and most certainly have checked on the Sunday. Not having a time sequence risked his first findings being dismissed as flawed research. ‘Let’s give it an hour.’
‘What were you doing when we arrived?’ pressed Sato.
‘I’ve duplicated everything, for a comparison.’
‘You expect us to do that too?’ demanded Battey.
‘No,’ assured Parnell. ‘If your findings match mine – and my second tests corroborate – that’ll be enough.’ Should he set up a meeting with Dwight Newton in advance? There was every reason to move as quickly as possible if his findings were confirmed and the French subsidiary were already in production. But his findings weren’t yet confirmed. And until they were he couldn’t risk setting off alarm bells and challenging a company vice president and the director of chemical research.
There was another familiar hiatus throughout the unit. Sean Sato and Deke Pulbrow returned to their earlier contrasting of chicken and human DNA strings. Parnell told Kathy Richardson how he wanted the San Diego and London research filed, and dictated letters to both institutions congratulating them upon their exploratory work but regretting it hadn’t led them anywhere.
Parnell adhered strictly to his hourly check. There was no mutation on any of his carefully prepared petrie dishes. One by one, unasked, the rest of the unit ran their own checks on their own experiments. There was no response from anyone.
Impatiently Lapidus said: ‘I really don’t see why we can’t be told what we’re looking for!’
Neither did he now, conceded Parnell. It was overly cautious, imposing blind comparisons as he had: he deservedly risked the ridicule of the rest of the unit – whose respect he believed he’d had until now – if his cultures were inconclusive. ‘You’ll see it soon enough.’
‘How long do you want us to stay here?’ questioned Sean Sato. ‘I’m not complaining but I actually have something fixed for tonight I need to rearrange if this is going to go on.’
He needed at least one independent observer, accepted Parnell. ‘Let’s give it another hour. We’ll decide what to do in another hour.’ He sounded weak, ineffectual, he realized. He hadn’t thought it through, prepared properly.
Beverley said: ‘I’m not doing anything – in no hurry to get away.’
‘Neither am I,’ said Peter Battey. He led the afternoon coffee break. Parnell declined. So did Beverley.
When the two of them were alone Beverley said: ‘This is looking a little strange.’
‘It’s looking fucking ridiculous!’ corrected Parnell.
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘I didn’t want to influence anyone, as I didn’t want us to influence each other on Saturday when we were halfway through reading the flu research.’
‘You can’t influence a genetic reaction by telling someone in advance what it might possibly be! It’ll either happen or it won’t. And if it doesn’t, you’re not going to look good.’
‘I’ve already realized that.’
‘You ought to talk to people more.’
‘Maybe I should.’
Everyone was back fifteen minutes before the next scheduled culture-dish examination. Again Parnell was the first, the focus of every eye. He was even aware of Kathy Richardson watching from her separate office.
It was a warm, positively physical feeling, deep within him, as if he’d ingested something – a quick-reacting drug, even, which was an analogy that irritated him, although only for a passing second, because there was no irritation or disappointment at what he was looking at through the microscope lens. The mutation wasn’t as extensive as it had been when he’d first looked that morning – so far only three out of a total of fifteen of the newly prepared petrie dishes – but it was sufficient confirmation to substantiate his every fear. And there was every reason to be frightened, he realized, still bent over his apparatus but no longer concentrating solely on what was happening on the slide in front of him. He couldn’t remember an experiment – either one he’d conducted himself or one he’d read about, in any scientific research paper – in which a mutation occurred as quickly as this appeared to be doing.
He turned to face them, all personal satisfaction – euphoria even – gone, his attitude and mind coldly analytical. ‘I didn’t do this right, asking you to work as I did. I’m sorry. If it ever arises again, which I hope it doesn’t, it’ll be different. Give your cultures a little longer than the hour we decided upon. I’m going to analyse mine later, but particularly try to isolate if any of the three drugs that have been introduced appear to be causing the greatest damage.’
‘What sort of damage?’ asked Pulbrow.
‘France may be producing a range of Dubette-brand medicines that are going to kill people,’ declared Parnell, already on his way to the door.
As he walked further into the Spider’s Web, Parnell tried to calculate the fall-out from what he was about to do – what he had no alternative but to do – but very quickly gave up. There could only be one consideration, the ethical, diagnostic requirement; any personal repercussions were secondary, less than secondary even. Dubette should actually be eternally grateful, although he doubted that they would be; he certainly doubted if Dwight Newton and Russell Benn would be. Parnell hesitated at the door into the chemical research division, wondering whether to alert Benn first, but hurried on. The alarm, however it was sounded, had to come with the authority of Newton. To discuss it first, explain it first, to Benn would be a waste of time, and from the speed of the mutation Parnell didn’t believe there was any time whatsoever to waste. Any production of the new products had to be stopped immediately, any distribution not just halted but withdrawn, every single last bottle or pill, no matter how difficult to trace. And if that distribution were in Africa, that was going to be very difficult indeed to find.
There were still three women in Newton’s outer secretariat, all of whom looked up in surprise as Parnell burst in.
‘What…?’ trailed Newton’s personal assistant.
‘I need to see Dwight.’
The woman shook her head. ‘He’s chairing an audit meeting. And I know he wants to get away early.’
‘Tell him…!’ began Parnell but stopped, abruptly guessing there would be a damage-limitation operation. Less urgently he said: ‘Tell him that something extremely important has come up. Something that can’t wait until tomorrow: something he’s got to hear about and act upon tonight. I’ll be waiting in my office. Will you tell him that?’
‘What on earth is it?’ asked the woman.
‘Very important, like I just told you.’
Parnell did stop at Russell Benn’s unit on his way back. The research director was in his side office, notebook calculations and reference books side by side on the cluttered desk before him. Benn said: ‘You’re whipping up quite a wind, the speed you’re moving around.’
‘Hope you’re not planning to leave early tonight,’ said Parnell.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ demanded the man.
‘I’ve told Dwight I need to see him right away. Now! You need to be included.’
‘In what?’ frowned Benn.
‘Stopping Dubette killing people,’ declared Parnell, shortly.
‘ What!’ exclaimed Benn.
Parnell nodded at the shelves of textbooks behind the other man. ‘Look up hypoxanthine guanine phosphoribosyl transferase. And get a message through to Dwight that you want to be there when he and I speak.’
Everyone had completed their initial analysis by the time Parnell got back to his own department. Lapidus said: ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ admitted Parnell.
‘What’s causing it to happen?’ asked Beverley.
‘I don’t know that, either. I just know it is happening, that in humans, at this rate of mutation, it’s potentially fatal. And that it’s got to be withdrawn.’
‘You mean it’s already in production?’ said Pulbrow.
‘I think it might be.’
‘Why? How?’ said Beverley.
