Gray Matter

“They were sharing computers,” he declared. “She probably turned on her own software. What’s the big deal?”

There it was: his absolutist certitude, and that damning tone that said Rachel didn’t know what she was talking about—that her woman’s intuition was off again. “Martin, it’s how she looked—like she was doing something sneaky,” she said, feeling her own certainty slip. “Two minutes later, the rat dies.”

“Coincidence,” he said. “Besides, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know—maybe she had it in for her. Maybe she’s a bitch.”

“And maybe the Chinese kid just screwed up.”

“The teacher said she’s first in the class—which means she’s not the type to make simple errors. And she’s Vietnamese.”

Martin shrugged. “Whatever. Even whiz kids make mistakes. What can I say?” Then he added, “If you were so sure, then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because … Christ, forget it.”

He smiled. “Like I said in the first place, you were mistaken.”

It was that evening, and Rachel was putting her pajamas on. Martin had put Dylan to bed and was on their bed with the current issue of the MIT alumni magazine. He yawned. “Whatever, that teacher’s ass is grass with the animal-rights people. So is little Suzy Wong’s.”

Rachel went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, and scrub away her irritation at Martin. She could still feel the freezing look in that Nicole’s eyes.

When she stepped out, Martin said, “You must admit the little bastards are impressive. I mean, the rat-fry aside, they’re fucking smart. And that Julian is something else with the pointillism stuff. Jesus, the kid’s like a human Xerox machine.”

“I wish we could have talked to him,” she said. “He seemed so obsessed. How do we know that’s not the result of the enhancement?”

“Malenko said there’s no effect on the personality, just cognitive powers. Ms. Elia said he’s nearly a straight-A student.”

“Well, I’ve got a few dozen more questions I want answered.”

“Yeah, like how much. I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“We’ll know soon enough.” They had their next appointment with Malenko tomorrow morning at his Cobbsville office.

Martin turned off the light and pulled Rachel to him. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure if I remember how it’s done.”

She was not in the mood, but said, “I’m sure it will come back to you.”

But halfway into their lovemaking, the telephone rang. “Leave it,” Martin said.

She would have, but she was expecting a call from her mother. She had left a message earlier to see how she was feeling.

Rachel flicked on the light and grabbed the phone. It was her brother Jack. Their mother, Bethany, was going into the hospital in two days for open-heart surgery. She had felt weak for the last few weeks. But when she went in for a checkup the other day because of shortness of breath, the doctor discovered a slight heart murmur. They did an echocardiogram only to discover that she had been born with two aortic valve flaps not the usual three. Because it was a hitherto undetected congenital aberration, Bethany would need a replacement—a routine operation, with expectations of a full recovery since her heart was strong. But it meant that Rachel would fly to Phoenix. The operation was scheduled for four P.M. Monday.

Martin could tell from listening what the call was about. “I want to be with her,” Rachel said when she hung up.

Martin nodded. “Of course.”

She would book herself on a Saturday flight. She climbed back into bed, feeling as if this were some kind of omen.

Martin sidled up to her and began stroking her thigh again. “You haven’t lost it, have you?”

“You and Dylan will be all right without me, won’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t we be?”

“I don’t know,” she said and turned out the lights.

37

“One million dollars?”

“Half to be paid in cash before the procedure, the other half in two months.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Martin said.

“Did you think genius comes cheap?”

It was Thursday, and they were back at Malenko’s Cobbsville office.

“It’s just that, well, frankly, that’s much more than we had expected, or can afford.”

Malenko’s eyebrows shot up. “Those are two different issues, the first more complicated and interesting than the second. I have taken the liberty of doing some research into your financial status, and I must say that you are doing fairly well. You own a house worth one point six million dollars in the current market, and your total business assets amount to six million dollars, which, by the way, is three million less than what you told the bank it was worth when you filed for a business loan last year.”

“Where did you get that from?” Martin said. “You have no right … That’s very private information.”

“So is what you are asking me to do for your child, Mr. Whitman.”

A silence fell on the room.

Malenko rolled back in his chair and peered over his glasses at them. “And because it is so private, there is another aspect to the fee—a guarantee that privacy is maintained at a premium—a security insurance, if you will. Should you decide to go through with enhancement, you will be asked to place another five hundred thousand dollars in an escrow account, half of which will be returned to you in three years, the balance in another three years, interest paid in full.”

“What?”

“If in that time I discover that either of you has breached the nondisclosure terms, you will lose that five hundred thousand dollars and the fee. If, however, in three years I am certain that you have not talked and that you can be trusted, I will return to you half with interest and in six years the balance should you continue to maintain confidentiality.”

“That’s … that’s …”

“Ridiculous may be the word you’re trying to avoid. Even so, these conditions keep lips sealed, yes?” Then Malenko clasped his hands together and leaned toward them over his desk as if sharing a good joke. “Listen to me. You came to me with the single desire to do something about your child’s intelligence. You were offered extensive programs to address his needs with the best LD staff in North America. But you were clearly more interested in a medical procedure with immediate results. You wanted Dylan to have the kinds of advantages brighter kids enjoyed. You didn’t want him to run the race with a clubfoot to use your phrase. You wanted a smarter son.

“That left one option: enhancement—a procedure that is not sanctioned by the FDA or the medical establishment, and one that will raise the backs of ethicists, social workers, the clergy, politicians, and a lot of others. It is also a procedure that could cause a backlash against orthodox science. If we do this, you will be asking me to put my medical license on the line. That I do not do lightly. Nor at a cut rate.”

“I hear you,” said Martin.

Malenko’s manner softened. “Look, you come from a privileged life where people don’t hurt each other, where people are trustworthy. But I come from a place where people hurt each other all the time, where the system was more important than the individual. Where betrayal was rewarded. So I’ve been imprinted with a cynicism about human nature that just won’t go away. Sad, but I cannot be certain that people won’t blab. Thus, the high price