Part 11 (1/2)
”Oh,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said disappointedly. ”I was hoping to take a look at the stock quotes.”
”Say no more,” Mr. Salvador said. He put his cigar down and moved to the front of the cabin. He sat down in a leather swivel chair in front of a portable communications setup that was built into theforward bulkhead of the Gyrfalcon, just behind the c.o.c.kpit. It included a telephone and a fax machine, a keyboard, and a couple of flat-screen monitors. The fax machine had been oozing paper almost since the moment they had taken off in Elton, and by now a long curlicue had piled up beneath it on the deck.
”These Gale birds are pricey but they have peerless avionics,” Mr. Salvador continued, punching away on the keyboard.
A stock ticker materialized at the bottom of one of the monitor screens, scrolling from right to left.
”Can you make this out from where you are?”
”Yes, I can see it very clearly, thank you.”
”I should have antic.i.p.ated our interest and had it running when you came aboard. My apologies.”
”Oh, I'm not that much of a player,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said, embarra.s.sed by the fuss. ”But I have a bit of stock in Genomics, that company in Seattle. When we began working with them, I was so impressed that I decided to buy in.”
”And it's been moving rapidly of late, making you a nervous wreck,” Mr. Salvador said.
”Exactly. Takeover rumors. I told my broker to sell at eighty-three.”
”Then you made out brilliantly.” ”I did? What do you mean?”
”Genomics was just bought out by Gale Aeros.p.a.ce this morning. At eighty-five. You called it exactly.”
”Gale Aeros.p.a.ce now owns Genomics?” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. He was relieved and delighted. But he also thought it was just a bit eerie. He glanced around at the interior of the jet's cabin as if it might be able to tell him something. ”Yes.”
”Why would a rocket and missile company want to own a scruffy little genetic engineering firm in Seattle?”
”Diversification!” Mr. Salvador said. ”An intelligent enough strategy in this age of world peace, wouldn't you say?”
”Yes. Now that you mention it, it does seem perfectly logical.” ”While we happen to be on the subject of tissue culture, did you get my other package? The tissue samples?” Mr. Salvador said.
Tissue samples was a nice word for it. ”I did,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. ”They were good clean samples. Whoever took them for you knew his business.” ”We try to hire well,” Mr. Salvador said.
”This is the first opportunity I have had to work with human brain tissue,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said.
As he delivered this sentence, he slowed down, sensing that he was on slick footing.
Mr. Salvador smiled understandingly. ”I know that the regulations on these things in the States can be quite stifling.”
”Exactly. Anyway, I, uh, or we, my students and I, were not sure exactly - we have so little experience.”
Dr. Radhakrishnan knew that he was groping pathetically, but Mr. Salvador kept smiling and nodding. ”We have, anyway, initiated the cell culturing process with those samples . . . sent them on to Genomics. There were a few false starts-”
”Naturally. That's how science works.”
”-but the samples you gave us were so, well, generous, so large, that we had a lot of margin for error. I am almost surprised, well . . .” ”Yes?”
”Of course human brains are larger than baboon brains, so my perspective is skewed just a bit, but if I were to take samples of a human brain that were so large, I would” - again, he sensed he was on slick footing - ”well, let us say that in America, with its malpractice hysteria, where you always have to cover your tail-” ”Ridiculous.” Mr. Salvador agreed. ”-lawyers-”
”Carping and niggling and backfilling,” Mr. Salvador said. ”In some ways, Doctor, America is the best place in the world to do research. In other ways, with its litigiousness, it is a terrible place. We think that India and America may be able to complement each other in this respect.”
He was so good. ”Exactly. Mr. Salvador, you have a knack.” ”I am so pleased that we are able to see eye to eye on this,” Mr. Salvador said.
”How are the, uh, patients doing, by the way?” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. ”Ha! I almost called them specimens.””Call them whatever you like,” Mr. Salvador said. ”They are doing well. You will be able to examine them shortly. Of course we would not have selected them for inclusion in this program if they had not already suffered neurological damage, so this makes answering your question somewhat problematic.”
”Yes, I see your point.” ”Well. I don't mean to wear you out with all this technical chitchat. We'll be taking the great circle route to Delhi,” Mr. Salvador said. ”We'll make refueling stops in exciting places Anchorage and Seoul. There's a private cabin on the other side of that bulkhead where you can get some rest, and while you're there I'm sure that Maria will be happy to give you a ma.s.sage or engage you in conversation or whatever it is that would make the time go faster.”
”Ah,” Dr. Radhakrishnan said. ”I thought I smelled perfume.” ”As you can see, Mr. Coover is a consummate host. My job does not come with such fringes, but I have more than enough to occupy myself.” Mr. Salvador nodded in the direction of the communications rig on the bulkhead.
”You are a busy man,” Dr. Radhakrishnan observed. ”Great things are afoot,” Mr. Salvador said with uncharacteristic gusto. ”For certain people, this is a fascinating time to be alive.”
Dr. Radhakrishnan certainly felt that way. ”How long have you been working for Mr. Coover?”
Mr. Salvador paused before answering, his face alert, his eyes glittering. He was not thinking about how to answer so much as he was studying Radhakrishnan's face. He seemed, as usual, ever so slightly amused.
”I wouldn't make unwarranted a.s.sumptions,” he said.
Dr. Radhakrishnan wanted to pursue this line of questioning but he had realized that, by asking about Mr.
Salvador's background, he had blundered into the realm of bad taste. And that was much worse than bad morals or bad manners for a certain kind of person. However, he sensed without having met her that Maria would be a much more accessible person on all levels. ”I'm going to freshen up,” he said, nodding toward the private cabin in the back. ”Take your time and relax,” Mr. Salvador said, ”it's a long way to India.”
In his usual style, Mr. Salvador had gone to great lengths to make Dr. Radhakrishnan feel at home in Delhi, even though Delhi was his home. A large suite had been rented out at the spectacular Imperial Hotel, an aptly named pile sitting at the end of a palm-tree-lined drive just off Janpath. It was just south of Connaught Circus and less than a mile from where the inst.i.tute was being constructed. Mr. Salvador had rented out a couple of floors of the hotel. During the course of the long flight across the Pacific, Maria had developed quite an infatuation with Dr. Radhakrishnan and insisted that she be allowed to stay in Delhi for a while; Mr.
Salvador had grudgingly granted her a suite of her own, just down the hall from Dr. Radhakrishnan's. Mr.
Salvador was staying at the other end of the hall in lesser but still opulent surroundings.
When Dr. Radhakrishnan arrived at the Imperial, a pleasant surprise awaited: his entire extended family. They all cheered and hugged and kissed him right there in the parlor of his suite and then moved downstairs to a banquet room for a lengthy dinner. Dr. Radhakrishnan felt like a conquering hero back from the wars, being welcomed home by the maharaja with a royal feast.
After that, Maria had to nurse him through a day or two of hangover, fatigue, and jet lag. When he finally felt ready, he called for a car and told the driver to take him southward down Janpath into the New Delhi South Extension, where, he had been a.s.sured, the temporary laboratories of the Radhakrishnan Inst.i.tute were bustling away.
On his way out of the hotel, he met a young American fellow in the elevator. Dr. Radhakrishnan could have met this man in Antarctica and still recognized him immediately as an American high-tech entrepreneur. He was in his early thirties. He had long hair that had probably been cut in the mirror at home. He beard. He wore gla.s.ses. He was dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, a decent enough striped white s.h.i.+rt, and a crumpled wool blazer. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a rather formidable laptop computer in the other.
And one other key point: unlike everyone else he had met since the beginning of the flight to Delhi, he did not make any effort to brown-nose. ”Hi, you must be Radhakrishnan,” the man said. ”I'm Peter Zeldovich. Most people I work with call me Zeldo. That's my handle on most e-mail systems. Nice tomeet you.” He put his laptop on the floor of the elevator and stuck out hand; Dr. Radhakrishnan shook it, limply and reluctantly.
”Gotten over your jet lag yet?” this man said as they took the elevator down to lobby level.
Dr. Radhakrishnan had already forgotten his proper name. He was terrible with names. Now he knew why everyone called this person Zeldo. His real names vanished instantly from memory; Zeldo lingered unremovably on the doorstep of the mind, like a steaming t.u.r.d left behind by a stray dog.
Hopefully they would not be working together very much.
Naturally they would not have to work together. It was Dr. Radhakrishnan's inst.i.tute, he was in charge, he could send Zeldo back to his festering West Coast bachelor pad whenever he got to be too annoying. Which might not take very long, at this rate. ”Heard you were on your way in to the Barracks, so I thought I'd hitch a ride with you,” Zeldo said as they exited into the lobby. ”The Barracks?”
”Yeah. That's what we've been calling the temporary inst.i.tute. Guess you haven't seen it yet.”
”Why would you call it by that name?” Of course it was superfluous even to ask questions like this; these breezy American chaps had to have nicknames for everything.