math, computing, engineering, and molecular chemistry and biology; in short, they are tinkering with the building blocks of life. They are using test tubes and super computers to dissect our genetic code and look for ways to strengthen it. And they are probing the structures of diseases, looking for weaknesses in their defenses that might be exploited by sophisticated, directed treatments.
This is the northern tip of Silicon Valley — and the region at its most advanced, exciting, and riskiest. The weight and potential of the entire computing revolution brought to bear on our quest for immortality; the fountain of youth sought not by rugged explorers with pickaxes, but by brainiacs wielding algorithms. The companies they work for are investing billions of dollars in support of the cause, often losing that money in the gambit.
And my gut tells me something has gone wrong — specifically on the Biogen campus, Building 12, third floor. In Lulu Adrianna Pederson’s office.
We park in Biogen’s lot. The company buildings are sleek but not tall, less than ten floors. And virtually impregnable.
I know from experience that it’s tough for an outsider to get into these buildings. At the counter of each building invariably sits a twenty-something who looks harmless enough, but whose singular purpose is allowing entrance only to those with the proper badge.
But I’ve two secret weapons: a demented grandmother and a costume.
I open the hatchback, dig through the umbrellas, baseball caps, old tennis balls, and press releases, and I discover a Warren Zevon CD I thought I’d long since lost, and find what I’d hoped to: a lanyard from a biotech conference I attended. The credential says: “Nathaniel Idle, freelance writer.” I remove the credential, and stuff the plastic rectangle on a string into my pocket.
Folded on top of a box of maps, I also find the white lab coat I got a few months ago when I toured a cryogenics lab in Berkeley for a magazine profile I was doing on the promise of immortality through freezing. The lab had insisted all guests dress in uniform.
I slip on the lab coat, and, Grandma on my arm, walk at her deliberate pace to the entrance of Building 12.
Inside the inviting glass doors sits said twenty-something gargoyle protecting Biogen’s innards. His nose cartilage leans slightly left. Deviated septum. From the aged scar to the right of his nose, I’m putting the cause as blunt trauma, car wreck or maybe he head-butted some unwelcome Biogen crasher.
“Fill out the visitor log,” he says in bored monotone.
“I’m from Bio-genetics in Building Five. I’m delivering a study subject to Lulu Pederson in Life Computing.”
At the words “study subject,” his atavistic eyes perk up with the slightest indication of curiosity. Then they dull again.
“Employee badge,” he demands.
“Lost it. Or, rather, it fell off somewhere — honestly, embarrassingly, I think it was in the bathroom. That was two weeks ago.
I pull my lanyard from my pocket.
“I’ve got my lanyard.”
“Employee ID number?”
“John Johnson. Can you look me up? I’ve got enough to worry about without memorizing my badge number. And, evidently, I can’t keep track of my badge in the bathroom, so that’s the type of absent-minded scientist you’re dealing with here.”
He’s doesn’t care.
“Lemme ring Pederson and she can come grab you.”
He places a call.
“She’s not around. Take a seat and I’ll try her back in a few minutes.”
He gestures to a pair of stiff-backed chairs in the small lobby.
“She’s probably in the lab,” I say of Ms. Pederson. “She’s not liable to pick up the phone. But I know where to find her on the third floor.”
He’s considering this. He looks at Grandma. He probably is marginally aware that it is unlikely I’d bring a study subject over from another building and that it is rare that Biogen even would have study subjects on the premises. Most of the clinical trials are done elsewhere — in hospitals and assisted-living facilities. As if by design, Grandma speaks.
“We had a neighbor who used to raise chickens and slaughter them in a room in a shed in back of the house. One time, we watched through a hole in the shed. Blood splattered all over the white walls.”
We both look at her.
“The walls here are very white,” she continues, completing her bit of internal logic.
I lean in to the receptionist and speak quietly, trying to project that he and I have created a bond.
“Dementia and aging study. She’s a little agitated. The quicker I get her upstairs, the less likely she’s going to start howling at the moon.”
I’m an asshole for selling Grandma out like this.
“Have a seat,” the gargoyle says.
We sit.
I hand Grandma a copy of
“WWJE,” I say to Grandma.
“What?”
“What would Jesus e-mail?”
She leafs through the magazine. I take meditative breaths to stay calm and stare at a large painting of the company’s founder. He wears a short-sleeve collared shirt. In Silicon Valley, it’s casual day even in our formal paintings.
After a few minutes, I say to the receptionist: “Would you mind trying Lulu again?”
He does. She doesn’t answer, which is predictable since she’s gone missing.
“I’m cold,” Grandma says.
“She’s cold,” I tell the gargoyle.
He sighs.
“Okay,” he says. “Give her a visitor badge.”
I fill out a name tag for Grandma. I tape it to her jacket. It reads: “Eileen Brennan.” The name of an actor who played a brothel madam in
The gargoyle gestures to the door. I hear it click open. Grandma and I shuffle through.
We are in.
We climb into the mirror-walled elevator and I push the button to get us to the third floor.
“Lane, we should work together all the time.”
“I’d like that.”
The door opens to the third floor.
Chapter 28
White hallway. Linoleum floor. Hung along the walls, a series of digitally enhanced photographs. It takes me a moment to realize they are images of the brain shot from different angles, in mood lighting. Abstract art for biology geeks.
We step into the hall. I look left and right. Far to the right, a man in an Oxford shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts exits one room and enters a doorway across the hall.
“Would you mind holding my arm while we walk? These floors can be slippery.”
It’s not true, but I want to keep Grandma close. Beneath my lab coat, I’m sweating through my plain blue long-sleeve shirt.
