the Third Twin

3

BERRINGTON JONES LOOKED AT HIS TWO OLDEST FRIENDS. “I can’t believe the three of us,” he said. “We’re all close to sixty years old. None of us has ever made more than a couple of hundred thousand dollars a year. Now we’re being offered sixty million each—and we’re sitting here talking about turning the offer down!”

Preston Barck said: “We were never in it for the money.”

Senator Proust said: “I still don’t understand it. If I own one-third of a company that’s worth a hundred and eighty million dollars, how come I’m driving around in a three-year-old Crown Victoria?”

The three men had a small private biotechnology company, Genetico Inc. Preston ran the day-to-day business; Jim was in politics, and Berrington was an academic. But the takeover was Berrington’s baby. On a plane to San Francisco he had met the CEO of Landsmann, a German pharmaceuticals conglomerate, and had got the man interested in making a bid. Now he had to persuade his partners to accept the offer. It was proving harder than he had expected.

They were in the den of a house in Roland Park, an affluent suburb of Baltimore. The house was owned by Jones Falls University and loaned to visiting professors. Berrington, who had professorships at Berkeley in California and at Harvard as well as Jones Falls, used the house for the six weeks of the year he was in Baltimore. There was little of his in the room: a laptop computer, a photograph of his ex-wife and their son, and a pile of new copies of his latest book, To Inherit the Future: How Genetic Engineering Will Transform America. A TV set with the sound turned down was showing the Emmy ceremonies.

Preston was a thin, earnest man. Although he was one of the most outstanding scientists of his generation, he looked like an accountant. “The clinics have always made money,” Preston said. Genetico owned three fertility clinics that specialized in in vitro conception—test-tube babies—a procedure made possible by Preston’s pioneering research in the seventies. “Fertility is the biggest growth area in American medicine. Genetico will be Landsmann’s way into this big new market. They want us to open five new clinics a year for the next ten years.”

Jim Proust was a bald, suntanned man with a big nose and heavy glasses. His powerful, ugly face was a gift to the political cartoonists. He and Berrington had been friends and colleagues for twenty-five years. “How come we never saw any money?” Jim asked.

“We always spent it on research.” Genetico had its own labs and also gave research contracts to the biology and psychology departments of universities. Berrington handled the company’s links with the academic world.

Berrington said in an exasperated tone: “I don’t know why you two can’t see that this is our big chance.”

Jim pointed at the TV. “Turn up the sound, Berry—you’re on.”

The Emmys had given way to Larry King Live, and Berrington was the guest He hated Larry King—the man was a red-dyed liberal, in his opinion—but the show was an opportunity to talk to millions of Americans.

He studied his image, and he liked what he saw. He was in reality a short man, but television made everyone the same height. His navy suit looked good, the sky blue shirt matched his eyes, and the tie was a burgundy red that did not flare on the screen. Being supercritical, he thought his silver hair was too neat, almost bouffant: he was in danger of looking like a television evangelist.

King, wearing his trademark suspenders, was in an aggressive mood, his gravelly voice challenging. “Professor, you’ve stirred up controversy again with your latest book, but some people feel this isn’t science, it’s politics. What do you say to that?”

Berrington was gratified to hear his own voice sounding mellow and reasonable in reply. “I’m trying to say that political decisions should be based on sound science, Larry. Nature, left to itself, favors good genes and kills off bad ones. Our welfare policy works against natural selection. That’s how we’re breeding a generation of second-rate Americans.”

Jim took a sip of scotch and said: “Good phrase—a generation of second-rate Americans. Quotable.”

On TV, Larry King said: “If you have your way, what happens to the children of the poor? They starve, right?”

Berrington’s face on the screen took on a solemn look. “My father died in 1942, when the aircraft carrier Wasp was sunk by a Japanese submarine at Guadalcanal. I was six years old. My mother struggled to raise me and send me to school. Larry, I am a child of the poor.”

It was close enough to the truth. His father, a brilliant engineer, had left his mother a small income, enough so that she was not forced to work or remarry. She had sent Berrington to expensive private schools and then to Harvard—but it had been a struggle.

Preston said: “You look good, Berry—except maybe for the country-western hairstyle.” Barck, the youngest of the trio at fifty-five, had short black hair that lay flat on his skull like a cap.

Berrington gave an irritated grunt. He had had the same thought himself, but it annoyed him to hear it from someone else. He poured himself a little scotch. They were drinking Springbank, a single malt.

On the screen, Larry King said: “Philosophically speaking, how do your views differ from those of, say, the Nazis?”

Berrington touched the remote control and turned the set off. “I’ve been doing this stuff for ten years,” he said. “Three books and a million crappy talk shows later, what difference has it made? None.”

Preston said: “It has made a difference. You’ve made genetics and race an issue. You’re just impatient.”

“Impatient?” Berrington said irritably. “You bet I’m impatient! I’ll be sixty in two weeks. We’re all getting old. We don’t have much time left!”

Jim said: “He’s right, Preston. Don’t you remember how it was when we were young men? We looked around and saw America going to hell: civil rights for Negroes, Mexicans flooding in, the best schools being swamped by the children of Jewish Communists, our kids smoking pot and dodging the draft. And boy, were we right! Look what’s happened since then! In our worst nightmares we never imagined that illegal drugs would become one of America’s biggest industries and that a third of all babies would be born to mothers on Medicaid. And we’re the only people with the guts to face up to the problems—us and a few like-minded individuals. The rest close their eyes and hope for the best.”

They did not change, Berrington thought. Preston was ever cautious and fearful, Jim bombastically sure of himself. He had known them so long that he looked fondly on their faults, most of the time, anyway. And he was accustomed to his role as the moderator who steered them on a middle course.

Now he said: “Where are we with the Germans, Preston? Bring us up-to-date.”

“We’re very close to a conclusion,” Preston said. “They want to announce the takeover at a press conference one week from tomorrow.”

“A week from tomorrow?” Berrington said with excitement in his voice. “That’s great!”

Preston shook his head. “I have to tell you, I still have doubts.”

Berrington made an exasperated noise.

Preston went on: “We’ve been going through a process called disclosure. We have to open our books to Landsmann’s accountants, and tell them about anything that might affect future profits, such as debtors who are going bust, or pending lawsuits.”

“We don’t have any of those, I take it?” Jim said.

Preston gave him an ominous look. “We all know this company has secrets.”

There was a moment of silence in the room. Then Jim said: “Hell, that’s a long way in the past.”

“So what? The evidence of what we did is out there walking around.”

“But there’s no way Landsmann can find out about it—especially in a week.”

Preston shrugged as if to say “Who knows?”

“We have to take that risk,” Berrington said firmly. “The injection of capital we’ll get from Landsmann will enable us to accelerate our research program. In a couple of years’ time we will be able to offer affluent white Americans who come to our clinics a genetically engineered perfect baby.”

“But how much difference will it make?” Preston said. “The poor will continue to breed faster than the rich.”

“You’re forgetting Jim’s political platform,” Berrington said.

Jim said: “A flat income tax rate of ten percent, and compulsory contraceptive injections for women on welfare.”

“Think of it, Preston,” Berrington said. “Perfect babies for the middle classes, and sterilization for the poor. We could start to put America’s racial balance right again. It’s what we always aimed for, ever since the early days.”

“We were very idealistic then,” Preston said.

“We were right!” Berrington said.

“Yes, we were right. But as I get older, more and more I start to think the world will probably muddle along somehow even if I don’t achieve everything I planned when I was twenty-five.”

This kind of talk could sabotage great endeavors. “But we can achieve what we planned,” Berrington said. “Everything we’ve been working toward for the last thirty years is within our grasp now. The risks we took in the early days, all these years of research, the money we’ve spent—it’s all coming to fruition at last. Don’t get an attack of nerves at this point, Preston!”

“I don’t have bad nerves, I’m pointing out real, practical problems,” Preston said peevishly. “Jim can propose his political platform, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

‘That’s where Landsmann comes in,” Jim said. “The cash we’ll get for our shares in the company will give us a shot at the biggest prize of all.”

“What do you mean?” Preston looked puzzled, but Berrington knew what was coming, and he smiled.

“The White House,” Jim said. “I’m going to run for president.”