The Methuselah Strain

Chapter 2 Death is not inevitable. The dictum repeated in his head over and over, like the jingle you can’t expunge, or the answer to a test question you don’t want to forget. It was the first thing the director of YouthCorp had said to him when he reported for duty as a new molecular genetics technician over four years earlier. He reflected on that day, as he slid his ID badge through the card slot on the secure door of the inner lab, buried deep within the Pittman building. It was one AM. There was no one in the building except for the security guard, who might have gotten suspicious at the tech’s late night arrival, had he not started periodic late night work sessions several months ago. So easy it is to deceive feeble minds. The orientation the director had given him upon his arrival four years before, though lacking in any new didactic information, had been riveting and inspirational in its presentation. He had never really been inspired before. After all, he didn’t get into genetics for altruistic reasons. He had no delusions of curing cancer or winning the Nobel Prize. He went into it for very pragmatic reasons. He seemed to have a knack for chemistry and biology. It always came easy to him. And it was an up-and-coming field, one in which he knew he could make a lot of money. And though his dad always pushed him to go to medical school, where he could possibly make more, he knew he wasn’t one who would deal well with patients. He wasn’t a people person. He spent his college years blending into the wall at the back of the classroom, managing to get through all four years with a minimum of human interaction. The job at YouthCorp seemed perfect for him. He would be isolated in a lab most of the time with his own work to do, and the pay was quite high, though not as high as he needed at the moment, but that was about to be rectified. He had to admit, though, that the director had really given him food for thought. The man’s passion had been contagious as he spoke about the immense life spans of some of man’s fellow creatures: the Amazon parrot, with a life span exceeding 100 years; the Galapagos land tortoise, which can live 200 years; the Methuselah tree, of over 2000 years of age; and the hydra, which is potentially immortal. He remembered his excitement as he heard the word. Immortal. Could it really be possible? Could mankind, with all its biological complexities, possibly match the lifespan of the simplest multi-cellular organisms? Could Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth finally be within grasp? The director had been sure of it, and as he described his plan, the tech had become a believer too. Telomerase was the answer. For it was the repairman of the chromosomes, and he knew just how to introduce it into human host cells to coax them to replicate indefinitely. The tech remembered being impressed at the aggressive testing schedule that the director had set up, but he never imagined that in a mere three years he would be witnessing the testing of the final product, one that could change the world forever. Of course, such an aggressive schedule of trials inevitably led to some bad outcomes, such as those unfortunate subjects on ward D, but he tried not to think about that. Scientific progress does have its costs. After all, initial inoculation programs for smallpox in the eighteen hundreds had carried a two percent mortality, and even the highly lauded Jonas Salk had caused the infection of over two hundred individuals, including ten deaths, with his miraculous polio vaccine. History would treat the director, with his limited casualties, with the same respect that it did Doctor Salk. The tech entered the antechamber of the lab and passed through the ultraviolet sterilizer. With practiced precision, he donned his polyurethane clean suit, taking great care to avoid knocking off his black, horned-rimmed glasses as he swung the hood over his head, as he had done numerous times before, to the amusement of his fellow lab techs. Though it appeared bulky, it could be put on quickly, without assistance, and was actually quite easy to maneuver in. Less than thirty seconds later he was deftly making his way through the lab in the bubble-boy suit, as it had become known throughout the lab. The H3R3 retrovirus vector resided in a vial, in the isolation chamber, at the end of the lab. Without so much as a glance in the direction of any of the half dozen lab tables strewn with centrifuges, beakers and test tubes, he honed in on his objective. As he approached it, he paused, admiring it in awe. It was so unassuming in its small, cylindrical glass container. To the untrained eye, it was no different than any other of the dozens of similar containers found about the lab. But this one was very different. This one held the key to immortality. The tech reached his gloved hand into the isolation cubicle: a six-sided Plexiglas container with protruding black gloves through which the contents could be manipulated with the utmost safety. He picked up the vial. This is it. So small, so unassuming, and yet … His thoughts turned to the director. This was the culmination of the man’s career, his passion, his very life. He knew that the human trials, set to begin in less than seventy two hours, would ultimately vindicate his obsession, placing the director’s name amongst those of Alexander Fleming, Jonas Salk, and other pioneers of medical science. Or maybe not. He pulled the vial out of the isolation cubicle, causing the black glove to turn partially inside out until finally stopping as it wrapped around his fist. He stared at it a moment. He knew this cumbersome contraption was a redundant feature in the lab, meant more for preventing contamination of the contents with foreign DNA than for protection of the lab inhabitants from infection. Besides, he was sure that the negative effects of the retrovirus from the previous batch had been completely neutralized. He pushed whatever miniscule doubt he had left to the back of his mind. Then, with his free arm, he reached out to an adjacent work station and grabbed up a scalpel, using the edge of the table to remove the blade cap as he raised it, in a smooth arc, towards the glove. Without hesitating, he sliced through the glove and pulled out his hand, freeing his prize. His departure from the complex, with the vial hidden in his lab coat pocket, was as uneventful as his entrance. The last thing he saw was the security guard waving goodbye. Two hundred thousand dollars? No, I think the colonel will have to pay more for immortality.