he could use it. “Well, it wasn’t so much a suggestion, Doctor, as… how should I put it? No offense intended, sir, but Russell seemed to take it as a joke.”
“I see.” The tight smile on Radcliff’s face seemed sculpted out of ice. His daughter glared, the angry flush returning to her cheeks. “Of course, they would attempt to mock my work.”
Remo shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though he felt slightly uncomfortable. “May I be frank, sir?”
“Please do.”
“I wasn’t that impressed with Doctors Kirk and Russell, if you follow me. I mean, I read up on the subject pretty well before I started doing interviews, and much of what they’ve done struck me as being, well…”
“Derivative?” Radcliff suggested, leaning forward with his elbows on the polished desk. “Perhaps a trifle unoriginal?”
“Exactly! When they mentioned you in passing, such a denigrating tone, I wondered if there could be something in the nature of jealousy behind it. Medical research is so competitive, I thought perhaps.”
He left the sentence dangling, saw a spark of interest flare in Dr. Radcliff’s eyes. Beside him Chelsea had relaxed a bit, but not entirely. She was obviously still prepared to intervene if he impugned her father’s work or character in any way.
“You’re quite perceptive, Mr. Washington.”
“I’ve done my homework, too,” Remo responded, “even though I didn’t have much time. Thank God the morgue was open.”
“Pardon me?” One of the bristling eyebrows arched into a perfect bow.
“The reference library at Newstime,” Remo said, translating. “Sorry. Once you’re used to newsroom slang—”
“Homework, you said?”
“On you. The background stuff. I hate cold interviews—they always come out sounding lifeless, and we waste time going over things I should already know. Of course, I only had time for the basics.”
“Basics?’
“Right. Your schooling,” Remo said, “the internship and residency. All the years you spent as head of research for Eugenix Corporation.”
Radcliff blinked at that. It only took a fraction of a second, eyelids dropping, flicking up again, but Remo seemed to watch it in slow motion, like the action of a camera’s lens preserved on time-lapse film. He had a sense that Dr. Radcliff would preserve that moment, when he spoke the unexpected name, and take it out for later study when he was alone.
“Eugenix?”
“Right. In Belding, Michi—”
“Yes, yes, of course. It takes me back to hear—”
“And you recall the CEO?”
“Excuse me?”
“Jasper Frayne?”
“Old Jasper, certainly. I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“You missed your chance,” said Remo. “Someone killed him at his home in Florida, a few days ago.”
Radcliff went through the motions of appearing shocked, but Remo focused more on Chelsea, judging her reaction as the real McCoy. She frowned. Was it surprise or something else?
“There’s so much crime in Florida, these days,” said Dr. Radcliff. “When I finally retire, I plan on Arizona. I have the land already near Lake Havasu.”
“You’ll miss him, then?”
“Not really,” Radcliff answered bluntly. “We were colleagues, but I never thought of us as friends. Frayne handled cash, you understand—which does make the real work possible, but he wasn’t a scientist.”
“I understand. You spent so much time on genetic research, Doctor, that I can’t help thinking there must be some intimate connection with your present work. Has anything from the Eugenix period been useful in your treatment of infertile couples?”
“Well, we draw on what we know, that’s only natural,” said Radcliff. “Infertility per se is often the result of injury or illness, possibly a birth defect or some environmental factor—anything from choice of clothing to conditions on the job. If a specific difficulty is remediable, then we intervene with the most efficacious, non-invasive means available. If we can modify behavior to achieve results, so much the better. Drugs would be the next line of attack, with surgery reserved for special cases.”
“That includes genetic surgery?” asked Remo.
Dr. Radcliff smiled, as if the question came from a well-meaning but simpleminded pupil. “You’re discussing theory now,” he said. “Such work has been. successful on the lower animals, under controlled conditions, but we have not yet achieved the skill required to work such magic on our own.”
“You’ve thought about it, though.”
“What scientist has not? I can assure you, Mr. Washington, that childless couples are as much concerned about the quality of offspring they produce—more so, I should imagine—than about the simple act of giving birth. If we had choices, who would not prefer to sire a Beethoven, an Einstein—even a McCartney—than a simple drone who trudges through his life and never truly rises to the challenge? Wouldn’t you prefer a child to make you proud, who leaves his mark behind?”
“I never really thought about it,” Remo said. “I take it, then, that you don’t carry on genetic research at the clinic?”
“The specifics of my work are not for publication yet,” said Dr. Radcliff. “As you pointed out, the field is quite competitive, and some of my esteemed colleagues, unfortunately, have a minimal concern with ethics.”
“But it’s safe to say that any research you have done—or may be doing—is distinct and separate from the treatment of your patients here?”
“Indeed. You know as well as I do, Mr. Washington, that most testing on human subjects is confined to government facilities or major universities, where bureaucrats can practice oversight.”
The final word was spoken with thinly veiled contempt, as if it left a sour taste in Radcliff’s mouth. The doctor checked his watch and frowned.
“I wonder if there’s time for me to take a look around the clinic,” Remo said. “I’d like to get some pictures—”
“That’s impossible.”
“Perhaps the place, to give my readers some idea of what the cutting edge feels like.”
It was a short step from outrageous flattery, but Quentin Radcliff didn’t seem to mind. “A walkthrough should be harmless, I suppose,” he said magnanimously. “Sadly I don’t have the time right now, but I believe my daughter—”
“Yes, of course,” she said before the dictum was completed.
“There you are.” The doctor rose, came back around his desk, squeezed Remo’s hand in lieu of shaking it. “I’m glad we had this little talk, and I look forward to your article.”
“I’ll have a copy faxed out in advance,” said Remo, “to make sure you’re quoted accurately and I have my facts straight.”
“Fair enough. Good day.”