about young people being perceived as rude, lazy and shiftless these days and how we deal with the problem is turning out to be something of a political football at the moment. As one paper put it, “Can there be any more dispiriting phrase in the English language than ‘local youths’?”’
Miriam Carlyle, chair of the educational psychology unit at Birmingham University, adopted a pained expression and said, ‘HMG has only itself to blame. An entire generation has been brought up to believe that they are untapped reservoirs of talent and potential just waiting to be discovered — no losers, only winners. If they have their way we’re going to finish up with a nation of TV presenters… with nothing to present because anyone with any real talent and ability will have been declared elitist and forced into feigning mediocrity in order to fit in.’
‘I think we all recognise the problem but what do we do about it?’
Charles Motram, Miriam’s counterpart at the University of Sussex, said, ‘It’s our considered view that it’s already too late for the sixteen and overs. The die is cast in their case. They’re going to have to make lots of unpleasant discoveries for themselves, but it might just be possible to do something about those just becoming teenagers. It’s an old enough idea but we feel that summer camps would help promote an environment where the importance of self-discipline and self-reliance could be nurtured.’
‘Boot camps?’
‘No, definitely not. There should be no suggestion of punishment. We are thinking more along the lines of summer schools in places like the Welsh Mountains, the Lake District, the Scottish Highlands where teamwork can be encouraged and kids can see for themselves the value of getting along with each other, relying on their team- mates in tough situations, earning respect instead of demanding it.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t see how this differs from similar schemes that have gone before,’ said Noones.
‘The difference is that HMG pays for it.’
‘Why?’ asked a surprised Noones.
‘What parent of a thirteen-year-old these days is going to say “no” to the chance of getting rid of their offspring for a couple of weeks when no charge is involved? They’d get a break from the relentless demands for money and gadgetry, the kids would gain some notion of self-respect and the rules of social interaction, and HMG might win back a lost generation. We see this as win-win all round.’
‘An intriguing notion. Thank you, Charles and you too, Miriam. I’ll certainly pass on your thoughts. And now, Gerald,’ said Noones, turning to Sir Gerald Coates, ‘you are going to make my day by telling me one of your little biotech companies has come up with a vaccine against bird ’flu?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ confessed Coates. ‘The problem remains that while the form of the virus that will pass from human to human does not yet exist, it remains impossible to design a vaccine against it. It’s quite possible to design one against the H5N1 strain but there’s no guarantee that it will be effective against a mutant variant of it. We have had significant success, however, with another vaccine.’
Coates paused to enjoy the moment and the expression that appeared on Noones’ face. ‘One of the companies we tempted with the prospect of filthy lucre has come up trumps. In fact, we are rapidly approaching stage two which will involve setting up testing regimens. That’s something I’d like to speak to you about later, if that’s all right?’
‘By all means. It’s wonderful to hear something positive for a change.’
The meeting broke up shortly afterwards with Jeffrey Langley asking Coates if he wanted him to stay.
‘No point in both of us being here,’ replied Coates.
‘Remember to ask about the cash,’ said Langley.
‘What was that about cash?’ asked Oliver Noones as he returned from seeing the others to the door.
‘The biotech company I was talking about want to know just when they will be eligible for the prize money. Only natural, I suppose. They’ve invested quite a bit so far.’
‘Why don’t we go along to my office? I’ll break out the Amontillado and you can tell me all about it.’
Twenty minutes into the conversation, Noones got up to replenish their glasses and said, ‘Well, I must say it all sounds absolutely splendid, just the sort of thing we’ve been hoping for. What was that last point you said I should stress to the Cabinet?’
‘It’s not a live vaccine and apparently that’s a big plus when it comes to safety concerns.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me there. What does “not a live vaccine” mean in this context exactly?’
‘Vaccines are usually live viruses themselves but they have been attenuated or disabled in some way so that they won’t give rise to disease but will still stimulate the production of antibodies in the recipient which will protect him or her against the real thing. For instance, vaccinia is a live virus that will give people protection against smallpox. The trouble is that although most of us don’t suffer any adverse reaction to being infected with vaccinia, every now and then some poor soul does. They develop a condition called disseminated vaccinia and that’s almost as bad as smallpox itself.’
‘I see. No such thing as an altogether safe vaccine…’
‘Exactly. That’s why it’s better to use a non-live vaccine if at all possible.’
‘Got you,’ said Noones. ‘And this is one. I’m sure the powers-that-be will be delighted.’
Coates circled the glass in his hand betraying a little hesitation when he said, ‘Now that we have the vaccine… it will have to be tested.’
‘What does that entail?’
‘Testing on animals in the first instance where the official hurdles are low and then on humans where they are becoming practically insurmountable…’
‘Perhaps in the normal course of events…’ said Noones thoughtfully. ‘Something tells me that it when it comes to a contest between national security and public paranoia, someone in government is going to have to make what they delight in calling… a tough choice
… a difficult decision. Only this time… it’s going to be for real. Leave it with me.’
‘You won’t forget to enquire about the money?’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
St Clair Genomics
Cambridge
‘Well, Alan, all ready to give your presentation?’ asked Phillip St Clair.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ replied the young post-doctoral scientist who for the first time since an aunt’s funeral some eighteen months before was wearing a collar and tie instead of a T-shirt. He was about to present his research to the financial backers of St Clair Genomics — a consortium of people who had been persuaded to invest heavily in an exciting new aspect of molecular biology by the founder of the company, Phillip St Clair.
Some five years had passed without the money men seeing anything like the return they had imagined at the outset, but they had persevered, aware that this was the case for most who had invested in a science that had promised much but, to date, had delivered little. Genetic engineering had not turned out to be the golden goose many had thought it might be and the situation wasn’t being helped by the government who had applied strict rules and regulations at every turn in order to appease a public suspicious of anything to do with gene alteration.
It had therefore been something of a major triumph for St Clair to convince his backers to sink even more money into the company in order that Alan, one of his six researchers, could develop his ideas about a new vaccine in the hope of winning government approval and a substantial monetary prize for the company. He was under no illusion, however, that this might be the last gamble the backers would take on his company.
‘They’re here,’ announced Vicky Reid, St Clair’s secretary, appearing in the doorway with an excited look on her face.
‘Good show,’ said St Clair. ‘Good luck, Alan.’
Alan was left alone to carry out a last check on the Power-Point slides he planned to use in the presentation. This was a big moment in his career and he knew it. Nothing could be left to chance.
Four extremely well-dressed men were shown into the small seminar room where Alan awaited them. He could smell the expensive leather of their briefcases and the subtle tones of their aftershave as they passed in front of him. It was Vicky who ushered them in, her face wreathed in smiles. St Clair brought up the rear.
‘Would you gentlemen care for coffee?’ asked Vicky.
‘I think we’re fine,’ replied Ruben Van Cleef, director of venture investment at Edelman’s Bank.
Vicky smiled and withdrew and, to Alan’s dismay, St Clair said, ‘If you’d just excuse me too for a few minutes, I’ll leave you in Alan’s capable hands.’
