spotted with newer buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.
At the western corner of the property and dominating the site was an eight-story clock tower designed as a replica of Big Ben in London. It soared above the other buildings from the top of a three-story structure built partially over a concrete dam across the Merrimack. With the river as swollen as it was, the millpond behind the dam was filled to overflowing. A thunderous waterfall at the spillway in the center of the dam filled the air with a fine mist.
Back in the old days when the mill turned out textiles from southern cotton, the clock tower building had been the power station. The entire complex had been run by waterpower until electrification had shut the main sluice and quieted the huge paddle wheels and gears in the basement of the building. The Big Ben replica had chimed its last years before, but Victor was thinking of having it restored.
When Chimera had purchased the abandoned complex in 1976, it had renovated less than half of the available square feet, leaving the rest for future expansion. In anticipation of growth, however, all the buildings had been equipped with water, sanitation, and power. There was no doubt in Victor’s mind that it would be easy to get old Big Ben going again. He made a mental note to bring it up at the next development meeting.
As Victor pulled into his assigned parking spot in front of the administration building and pulled the sunroof shut, he paused to review his day. Despite the pride the expansive site evoked, he recognized he had some mixed feelings about the success of Chimera. In his heart Victor was a scientist, yet as one of the three founding partners of Chimera, he was required to assume his share of the administrative responsibilities. Unfortunately, these obligations were increasingly taking more time.
Victor entered the building through the elaborate Georgian entranceway, replete with columns and pediments. The architects had paid painstaking attention to detail in the restoration. Even the furnishings were from the early nineteenth century. The lobby was a far cry from the utilitarian halls of MIT where Victor was teaching back in 1973 when he first started talking with a fellow academician, Ronald Beekman, about the opportunities afforded by the explosion of biotechnology. Technically, it was a good marriage, since Victor was in biology and Ronald was in biochemistry. They had combined forces with a businessman by the name of Clark Fitzsimmons Foster, and in 1975 founded Chimera. The result was better than their wildest expectations. In 1983, under the guidance of Clark, the company went public and they’d all become enormously wealthy.
But with success came responsibilities that kept Victor away from his first love: the lab. As a founding partner, he was a member of the Board of Directors of the parent company, Chimera. He was also senior vice president of the same company in charge of research. At the same time he was acting director of the Department of Developmental Biology. In addition to those duties he was the president and managing director of the enormously lucrative subsidiary, Fertility, Inc., which owned an expanding chain of infertility clinics.
Victor paused at the top of the main stairs and gazed out of the multipaned arched window at the sprawling factory complex that had been brought back to life. There was no doubt about the satisfaction he felt. In the nineteenth century the factory had been a huge success, but it had been based on exploitation of an immigrant working class. Now its success rested on firmer ground. Chimera’s foundation stood on the laws of science and the ingenuity of the human mind in its endeavor to unlock the mysteries of life. Victor knew that science in the form of biotechnology was the wave of the future, and he gloated that he was at the epicenter. In his hands was a lever that could move the world, maybe the universe.
VJ whistled as he freewheeled down Stanhope Street. He had his down parka zipped up to keep out the cold wind, and his hands were crammed into mittens filled with the same insulation the astronauts used.
Switching his bike into the highest gear possible, he caught up to the pedals. With the swish of the wind and the whine from the tires, he felt like he was going a hundred miles an hour. He was free. No more school for a week. No more need to pretend in front of the teachers and those kids.
He could spend his time doing what he’d been born to accomplish. He smiled a strange, unchildlike grin. His blue eyes blazed and he was happy his mother was nowhere near to see him. He had a mission, just like his father. And he could not let anything interfere.
VJ had to slow when he reached the small town of North Andover. He pedaled up the center of the main shopping street and stopped in front of the local bank, where he parked his bike in a metal rack and locked it with his Kryptonite lock.
Slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, he climbed the three brownstone steps and went inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Frank,” the manager said, twisting around in his swivel desk chair. His name was Harold Scott and VJ generally tried to avoid him, but since his desk was just to the right of the entrance, it was difficult. “May I talk with you, young man?”
VJ paused, considered his options, then reluctantly detoured to the man’s desk.
“I know you are a good customer of the bank,” Harold said,
“so I thought it would be appropriate if I discussed with you some of the benefits of banking here. Do you understand the concept of interest, young man?”
“I believe so,” VJ answered.
“If so, then I wanted to ask why you don’t have a savings account for your paper route money?”
“Paper route?” VJ questioned.
“Yes,” Harold answered. “You told me some time ago that you had a paper route. I assume you still have it since you are still coming into the bank on a fairly regular basis.”
“Of course I still have it,” VJ answered. Now he remembered having been previously cornered by the same man.
It must have been a year ago.
“Once your money is in a savings account, it begins to work for you. In fact your money grows. Let me give you an example.”
“Mr. Scott,” VJ said as the manager got some paper from a drawer at his desk. “I don’t have a lot of time. My father expects me at his lab.”
“This won’t take long,” Harold said. He then proceeded to show Victor what happened to twenty dollars left in The North Andover National Bank for twenty years. When he was finished, he asked: “What do you say? Does this convince you.”
“Absolutely,” VJ said.
“Well then,” Harold said. He took some forms from another drawer and quickly filled them in. Then he pushed them in front of VJ and pointed to a dotted line near the bottom.
“Sign here.”
Dutifully VJ took the pen and signed his name.
“Now then,” Harold repeated. “How much would you like to deposit?”
VJ chewed his cheek, then extracted his wallet. He had three dollars in it. He took them out and gave them to Harold.
“Is this all?” Harold questioned. “How much do you make a week with your paper route? You have to start a habit of savings early in your life.”
“I’ll add to it,” VJ said.
Taking the forms and the bills, Harold went behind the teller’s window. He had to be buzzed in through the plexiglass door. When he returned, he handed VJ a deposit slip. “This is an important day in your life,” Harold said.
VJ nodded, pocketed the slip, then went to the rear of the bank. He watched Mr. Scott. Thankfully a customer came in and sat down at his desk.
VJ buzzed for the attendant for the safe deposit vault. A few minutes later he was safely in one of the privacy cubicles with his large safe deposit box. Putting his saddlebags carefully on the floor, he unzipped them. They were filled with tightly bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills. When he was finished adding them to those already there, he had to use both hands to heave the box back up and into its slot in the vault.
Back on his bike, VJ left North Andover, heading west. He pedaled steadily and was soon in Lawrence. Crossing the Merrimack, he eventually entered the grounds of Chimera. The security man at the gate waved with the same kind of respect he reserved for Dr. Frank.
