disappeared in the carvings of light and the wretched figure of Mary Ash was led out of the booth like a frightened animal, Tim Cale was as shocked as anyone else—and the most quiet person in the room.
He supposed the researchers had a right to be curious about him because, only two hours before, the head of their team, Gary Weintraub, had ushered him around without volunteering what he did or why he was there. The researchers all assumed he was a bureaucrat sent to babysit, so they sneered the “Mister” next to his name as if it were an insult. Tim’s sense of mischief was tempted to correct them, but he had seen enough class and status nonsense to last him a lifetime back when he was posted in London. And today had given him much to think about, just like the others. He decided to be self-effacing in the circle of experts and lab coats, not gushing over the astonishing thing they had just witnessed and not congratulating them at all.
As doctors accompanying the young girl left for the private hospital in Manhattan, the remaining witnesses filed into a conference room, and Tim joined the slow exodus to a long table. They could barely contain what they felt, and few wanted to sit. This was one of the rare moments when scientists could be children again.
Tim watched them whisper and talk, voices climbing over each other, pairs of hands gesticulating. Others scribbled down estimates and equations. One of them—there would always be one—was the oracle of caution, suggesting the phenomenon might not be easily repeated. Weintraub, now free to talk about certain details more candidly, was busy saying things like “No, no, it will work again.”
Tim already knew Weintraub from university symposiums and presidential committees. He was a man in his sixties with a moon face and spectacles who didn’t mind at all that his students had nicknamed him “Bunsen Honeydew” after The Muppets character. Weintraub had first achieved fame as a documentary host, and since the media liked physicists to be interesting personalities (it was easier than trying to understand what they said), much was made of his distinctive nasal voice, his amateur skill at jazz piano and how as a young man he’d made a pilgrimage to study with one of his scientific heroes, the equally eccentric Leó Szilárd (when Szilárd didn’t like someone, he liked to pull out his colostomy bag and show them). Weintraub was arguably the smartest man in the room. Tim Cale was certain he was.
The multiple conversations grew to an insect hum, and at last Weintraub raised his hands.
“Okay, okay, first of all, there is no possible way I can expect this won’t leak out, legal documents or not,” he said, wearing the same self-congratulatory smile as the staff. “We do have an official announcement drafted and a news conference scheduled—we prepared all this in advance in case things went well.”
A new buzz around the table: their director had apparently known what to expect, while the others had been left mostly in the dark. But the lab coats’ resentment couldn’t last. It was crushed to insignificance by what they had seen.
“The media doesn’t always go through proper channels so if you are asked, please, please, be careful in your use of language. Don’t use any words of religious connotation—I’m sure they’ll happily go overboard on those themselves. Make sure they understand we followed a procedure, and it won’t be up to us how the transposition booths are assigned. That’s a matter for the courts and the legislators.”
“We don’t even have to go there, do we, Gary?” piped up one of the scientists. “Don’t we have years of research ahead of us before we try to repeat what we saw?”
The arguments and counter-arguments all ran for a few seconds with Weintraub unable to restore order.
“Come on, how do you test and research this? What we’ve got to do is ensure the safety of an arrival who—”
“People will not want to wait for years of clinical—”
“Look at in vitro fertilization and the stigma that was attached to—”
“You can’t compare the social history of decades ago to a completely new radical—”
“How does it work?”
The most innocent and direct of questions came from their guest. There was a sudden hush around the conference table, all the scientists now facing Timothy Cale. And he saw a remarkable, almost tangible shame in their expressions. I’ll be damned, thought Tim.
Because he realized: They don’t know.
Weintraub spoke for them all. “We’re not completely sure.”
“Meaning you don’t have a clue, right, Gary?”
He and Weintraub liked each other. Tim knew Weintraub didn’t have a molecule of condescension in his body for laymen, nor was his ego so fragile that he couldn’t admit to ignorance. They could speak plainly here.
“What you must understand, Tim, is that we had nothing to do with the manufacture of the transposition equipment or its original R and D,” replied Weintraub.
“What? Are you kidding?”
“I assure I’m not. We served as oversight on its health and safety aspects and on the scientific evaluation. Washington gave the green light, and we went ahead and… Well, we needed to figure out protocols, to make sure it does what we were promised it will do…”
Tim was incredulous. His friend hadn’t given him a clue what he would see today, and neither, in fact, had Schlosser or those out in Washington. He had expected a bit of a magic act from Gary Weintraub—he always got one. The man’s theatrical flair was part of his professional success both on campuses and on television. But nothing like this, nothing with such ramifications!
“Now wait a minute,” Tim tried again. “How can you go ahead with something this momentous without knowing how the damn thing fundamentally works?”
“Hey, uh, Mr. Cale,” interrupted one of the scientists, an up-and-coming physics star who looked barely old enough to shave. “Before Gary answers that, can you, like, tell us a little bit more about what you do and how you came to be here?”
Tim smiled at the naked challenge. “If it helps, I’m here at the request of both the US Attorney General and the Secretary of Health and Human Services. I’m a consultant.”
“What kind of consultant, Mr. Cale?”
“The expensive kind.”
There was hesitant laughter over the quip, but the faces were so earnest, he knew he should offer a more definitive response. After all, he was asking them plain enough questions.
He made eye contact around the table and explained, “My career is somewhat eclectic, ladies and gentlemen. I used to be with diplomatic services stationed overseas, posted at various legations—mostly in Asia. I conducted investigations that involved any high-profile American national. But over time, I’ve fallen into what can loosely be called, for lack of a better term, ‘risk management.’ I don’t pretend at all I have your scientific background or anything close it, but because of umm… well, a few personal experiences, which I won’t go into today, the White House likes to use me from time to time to write reports and investigate certain phenomena—though up to now nothing on the scale of what we all saw today.”
The young expert who had challenged Tim leaned forward. “And where did you have these experiences, Mr. Cale?”
Tim looked down the table and met his gaze evenly. “India… South East Asia.”
Tim knew the smirks would begin first and then the traded looks. He had seen it all before, and he didn’t care. He didn’t have to prove his credibility here or with the White House, certainly not at the contract price he was charging, and there were fortunately others in positions of influence who were less dogmatic.
“Dr. Weintraub?” he prompted. “Gary? About my question?”
Weintraub leaned forward to respond, but another of the scientists jumped in.
“Listen, Mr. Cale. Tim, is it? Tim,