He was surprised at just how imposing the geneticist was in the flesh, far taller than he had imagined, a good head higher than himself, six-foot-six at least. He recognized the voice also, the disarming but assertive Southern Californian accent, from the phone conversations they had had in recent months.
‘Dr Klaesson? Mrs Klaesson? I’m Leo Dettore. Hope I’m not disturbing you folks!’
The man to whom they had handed over just about every cent they had in the world, plus one hundred and fifty thousand dollars they didn’t, gave Naomi’s hand a firm, unhurried shake, fixing her eyes with his own, which were a soft grey colour, sharp and alert and sparkling with warmth. She mustered a smile back, shooting a fleeting, horrified glance at the mess of clothes all around John, desperately wishing she’d had a chance to tidy up. ‘No, you’re not disturbing us at all. Come in,’ she said.
‘Just wanted to swing by and introduce myself, and give you a bunch of stuff to read.’ The geneticist had to duck his head as he entered the cabin. ‘Great to meet you in person at last, Dr Klaesson.’
‘And you too, Dr Dettore.’
Dettore’s grip was strong, taking charge of the handshake the way he clearly took charge of everything else. John felt a moment of awkwardness between them. Dettore seemed to be signalling something in his smile, as if there was some secret pact between the two men. Perhaps an implied agreement between two scientists who understood a whole lot more what this was about than Naomi possibly could.
Except that was not the way John ever intended it should be. He and Naomi had made this decision together from day one, eyes wide open, equal partners. There was nothing he would hide from her and nothing he would twist or distort that he presented to her. Period.
Lean and tanned, with distinguished Latin looks, Leo Dettore exuded confidence and charm. His teeth were perfect, he had great hair, dark and luxuriant, swept immaculately back and tinged with elegant silver streaks at the temples. And although sixty-two years old, he could easily have passed for someone a good decade younger.
Naomi watched him carefully, looking for any chinks in his facade, trying to read this stranger to whom they were effectively entrusting their entire future, studying his face, his body language. Her instant impression was one of disappointment. He had that aura, she had noticed in her work in public relations, that only the very rich and very successful had; some almost indefinable quality that great wealth alone seemed able to buy. He looked too slick, too mediagenic, too much like a White House candidate purring for votes, too much like a captain of industry schmoozing a shareholders’ meeting. But oddly, she found the more she looked at him, the more her confidence in him grew. Despite everything, there seemed something genuine about him, as well.
She noticed his hands. He had fine fingers. Not a politician’s, nor a businessman’s, but true surgeon’s fingers, long, hairy, with immaculate nails. She liked his voice, also, finding it sincere and calming. And there was something reassuring about his sheer physical presence. Then she reminded herself, as she had done so often these past weeks, that only a couple of months ago, beneath a photograph of Leo Dettore’s face, the front cover of Time magazine had borne the question, TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY FRANKENSTEIN?
‘You know,’ Dettore said, ‘I’m actually really intrigued by your work, Dr Klaesson – maybe we can talk about it some time over the next few days. I read that paper you published in Nature a few months back – was it the February issue?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘The virtual dog genes. Fascinating work.’
‘It was a big experiment,’ John said. ‘It took nearly four years.’
John had developed a computer simulation showing the evolution of a dog for one thousand generations into the future, using a set of selectors.
‘And your conclusion was that they have become so linked with humans that as we evolve the dogs will evolve too. In effect they will grow smarter as man’s domination of the planet increases. I liked that. I thought that was ingenious thinking.’
John was flattered that a scientist of Dettore’s eminence should have read his work, let alone praise it. ‘It was really the development of a few key algorithms devoted to how overcoming epistasis is the rate-limiting step in adaptation,’ he replied, modestly.
‘And you haven’t yet run a simulation on how man will evolve over the next thousand generations?’
‘That’s a whole new set of parameters. Apart from the challenge of creating the program, there isn’t that kind of computing power available for academic research at USC. I-’
Interrupting him, Dettore said, ‘I think we should talk about that. I’d be interested in giving a donation, if that would drive it forward?’
‘I’d be happy to talk about it,’ John said, excited by the thought that funding from Dettore could make a difference to his research work, but not wanting to get sidetracked at this moment. On this ship it was Naomi who was important, not his work.
‘Good. We’ll have plenty of time over the next few weeks.’ Then Dettore paused, looking first at John then at Naomi. ‘I’m really sorry about what happened with your son.’
She shrugged, feeling the same twist of pain she always felt when she talked about it. ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed, emotion choking her voice.
‘Tough call.’ Fixing those grey eyes on her he said, ‘Folks who’ve never experienced the death of a child can’t even begin to understand.’
Naomi nodded.
Dettore, looking sad, suddenly, glanced at John as if to include him. ‘My ex-wife and I lost two kids – one at a year old from an inherited genetic disease, and one at six from meningitis.’
‘I – I didn’t know that. I’m really sorry,’ Naomi said, turning to John. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I didn’t know either,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You had no reason to, it’s not something I go around broadcasting. We made a decision to keep that private. But-’ The geneticist opened out the palms of his hands. ‘It’s a big part of why I’m here. There are certain things in life that happen which shouldn’t happen – which don’t need to happen – and which science can now prevent from happening. That essentially is what we’re about at this clinic.’
‘It’s why we’re here, too,’ Naomi said.
Dettore smiled. ‘Anyhow, so how was your journey? You caught the red-eye from LA last night?’
‘We took a day flight and spent last night in New York – had dinner with some friends. We like eating out in New York,’ said John.
Butting in, Naomi said, ‘One of my husband’s interests is food – except he treats each course like it’s some scientific experiment. Everyone else has a great time, but there’s always something not quite right with his.’ She grinned at John affectionately.
John rocked his head defensively, smiling back. ‘Cooking is science. I don’t expect to pay for some chef’s laboratory tests.’
‘I’ll be interested how you rate the food on board here,’ Dettore said.
‘The way I’m feeling,’ Naomi said, ‘I’m not going to be able to face any food.’
‘A little seasick?’
‘A little.’
‘Forecast is bad for the next few hours, then it’s clearing – should be a great day tomorrow.’ He hesitated and there was a moment of awkwardness between the three of them. The ship lurched suddenly, and he put a hand against the cabin wall to steady himself.
‘So, here’s the plan. I just want you guys to relax tonight, have dinner in your cabin.’ He held out the envelope. ‘There’s a medical history form I need you to fill out for me, Naomi, and there’s a consent form I need you both to sign. The nurse will be along to take blood samples from you both shortly. We’ve already analysed the samples you had mailed to us and have had both your entire genomes mapped out; we’ll start looking at them in the morning. We meet in my office at ten – meantime, is there anything I can do for you?’
Naomi had made a list of a million questions she wanted to ask, but at this moment with her whole insides spinning from motion sickness she had only one thought, which was trying to not throw up.