Perfect People

17

It was cocktail hour, which meant the lights in the hotel bar were dimmed and an endless loop of Chopin played from the speakers, giving the impression that in some alcove behind one of the banks of potted palms lurked a pianist. The air conditioning was too cold, but the tables and chairs were well spaced out, making it a good place to talk – although John’s real reason for bringing the reporter here was because it was one of the few places in walking distance from the campus that served alcohol.

He followed Sally Kimberly in through the revolving door. She was a polite, quiet-spoken young woman in her early thirties, and dressed in a conservative suit. Her body was a little plump, but her face was attractive, and she had a pleasant, caring manner about her, unlike some reporters he had encountered.

He glanced at her hands, looking for an engagement or wedding ring. There were a couple of plain bands, but not on the marriage finger. It was a strange instinct men had, he thought, some reproductive dynamic that was hardwired into the species. He could never help it himself – one of the first things he looked for was always the wedding-ring finger.

She picked a corner table at the far end of the room from the bar, and not directly beneath a speaker, so her recorder wouldn’t be muffled by the music, she explained. She ordered a Chardonnay, and he ordered a large beer for himself. He needed some alcohol to steady his nerves, already shot to hell and back by the day’s news and made worse by the prospect of this interview.

USA Today was a huge newspaper. A good article would enhance his chances of tenure, and it could catch the eye of a possible sponsor for their department. But he knew from past unhappy experiences that as a scientist you always had to be wary of the press and media.

Sally Kimberly set her small tape recorder on the table, but didn’t switch it on. Instead she asked, ‘Is your wife called Naomi?’

‘Naomi? Yes.’

‘Of course! I’ve made the connection now! She works in television PR? Naomi Klaesson?’

‘Film and television, yes.’

‘You’re not going to believe this! We worked together about six years ago on the PR for a biology series for the Discovery Channel!’

‘How about that!’ John said, wracking his brains, trying to recall if Naomi had ever mentioned her. It was quite possible; he had a lousy memory for names.

‘She’s great, I really liked her. She was pregnant-’ Her voice braked. ‘I – I’m sorry. That was not very tactful. I heard about your son. I’m really sorry for you both. I’m sorry I brought it up.’

‘It’s OK.’

After a brief silence she said, ‘So, how is Naomi?’

‘Oh – she’s doing great now, thanks. She’s got through it.’ He wanted to add, And she’s expecting again! But he held back.

‘Still in PR?’

‘Uh-huh. Right now she’s at a documentary company called Bright Spark.’

‘Sure, I know them. Wow! I must give Naomi a call, have lunch with her! She has the most wicked sense of humour!’

John smiled.

Their drinks arrived. For some time they chatted easily, graduating from the good and the bad about life in LA, to the merits of different eBook readers. Sally Kimberly sipped her white wine, John drained his beer in minutes, and ordered a second, warming to just being here with her, enjoying talking to her, feeling – if for just a short while – he was escaping from his pressures. There was something so sincere and vulnerable about her that made John wonder how on earth she survived in the rough and tumble world of newsprint.

She was single and found it hard to meet men in this city who weren’t either totally vain or totally screwed-up, she told him. And her body language hinted, very subtly, but very definitely, that she found him attractive.

He found her increasingly attractive himself, and immediately saw warning flags. In eight years with Naomi he had never strayed; although he had found himself flirting with other women at the occasional party, he had never been tempted. He needed to play this young lady very carefully; flirt, yes, but in no way lead her on.

Suddenly his glass was empty again. ‘Get you another white wine?’ he offered, turning his head for the waitress.

The reporter looked at her almost-full glass. ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’

The beer was giving him a pleasant buzz, making the problems with Naomi’s pregnancy seem easier to understand, easier to cope with. Mistakes happened all the time in medicine. Rosengarten was in a rush, he hadn’t been concentrating, and he was being arrogant saying he could determine the sex at such an early age. He wished he’d quizzed the obstetrician harder about why he was so sure, but he’d been so shocked, as had Naomi, that he had barely said anything.

‘OK – I’ll just have another-’ He tapped the side of his head with a grin. ‘Need some rocket fuel to get my brain going for you.’ He detected what might have been a slight frown of disapproval. Or had he just imagined that?

‘You have an accent,’ she said. ‘Kind of slight.’

‘Swedish.’

‘Of course.’

‘Ever been there?’

‘Actually, there’s a possibility I may get sent to Stockholm to do a piece on the Nobel Prize awards-’

‘You’re getting one for journalism?’

She laughed. ‘I wish.’

‘It’s the most beautiful city, all built around water. I’ll give you some names of restaurants you should visit – do you like fish?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘They have great fish. Best seafood in the world.’

‘Better than here in LA?’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘There’s great fish here,’ she said, a little defensively.

‘You call me and tell me that again after you’ve eaten fish in Stockholm.’

She gave him an unambiguous take me there look.

Smiling at her, then hastily turning away, he finally caught the waitress’s eye and ordered another large draught beer.

Sally Kimberly reached forward and switched the recorder on. ‘I guess we should start. OK?’

‘Sure, fire away,’ he assented. ‘I’ll do my best not to incriminate myself!’ He was aware the beers had gone to his head; he’d drunk them too fast. Need to slow down, just take a few sips from the next one, and no more.

She switched the machine off, wound the tape back and played a few moments. ‘Just checking it’s recording,’ she said. John heard himself say,… my best not to incriminate myself!

She set the machine down again. ‘OK, my first question, Dr Klaesson, is what were the influences that made you decide to become a research scientist?’

‘I thought you wanted to talk about my department and the work we’re doing, rather than individuals?’

‘I’d just like a little background.’

‘Sure.’

Giving him an encouraging smile, she said, ‘Are either of your parents scientists?’

‘No, we don’t have any other scientists in our family. My father was a salesman.’

‘Did he have any interest in science?’

John shook his head. ‘Not remotely. Fishing and gambling were his things – he was a walking encyclopedia of rods, lines, weights, lures, floats, bait, poker odds and race-horse form. He could tell you where the fish hung out at what time of day in every stretch of water within thirty miles of our home, and what horse was running in any race just about anywhere in the world.’ He smiled. ‘I guess he was into the science of fishing and betting.’

‘Do you think there’s some analogy between fishing and the methodology of scientific research?’ she asked.

John was torn between trying to keep the reporter happy and trying to steer her on to what he really wanted to talk about. ‘I think my mother was a much bigger influence,’ he said. ‘She used to be a mathematics teacher – and she’s always taken a great interest in everything. And she’s a hugely practical woman. She could take an electric motor to pieces to show me how it worked one day, and another day sit me down and discuss the religious writings of Emanuel Swedenborg. I think she gave me my curiosity.’

‘Sounds like you have more of her genes than your father’s.’

The remark brought his thoughts abruptly back to Dettore. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, distractedly.

How the hell could Dettore have got it wrong? How? How?

‘OK, Dr Klaesson, I wonder now if you could describe in – like – a couple of sentences, the broad beats of your research team’s work?’

‘Sure, absolutely.’ He thought for some moments. ‘How much do you know about the construction of the human brain?’

Her expression hardened, just a fraction, just enough for him to receive the message loud and clear. Don’t patronize me.

‘I did my PhD on “The Nature Of Consciousness”,’ she said.

That whacked him. ‘You did? Where?’

‘At Tulane.’

‘I’m impressed.’ He was surprised, too. He had not been expecting her to have anything beyond a working knowledge of science.

‘I just didn’t want you thinking you were talking to a no-brainer.’

‘Not for one moment did I-’

She leaned back with a big smile, her face all warmth again. ‘You did! I could see it!’

He raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, give me a break! I’ve had a hard day – I don’t need you beating up on me at the end of it!’

His beer arrived. He took it from the waitress’s hand before she’d had a chance to set it down and drank a deep gulp. ‘Right. Your question. We’re examining human organs, and in particular the human brain, trying to understand better their pathways of evolution to our present state, and how much further evolution will change them in the future.’

’And you are hoping one of the results will be to lead you to understand what human consciousness is?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Is Neural Darwinism a way to describe your simulation programs?’

‘That’s Edelman’s phrase.’ He drank some more beer. ‘No, there’s quite a difference.’ A smear on the right lens of his glasses was irritating him. He took them off and wiped them with his handkerchief. ‘You must have covered this field at Tulane. Neural Darwinism relates to when you build a robot that doesn’t actually have a program – it has to learn from its experiences, the way human beings do. That’s taking steps towards building thinking machines by copying some of the ways human brains work. We’re not doing that – our field is different.’

He held his glasses up to the light and still wasn’t satisfied. Wiping them some more, he said, ‘Our methodology is to simulate millions of years of evolution in our computers, making virtual replicas of primitive brains and seeing if, by replicating natural selection, we can arrive at far more complex models that are closer to our own brains. At the same time we make virtual models of current human brains and let them keep evolving way into the future.’

‘I’m puzzled by something there, Dr Klaesson.’

‘Call me John.’

‘John, OK, thanks. You say you make virtual replicas of primitive brains?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘How primitive, John? How far are you going back? Palaeolithic? Jurassic? Cambrian?’

‘Before then, even. Right back to Archaean.’

The third beer was kicking in now. He noticed to his surprise he had drunk nearly two thirds of it. He knew he had to slow down, but it was really making him feel good.

‘And when you do finally understand how the human brain was formed, then you’ll understand consciousness?’

‘Not necessarily – you’re making a big leap there.’

‘Oh, right.’ She was grinning and her voice was cynical. ‘You’re going to switch off your computer one day and say, Hey, I just finally figured out how the human brain was formed. Now I’m going to go home and feed the cat. Is that it?’

John smiled back.

‘From the way you work, for you to have figured out how the brain was formed, you’d have a virtual model of it in your computer. Then the next step is going to be improving it, right? What will you do – add on more memory? Some kind of interface with humans?’

‘Whoa! You’re going too fast.’

‘I’m not, Dr Kl- John, I’m just quoting from a paper you published three years ago.’

He nodded, remembering now. ‘Ah yes, OK.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve done your homework – but that wasn’t the theme of the paper – I was hypothesizing.’ He was getting concerned suddenly that this interview was heading the wrong way. He needed to get a grip and steer it. ‘Listen, this speculation about the future – I’m happy to talk about it, but could we keep that whole area off the record?’

‘Hi, how you folks doing? Get you some more drinks?’ The waitress had suddenly materialized and was standing beside him.

John saw that the reporter’s glass was almost empty. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sally – another one?’

She hesitated a moment. ‘How’s your time? I’m not keeping you too long?’

He glanced at his watch. Half seven. Naomi wouldn’t be home until after nine, she’d told him. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘OK, I’ll have another Chardonnay.’

John considered his empty glass for a moment. As a student in Sweden he could easily manage upwards of half a dozen of these – and stronger beer too. ‘Same again – I’ll live dangerously!’

Sally reached forward and pressed the stop button on the tape machine. ‘Off the record for a few minutes – tell me what you feel about the future – I’m really fascinated.’

He would never know why he said it – whether it was the alcohol that had lowered his guard, or whether it was the thought that if he opened up to her a little, he might get a better piece from her – or whether it was just the natural action of a man to show off to a woman who seemed genuinely interested. Or whether it was simply the release of stuff bottled up in him for too long. In any event, he felt comfortable; she was a friend of Naomi’s. He could trust her.

‘Designer babies are the future,’ he said.

‘Like – cloning?’

‘No, not cloning. I mean selecting the genes that your child will have.’

‘To what end?’

‘To enable man to take control from Mother Nature – to be in a position so we can steer our future evolution to our needs. So that we can be looking at a human lifespan of hundreds of years, if not thousands, rather than a meagre three score years and ten.’

‘I’m very uncomfortable with that whole notion of designer babies,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it’s going to happen but I find it scary. How many years do you reckon before it starts happening – I mean, like, before it’s possible. Ten?’

‘It’s possible now.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ she said. ‘Not from what I’ve heard. Not from anyone I’ve talked to.’

The alcohol was kicking in now and he felt good in the company of this increasingly attractive woman, and he really felt relaxed, perhaps too relaxed. All this secrecy had been hard; surely it wouldn’t hurt talking to Naomi’s friend? He glanced at the tape recorder. The tell-tale red light was not showing. ‘We’re off the record? Strictly off the record, right?’

‘Totally.’

With a smile he said, ‘You’re not talking to the right people.’

‘So who should I be talking to?’

He tapped his chest. ‘Me.’