sequencer and the five-hundred-thousand-dollar globular NMR machine that
sprouted a tangle of wires like a giant sea anemone. He glanced at the
PCR’s, whose red lights blinked like distant quasars announcing
successive DNA-strand doublings. It was an environment that had
previously filled Kevin with hope and promise. But now each Eppendorf
microcentrifuge tube and each tissue-culture flask stood as mute
reminders of the building foreboding he was experiencing.
Advancing to his desk, Kevin looked down at his gene map of the short
arm of chromosome 6. His area of principal interest was outlined in red.
It was the major histocompatibility complex. The problem was that the
MHC was only a small portion of the short arm of chromosome 6. There
were large blank areas that represented millions and millions of base
pairs, and hence hundreds of other genes. Kevin did not know what they
did.
A recent request for information concerning these genes that he’d put
out over the Internet had resulted in some vague replies. Several
researchers had responded that the short arm of chromosome 6 contained
genes that were involved with muscular-skeletal development. But that
was it. There were no details.
Kevin shuddered involuntarily. He raised his eyes to the large picture
window above his desk. As usual it was streaked with moisture from the
tropical rain that swept across the view in undulating sheets. The
droplets slowly descended until enough had fused to reach a critical
mass. Then they raced off the surface like sparks from a grinding wheel.
Kevin’s eyes focused into the distance. The contrast between the
gleaming, air-conditioned interior with the outside world was always a
shock. Roiling, gun-metal gray clouds filled the sky despite the fact
that the dry season was supposed to have begun three weeks previously.
The land was dominated by riotous vegetation that was so dark green as
to almost appear black. Along the edge of the town it rose up like a
gigantic, threatening tidal wave.
Kevin’s office was in the hospital-laboratory complex that was one of
the few new structures in the previously decaying and deserted Spanish
colonial town of Cogo in the little-known African country of Equatorial
Guinea. The building was three stories tall. Kevin’s office was on the
top floor, facing southeast. From his window he could see a good portion
of the town as it sprawled haphazardly toward the Estuario del Muni and
its contributory rivers.
Some of the neighboring buildings had been renovated, some were in the
process, but most had not been touched. A half dozen previously handsome
haciendas were enveloped by vines and roots of vegetation that had gone
wild. Over the whole scene hung the perennial mist of super-saturated
warm air.
In the immediate foreground Kevin could see beneath the arched arcade of
the old town hall. In the shadows were the inevitable handful of
Equatoguinean soldiers in combat fatigues with AK-47’s haphazardly slung
over their shoulders. As usual they were smoking, arguing, and consuming
Cameroonean beer.
Finally Kevin let his eyes wander beyond the town. He’d been
unconsciously avoiding doing so, but now he focused on the estuary whose
rain-lashed surface looked like beaten tin. Directly south he could just
make out the forested shoreline of Gabon. Looking to the east he
followed the trail of islands that stretched toward the interior of the
continent. On the horizon he could see the largest of the islands, Isla
Francesca, named by the Portuguese in the fifteenth century. In contrast
to the other islands, Isla Francesca had a jungle-covered limestone
escarpment that ran down its center like the backbone of a dinosaur.
Kevin’s heart skipped a beat. Despite the rain and the mist, he could
see what he’d feared he’d see. Just like a week ago there was the
unmistakable wisp of smoke lazily undulating toward the leaden sky.
Kevin slumped into his desk chair and cradled his head in his hands. He
asked himself what he’d done. Having minored in the Classics as an
undergraduate, he knew about Greek myths. Now he questioned if he’d made
a Promethean mistake. Smoke meant fire, and he had to wonder if it was
the proverbial fire inadvertently stolen from the gods.
6:45 P.M.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS