his body was saying something else.
What exactly it was trying to tell him he hadn’t worked out yet. His legs, for one thing, had been twitching for two nights, like a frog in a biology lab or a dog dreaming of a rabbit. Lack of potassium or zinc was the usual diagnosis, but never in a body this young. And the muscle relaxant Wolfe had prescribed had done nothing but make him drowsy and indifferent to the fact that his team had now fallen two days behind schedule. And when the Valium wore off, he was still indifferent. In fact, he’d been playing hooky for the past forty-eight hours. What in hell was that about?
He couldn’t sort it out. A good part of the time he had spent browsing various databases, searching for information on cellular memory. Most of it was pseudoscience, strange speculation about the storage of memories in RNA phase angles, tricked out with late-1980s experiments on bacteria which, in some mysterious fashion and without actually mutating, remembered how to metabolize what their ancestral cells had been fed. Some of the material was outright Lamarekian nonsense, some of it assumed more molecular biology than he had ever mastered, none of it dealt with higher animals. With the exception of one particularly gruesome experiment in which decorticate cats had supposedly learned how to navigate a maze after having digested their mommy’s and daddy’s RNA. Ridiculous stuff, grisly; unbelievable. But still he found himself thinking who was he to talk about gruesome experiments? Or things unbelievable? As though to punish himself, he read through the cat protocol three times. No, the methodology was all wrong. The experiments proved nothing. All this browsing was getting him nowhere. Besides, he had a better laboratory close at hand. His own body.
He started with the obvious differences. Not only were the muscles more highly developed, but the reflexes were quicker, too. He had noticed this one morning when he had accidentally dropped one of his anticholesterol tablets. At the same split second he realized the pill was rolling off the counter, his hand was there to catch it. Lightning fast. Instantaneous. Much faster than his old body had ever been at any time. The man must have been some athlete, thought Peter. He might even have done some boxing. That first morning when Beatrice failed to return, Peter had been standing in front of the mirror in a coiled, choleric mood. Suddenly he found himself throwing left and right jabs at his reflection. Hard to imagine, though, that a man with his endowments would risk getting his brains scrambled in the boxing ring. Unless, of course, he hadn’t valued his intellect, or was so good that he didn’t have to worry about being pulverized. What the hell are you doing? he thought, feeling another spasm of guilt. You don’t really want to know all about that, do you? You’ve been through it with Beatrice, ad nauseam. But you’re a scientist, he thought. You’re only doing what you were born to do: trying to get to the bottom of things. For example, trying to account for the fact that he could juggle. He had discovered this hidden talent that very morning. Nothing fancy, just three oranges, but it was something he had never done before, although he had tried to get the hang of it when he was younger. He had seen the oranges in the kitchen and casually picked them up. and while his mind was distracted trying to work out the formula for a new pulse beam, suddenly the oranges were in the air. And as soon as he noticed what he was doing, the oranges went flying. It was too interesting to let go; he couldn’t wait to tell Beatrice. And for Wolfe, of course, the molecular biology would be right up his alley. Late that afternoon he gathered up his printouts and walked through the long hot breezeway to Freddy’s office. Wolfe was with Alex, he could hear them behind the closed door. The older man was speaking sharply to his grandson; no doubt Alex’s absences from the lab had come to his attention. After a moment, Alex emerged, gave Peter a quick hello, and sauntered off down the corridor. Wolfe was at his desk, a hand over his spotted, furrowed brow. “I was going to come see you, Wolfe said. “Glad you saved me the trouble. I hear we’re falling behind. Is that true?” “Nothing we can’t make up,” Peter said casually. He eased over to the terrace doors. Wolfe’s office had a verandah twice the size of anyone else’s on the base, with the possible exception of Henderson’s “You hear those?” he said, staring out into the gathering darkness. “Hear what?” said Wolfe.
“The coquis. The tree frogs.”
Wolfe cocked an ear, then shook his head. “Obviously, my hearing isn’t as good as yours. “Some species, you can estimate the temperature. Count the chirps in fifteen seconds, add forty.” “Fascinating,” said Wolfe dryly. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” “I’d forgotten what a nature buff I was.” “Beatrice was the bird-watcher, I believe.” “Yes,” said Peter with sudden emphasis, “but I was, too. And now-” He left the sentence unfinished. “Now what?”
“Now,” said Peter, gazing out the window again, “I use nature to test instruments of mass destruction by incinerating innocent animals.” Mistaking Peter’s dreamy tone for misguided sarcasm, Wolfe let out one of his bark like laughs. “Not to put too fine a point on it.” In the next moment he saw that Peter was deadly serious and the smile left his face. “Is that why you’ve come, to be talked out of your doubts? Hasn’t that always been Beatrice’s job?” Something disingenuous in Wolfe’s tone made Peter take notice. “You know we’ve been fighting?” “No, I didn’t know that,” Wolfe said, much too quickly. “Couple of nights ago. Just one of our rows. We’re both black belts in marital argument, so it’s nothing to worry about.” Now he was dissembling. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve come to talk about this body.” And he slapped the side of his thigh. Wolfe frowned. “Is that how you think of it, as this body’?” Peter nodded. “At first I was terrified of it. Now I’m just deeply curious. For instance, I know it had knee surgery-I discovered four quarter-inch scars two days ago. I’m not bulked up enough for football, and the circumferences of the forearms are identical, so he probably wasn’t a tennis player. I thought perhaps a skier-perhaps a pro skier? The knee feels flawless, which probably means a world-class surgeon. Was the guy well-heeled?” Wolfe stared at Peter as if he’d cursed in church. “Why are you asking me these questions?” Outside the window, the coquis sang. “Because I can juggle.” “I’m sorry?”
“I shadow-box. I have dreams about people I must have known. There’s something really strange at work here-I’ve been doing some research into cellular memory- “Oh, Peter, spare me- “I know, it’s mostly crackpot stuff but listen, okay, and don’t laugh. I read about this case-a woman who had a heart transplant. As soon as she got out of the hospital she stopped in for a beer and pizza. Now the peculiar thing was, she hated pizza and had never taken a drink in her life. And this kept happening to her and now she had to find out who her donor had been. She lived in a small city, so it wasn’t hard- there had only been one death within twenty-four hours of her transplant that would have left an intact heart. A twenty-five-year-old guy killed in a motorcycle accident.” Wolfe nodded wanly. “He was on his way to get pizza and beer. It was his favorite meal and he did it once a week, like clockwork.” “You’ve heard the story before.”
“It’s complete and utter bullshit,” said Wolfe, lighting up a Gauloise. How do you know? Did you ask the woman? Freddy, I swear, these dreams I’ve been having-and the juggling, how do you account for that? There’s something here, but the biology is beyond my competence. We could work on it together,” he offered, adding, as he saw Wolfe’s black eyes begin to flash, “in my off hours.” “What off hours?” asked Wolfe. “You’re two days behind as it is. I’m sorry, Peter, it doesn’t even interest my little finger.” “But it interests me Did he like to box? Was he married? What did he do for a living?” “And was he an animal rights activist? And does that account for your crisis of conscience?” “Well, no, I wasn’t thinking that exactly-” Reddening, Wolfe shot out of his chair. “Peter, have you completely lost your mind? I’m just glad Henderson isn’t here to hear this. My God, you know the rules.” “I don’t know the rules. I know precious little at all about this project.” “I meant the rules of secrecy. I’m sure you’re perfectly familiar with that kind of protocol. It’s not as if you’ve just fallen off the back of a turnip truck in the world of classified projects.” “I want to know the rules of this project-they were made in my absence. I’m the first subject, I have a right to know things.” Then he took a breath, and said lower, “I have the right to know who my donor is, as well.” Wolfe looked truly distraught. “What do you think, this is an adoption story on Oprah or something? That is absolutely classified information.” “I could ask Alex.”