origin…'
'But there were political objections, right?'
An expressive sigh.
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'I suspect you know as well as I do, Mister Quinn. For some people the very idea of there being significant ethnic differences at all is quite anathematic. Many thinkers and politicians like to assert all racial differences are illusory, a social construct. A fable. A chimera. And certainly it's a point of view.'
'One you don't agree with?'
'No. I think young black men can sprint faster than young white men — on average. That's quite a fundamental racial and genetic difference. Of course you're not meant to say these things…' He chuckled mirthlessly. 'But I don't especially care anyhow. I am too old!'
'Fair enough. But a younger scientist?'
Fazackerly adopted a shrewd expression.
'For a young scholar, yes, it is different: it could be seen as career-suicide, getting into this kind of thing. It is very controversial. Koreans are better at chess than Aborigines and so forth! Eugenics died as a science after the Second World War, for obvious reasons. And it has proved very hard to revive the study of racial differences. The HDGP at Stanford was a start, but the politicians got it closed. After that many decided to avoid the field of human genetic diversity altogether. And of course, there are the endless lawsuits, as well…'
'The biopiracy?'
'You have done your homework.' Fazackerly's expression was almost wistful. 'Yes. You see, during our research we aimed to analyze the DNA from isolated tribes and races, like Melanesians, and Andaman islanders.'
'Why?'
'Because, like rare Amazonian plants, rare races of men might have uniquely beneficial genes. If we found an isolated Congolese tribe that is genetically resistant to malaria we could then have a shortcut to a genetically-based malaria vaccine.'
Simon wrote in his pad.
'Yet the tribesmen objected. And sued. Because it's their DNA?'
'Quite so. But then again, the hunter-gatherers of the Kakoveld have not done all the expensive research.' Fazackerly shrugged, impatiently. 'Anyhow some Australian native groups sued us for biopiracy, and that put the poison cherry on the already rather inedible cake for our main patrons. The Greeler Foundation, Kellerman Namcorp, and so on. They pulled the plug. And that was the end of GenoMap.'
Fazackerly gazed out of the window.
'Such a shame for the staff. We had some great people here. A fiendishly clever girl from Kyoto University. And a quite outstanding Chinese Canadian. And of course…'
They looked at each other. The journalist said:
'Angus Nairn.'
'Young Angus Nairn. Perhaps the best young geneticist in Europe. He had already published some quite startling papers.'
'But…then he disappeared?'
'After we were closed down. Yes.'
'Why?'
'I have no idea.'
'You have no idea where he's gone, or why? Or where?'
'No.' Fazackerly shrugged. 'I did wonder if he may have ended his life, like a good Socratic. The figures for suicide in young men are quite alarming. Personally I suspect he was too…ambitious…to throw himself off Tower Bridge.' The yellow smile was notably sad. 'It is an authentic mystery. I am sorry. I cannot help.'
'But what about the connection with these…murders? You said on the phone you'd read my articles. So you know this. Angus Nairn was testing Basques just before he disappeared.'
'The Basques are of tremendous genetic interest.'
'But, coincidentally, one of these Basques was recently murdered. A woman called Charpentier…'
The lab was silent. Fazackerly suddenly stood, and asked:
'Look, I do have a theory. About Nairn. But I don't have much more time to talk with you. So. Can we step into the square?'
'Whatever you wish.'
'Good. Maybe I can show you something there — something that will explain the concept.'
The two men turned and walked out of the now deserted laboratories; the mellow autumn sunshine magnified the emptiness of the rooms.
Fazackerly's stride was brisk for an old man. He led his guest down the steps and out of the building, across the unbusy road, through the wire gates and into the Septembery green and gold of Gordon Square Gardens. Students, tourists and office workers were taking lunch on the lawns, eating sandwiches from clear plastic packets, chopsticking sushi from little plastic trays. The faces of the lunchers were white and black and all other possible shades.
This, Simon thought, was London at its very best: the best hope of the world. All races coming together. And yet all the time people like this lizard Fazackerly were trying to divide humanity up, once again: put them in different boxes, make everyone mistrust each other all over again.
Simon could see why people would object. It felt wrong and depressing: racially parcelling the world. And yet it was just science, and science that could save lives. The paradox was complex. And challenging.
'Here,' said Fazackerly. He was bending to the soil. The professor reached down an old liver-spotted hand and picked something up.
In his lined old palm was a red ant, crawling for freedom.
'Watch this, Mister Quinn.' He leaned closer to the ground.
Flat paving stones surrounded a drain. The flagstones were inhabited by a multitude of black ants, many of them gathered around a discarded and glistening apple core.
Fazackerly delicately dropped the red ant amongst the dense crowd of black ants. Simon leaned further, even though he felt slightly ludicrous. He wondered if the students were laughing at them, as they in turn watched the ants.
Fazackerly explained.
'I am sure you must have done this as an inky-fingered schoolboy. Such a fascinating process. Observe.'
The red ant, evidently confused by its sudden translocation, was turning this way and that — then it began heading for the soil of the flower bed. But the route was barred by the black ants.
Simon watched.
The red ant butted into a black ant.
'And now…' prompted Fazackerly.
Immediately the ants began fighting. The black ant had the slightly larger red ant in its pincers. The red ant fought back, toppling the black ant onto its back — but the other black ants were mobilized now: they had gathered around the solitary and terrorized red ant, and they were ripping the legs off the red ant, leg by leg; a final black ant gripped the enemy with its pincers and pulled the red ant's head clean away. The dying ant twitched.
'There,' said Fazackerly, standing up again.
'What?' asked Simon, also getting to his feet. 'So what?'
'What you have just witnessed is interspecific competition.'
'And that is, precisely?'
'Ferocious rivalry, between closely related species, that occupy a similar evolutionary niche. It is just one kind of Darwinian struggle. But very destructive. Very fierce.' Fazackerly was walking to a nearby bench. He sat down on the warm old wood; the journalist did the same. The older man shut his leathery eyes and tilted his face to the sun. And continued.
'Intraspecific competition can be almost as vicious. Sibling rivalry. The Cain Complex. The murderous hatred of one brother for another.'
