a research institute affiliated with Stanford University. He even formed a paper company to structure the work, the Gerex Corporation. But then there came a second strike against him. He was doing research using embryonic stem cells obtained from the discarded embryos at fertility clinics. After two years of harassment by right-wing political groups, Stanford decided his research was too controversial and terminated his funding.
Three months later, Karl Van de Vliet merged his company with Bartlett Medical Devices and moved his research staff east to New Jersey, to the Dorian Institute. That was five years past, and now his research using stem cells was in third-stage NIH clinical trials.
The official history ended there, though with a strong hint that the final chapter was yet to be written. Then at the back there was a bibliography of publications that extended for eight pages, and included a summary of the most important papers. His work on stem cells and the telomerase enzyme appeared to be at the forefront of the field.
Oddly, however, some of his writings also were philosophical, an argument with himself whether his work could be misused to alter the natural limitations life imposes. One of those papers, from a conference presentation in Copenhagen, had a summary, and in it he pondered whether the use of stem cells to rejuvenate the body might someday give medical science godlike powers.
The Greeks, he declared, had a myth about the punishment reserved for those who sought to defeat our natural life span. When the goddess of the dawn, Aurora, fell in love with the beautiful youth Tithonus and granted him immortality, it turned out to be a curse, since he still reached the decrepitude of age but had to suffer on forever because he could not have the release of death.
But, Van de Vliet pondered, if we could find a way to arrest the aging process in our body's tissue, might we escape the process of aging? If so, was this a good thing? Or might this be a step too far that would bring on unintended, and as yet unknown, consequences?
All in all, Karl Van de Vliet was clearly a genius. He also was a very complex man. But might he be a very gifted huckster as well?
The inside back cover had a group photo, showing him surrounded by members of his research staff, all in white lab coats. There were two men and two women and each was identified, along with a list of his or her academic credentials. They were standing on the porch of what appeared to be a nineteenth-century mansion, which had large Doric columns in Greek Revival style. The lettering in the marble above their heads readthe dorian institute.
She put down the folder and went into the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine, finishing off the bottle. Her mind was chinning, but not because of the words on the page. It was that photograph at the back. It was dated less than two years ago.
His Ph.D. at the University of Chicago was granted in 1962. But even if he was a genius and got his first doctorate in his early twenties, he’d still have to be-what? At least sixty years old by now. Probably halfway to seventy.
She went back into the living room and picked up the brochure and stared at it. He had sandy hair that lay like a mane above his elongated brow. He was tall and gaunt, with high cheeks and deep, penetrating eyes. But no matter how you gauged him, the guy hadn't aged a day since his forty-fifth birthday, tops.
She checked the digital clock on the side table-the hour was pushing ten-and decided to give Grant a call.
Three chirps, and then, 'Yo. Hampton here.'
My God, she thought, he even does it at home. That synthetic bravado was left over from his trader days:
'Grant, it's me. I think it's time for that vital chat.'
It took him a split second to recover, and then, 'Hey, I was beginning to wonder what happened to you. If you were going to stand me up or what. Not call, like you said you would.'
'Long day. I was up at Mom's this morning. You knew she was going to tell me, right? About your little surprise visit and proposal?'
'I had a hunch the topic might arise.' His voice seemed to shrug nonchalantly. 'I thought you should hear it from her instead of from me. So what do you think?'
'What do I think? I think I'm wondering what you're up to.'
'I'm not 'up to' anything, Ally, except exactly what I told her. Trouble is, I don't know whether she got it. I wanted to see how she was doing. You know, I'm thinking maybe Dr. Vee can do something for her. But I had to see her first. She seemed pretty distant, but that woman there-what was her name? Marie, Maria, whatever? — said she has lucid moments. So who knows? He might possibly help her. I think I can arrange to get her into his clinic. Bartlett gives me a few perks. It's the least I can do for her, so…' His voice trailed off expectantly.
'Grant, I need to talk to you about this man. I read the stuff you gave me and I still don't know the first thing about him.' She paused, about to speak words she never thought she would. 'If you want to come over, I'll stand you a drink.'
'You serious?'
'For my sins.'
'I'll grab a cab. See you in fifteen.'
'I didn't know if I should have brought a bodyguard,' he was saying as he strode in the door, a Master of the Universe with a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He looked stylish, but then he always did. He casually tossed the jacket onto the gray couch, then gazed around. Thankfully, he didn't try the New York cheek kiss. 'I guess this is not supposed to seem like old times, but somehow it does. Seeing you again. Hey, we're still blood kin, right?'
'Don't push it, Grant.' She'd killed the Chopin and put on a Bach sonata. Clear, precise thinking was required not sentimentality. Knickers had rushed to give Grant a hello nuzzle, happier to see him than Ally was. 'Whatever this is, it is definitely not old times.'
He sauntered into her kitchen, looking around-trying to act cool, but clearly ill at ease. 'You've done a nice job on this place, sis.' He was looking over the rustic counter she'd installed. 'You get a deal on the space? A bank repo or something?'
'The people who had it wanted to sell fast and I made them an offer.' Not that it was any of his damned business. Why didn't she treat the question with the scorn it deserved?
She had an old fifth of Dewar's in the cabinet. She poured him some, over ice, then gave herself a shot of tequila
He picked up his scotch, then walked into the living room and helped himself to the couch. 'Ally, I know why you're ticked. And I don't blame you. I feel crummy about Dad, I really do. I guess I share some of the blame.'
He was trying to sound contrite but the reading did not quite rise to the minimal threshold of credibility.
'You 'share'… with whom, you self-centered prick? Nobody else was involved. He mortgaged CitiSpace to the hilt and settled those fraud suits to keep you from losing your license. Or worse. You destroyed his business and his life all by yourself.'
He looked as contrite as she'd ever seen him.
'Look, I thought the business plan I had would work out. I really did. I was managing discretionary accounts, but the bond market hit a downdraft when I was long. A few of my clients didn't have the balls to ride it out. What
