White Death

22

THE BEER TRUCK rounded a sharp curve, and the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the battered wreck in the road. The car that lay on its side a few yards from the edge looked as if it had been dropped from a great height. Two more wrecks smoldered at the bottom of the drop-off hundreds of feet below. The driver hurried from his truck and peered into the car window. He was surprised to discover that the people inside were still alive.

The trucker called for help on his CB radio. The rescue crew had to use mechanical jaws to extricate the Trouts, and then the couple was taken to a small but well-equipped hospital. Paul suffered from a broken wrist, Gamay had a concussion, and they were both covered with bumps and bruises. They spent the night under observation, went through another exam the next morning and were pronounced fit to go. They were signing out at the front desk, when two men wearing rumpled suits arrived, identified themselves as provincial police and asked to talk with them.

They settled into an unoccupied visitors' lounge, and the Trouts were asked to tell what happened. The senior man was named Mac- Farlane. In a classic good-cop, bad-cop pairing, he was the friendly one who tut-tutted, while his partner, a man named Duffy, was the belligerent officer who tried to pick holes in their story.

After replying to a particularly pointed question, Gamay, who could never be mistaken for a shrinking violet, stared at Duffy and gave him a smile. "I may be wrong, Officer, but it sounds as if we're being accused of something."

MacFarlane fidgeted with his hands. "It's not that, ma'am, but look at it from our point of view. You and your husband arrive in town from out of nowhere. Within twenty-four hours, a fisherman you were seen with goes missing, along with his boat. Then four men are killed in a very unusual accident."

"Damned bloody death plague if you ask me," Duffy growled.

"We've told you everything," Paul said. "We were on vacation, and went out with a fisherman named Mike Neal, whom we met at a waterfront restaurant. You can check with the bartender. Mr. Neal was looking for work and offered to take us out for a cruise."

"Pretty expensive cruise," Duffy sneered. "The boatyard says you paid offNeal's bill of nearly a thousand dollars."

"We're both ocean scientists. When we learned about the problems the fishermen had been having with low catches, we asked Mr. Neal to do some survey work."

"What happened next?"

"We stayed overnight at a bed and breakfast. The next morning, we learned that Mr. Neal and his boat had been lost. We were con- tinuing our trip, when we were caught between two very bad driv- ers driving two very big cars."

"From what you said," Duffy said, making no attempt to hide his

skepticism, "it sounds like these folks were trying to run you off the road."

"It seems that way."

"That's what we can't figure," Duffy said, scratching the stubble

on his chin. "Why would they try to kill a couple of innocent tourists?"

"You'll have to ask them," Paul said.

Duffy's ruddy face went an even deeper red. He opened his mouth to respond.

MacFarlane raised his hand to shush his partner. "Those folks are in no condition to answer questions," he said with a wan smile. "But you see, this presents another problem. The young lady here stopped at a general store and asked about a fish plant in town. The four gentlemen who were killed were all employees of the same plant."

"I'm a marine biologist," Gamay said. "My interest in fish is noth- ing odd. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job," she said, in a tone that indicated that was exactly what she was doing, "but maybe you should talk to someone at the plant."

"That's another funny thing," Duffy said. "The plant's closed."

Gamay hid her surprise with a shrug and girded herself for more questions, but just then, MacFarlane's cell phone rang, saving them from another round of the third degree. He excused himself, got up and moved into the hall, out of earshot. A few minutes later, he came back in and said, "Thanks for your time, folks. You can go."

"I won't argue with you, Officer, but could you tell us what's going on?" Paul said. "A minute ago, we were public enemies one and two."

The worried expression that had been on MacFarlane's face ear- lier was replaced by a friendly smile. "That was the station. We made some inquiries when we saw the ID cards in your wallets. Just got a call from Washington. Seems like you two are pretty important peo- ple at NUMA. We'll prepare a couple of statements and get them to you for additions and signatures. Anywhere we can take you?" He seemed relieved at the resolution of a difficult situation.

"A rental-car agency might be a good start," Gamay said.

"And a pub would be a good finish," Paul said.

On the drive to the car rental office, Duffy dropped his bad-cop act and told them how to get to a pub where the beer and food were good and cheap. The policemen, who were going off-duty, invited themselves along, too. By the time they got into their second pint, the detectives were very talkative. They had retraced the Trouts' foot- steps, talking to the B-and-B owners and a few regulars around the waterfront. Mike Neal was still missing, and the man named Gro- gan had also disappeared. There was no telephone number for the Oceanus plant. They were still trying to contact the corporation's in- ternational office, but were having little luck.

Gamay ordered another beer after the police officers left. She blew off the foamy head and, in an accusatory tone, said, "That's the last time I take a drive in the country with you."

"At least you didn't break any bones. I have to drink my beer with my left hand. And how am I going to tie my bow ties?"

"Heaven forbid you use snap-ons, you poor boy. Have you seen the dark circle under my eye? I believe it's what we called a mouse when I was a kid."

Paul leaned over and lightly kissed his wife on the cheek. "On you, it looks exotic."

"I suppose that's better than nothing," Gamay said, with an in- dulgent smile. "What do we do now? We can't go back to Wash- ington with nothing to show but a few lumps and repair bills for a nonexistent boat."

He sipped his beer. "What was the name of that scientist Mike Neal tried to contact?"

"Throckmorton. Neal said he was at McGill University." "Montreal! Why not drop by and see him, as long as we're in the neighborhood?"

"Brilliant idea!" Gamay said. "Enjoy your beer, Lefty. I'll update Kurt on our plans."

Gamay took her cell phone to a relatively quiet corner of the pub and called NUMA. Austin was out, so she left a message saying they were following the Oceanus trail to Quebec and would be in contact. She asked Austin's secretary to track down a telephone number for Throckmorton and to see if she could put together a flight to Mon- treal. Several minutes later, the secretary called back with the phone number and two reservations on a flight leaving later that day.

Gamay called Throckmorton. She said she was a NUMA marine biologist and wondered if he had any time to talk about his work. He was delighted and flattered, he said, and would be free after his last class. Their Air Canada flight landed at Dorval Airport around midafternoon. They dropped their baggage off at the Queen Eliza- beth Hotel and caught a cab to the McGill University campus, a clus- ter of gray granite older buildings along with more modern structures on the side of Mont Royal.

Professor Throckmorton was wrapping up his lecture as the Trouts arrived, and emerged from his classroom surrounded by a flock of chattering students. Throckmorton's eye caught Gamay's stunning red hair and took in Paul's tall figure. He shooed away the students and came over to greet the newcomers.

"The Doctors Trout, I presume," he said, pumping their hands. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," Gamay said. "Not at all," he said warmly. "It's an honor to meet scientists from NUMA. I'm flattered that you're interested in my work."

Paul said, "We were traveling in Canada, and when Gamay learned about your research, she insisted that we make a detour."

"Hope I'm not the source of marital discord," he said, bushy eye- brows jumping like startled caterpillars.

"Not at all," Gamay said. "Montreal is one of our favorite cities."

"Well, then, now that we've got that settled, why don't you come up to the lab and see what's on the slab, as they say."

"Didn't they say that in The Rocy Horror Picture ShowY Gamay said.

"Correct! Some of my colleagues have taken to calling me the mad scientist Frank N. Furter."

Throckmorton was ofshorter-than-average height, chubby rather than plump, and the roundness of his body was repeated in his moon- shaped face and his circular eyeglasses. Yet he moved with the quick- ness of an athlete, as he led the way to the lab.

He ushered the Trouts through a door and into a large, brightly lit space and motioned for them to sit down at a lab table. Comput- ers were scattered at stations around the room. Aerators bubbled in a series of tanks on the far side of the lab, and a briny smell of fish filled the room. Throckmorton poured three lab beakers of iced tea and sat down at the table.

"How did you hear about my work?" he said, after a sip from his beaker. "Something in a scientific journal?"

The Trouts exchanged glances. "To be honest," Gamay said, "we don't know what you're working on."

Seeing Throckmorton's puzzled expression, Paul jumped in and said, "We got your name from a fisherman by the name of Mike Neal. He said he had contacted you on behalf of the men in his fleet. Their catches were off, and they thought it might have something to do with an odd type of fish he and the other fishermen in his town were landing."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Neal! His call was directed to my office, but I never talked to him. I was out of the country when he called, and I've been too busy to get back to him. Sounded quite intriguing. Something about a 'devilfish.' Maybe I can give him a call later today."

"I hope you get good long-distance rates," Paul said. "Neal is dead."

"I don't understand." "He was killed in a boat explosion," Gamay said. "The police don't know what caused it."

A stunned expression crossed Throckmorton's face. "Poor man." He paused, then said, "I hope this doesn't seem callous, but I suppose now I'll never know about this strange devilfish."

"We'll be glad to tell you what we know," Gamay said. Throckmorton listened intently as Gamay and Paul took turns describing their trip with Neal. As each detail unfolded, the cheer- fulness drained from Throckmorton's rosy-cheeked face. He gazed solemnly from Gamay to Paul. "Are you absolutely certain of every- thing you told me? You're quite sure of the size of the fish and the strange white color. And its aggressiveness?"

"See for yourself," Paul said, producing the videotape shot on Neal's boat.

After viewing the tape, Throckmorton rose, solemn-faced, from his chair and paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. Over and over, he muttered, "This is not good, not good at all." Gamay had a disarming way of cutting to the chase. "Please tell us what's going on, Professor."

He stopped his pacing and sat down again. "As a marine biologist, you must know about transgenic fish," he said. "The first one was de- veloped practically in your backyard, at the University of Maryland Biotechnology Institute."

"I've read a number of papers, but I can't say I'm an expert on the subject. From what I understand, genes are spliced into fish eggs to make them grow faster."

"That's right. The genes come from other species, even from in- sects and humans."

"Humans?" "I don't use human genes in my experiments. I agree with the Chinese, who are heavily into biofish research, that using human genes in this manner is unethical."

"How are the genes used?" "They produce unusually high levels of growth hormones and stimulate the fish's appetite. I've been developing transgenic fish with the Federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans lab in Vancouver. The salmon grown there are fed twenty times a day. The constant feeding is essential. These super-salmon are programmed to grow eight times faster, forty times larger than normal in the first year. You can see what a boon this is for a fish farmer. He brings a fatter fish to market in a fraction of the time."

"Thus ensuring a larger profit." "To be sure. Those pushing to bring biofish to market call it the

'Blue Revolution.' They admit they'd like to increase profits, but they say they have an altruistic motive as well. DNA-altered fish will pro- vide a cheap and plentiful source of food for the poorer nations of the world."

"I think I heard the same arguments in favor of DNA-modified crops," Gamay said.

"With good reason. Genetically modified fish were a logical out- growth of the biotech food trend. If you can engineer corn, why not do the same for higher living organisms? This is likely to be far more controversial, though. The protests have already started. The oppo- nents say transgenic fish could mess up the environment, wipe out the wild fishery and put the small fisherman out of business. They're call- ing these biotech creations 'Frankenfish.' "

"Catchy name," said Paul, who had been listening with interest to the conversation. "Can't see it selling too many fish." "Where do you stand on this issue?" Gamay said. "Since I created some of these fish, I have a special responsibility. I want to see more study before we start raising these creatures on fish farms. The push to commercialize what we've been doing worries me. We need extensive risk assessment before we trigger what could be a disaster."

"You sound very worried," Gamay said.

"It's what I don't know that concerns me. Things are spinning out of control. Dozens of commercial operations are pushing to bring their own fish to market. More than two dozen fish species are being researched in addition to salmon. The potential is enormous, al- though some fish farmers are turning away from transgenics because of the controversy. But big corporations have been moving in. There are dozens of patents for gene changes in Canada and the U.S."

"An economic and scientific juggernaut like that will be hard to stop once it gets going."

"I feel like King Canute trying to shout down the ocean." The frustration was apparent in his voice. "Billions of dollars are at stake, so the pressure is enormous. That's why the Canadian government funds transgenic research. The feeling is that if we don't lead the way, others will. We want to be ready when the dam bursts."

"If there is so much pressure and money involved, what's holding back the biofish tide?"

"A potential public relations nightmare. Let me give you an ex- ample. A New Zealand company called King Salmon was develop- ing biofish, but word about two-headed and lump-covered fish leaked out, and the press whipped the public into a frenzy. King had to stop its experiments and destroy everything, because people were worried that these Frankenfish might escape into the wild and start mating with normal ones."

"Is something like that a possibility?" Gamay said.

"Not with contained fish-farming, but I have no doubt that trans- genic fish would escape if they were placed in open-water cages. They are aggressive and hungry. Like a convict who yearns for free- dom, they'd find a way. The government fisheries lab in Vancouver is as tight as Fort Knox. We've got electronic alarms, security guards, double-screened tanks to keep fish from getting away. But a private company might be less cautious."

Gamay nodded. "We've had invasions of foreign species in U.S. waters, with potentially damaging results. The Asian swamp eel has been found in some states-it's a voracious creature that can slither across dry land. Asian carp are in the Mississippi River, and there are worries they can get into Lake Michigan. They grow up to four feet long, and there have been stories of them jumping out of the water and knocking people out of boats, but the real worry is the way they suck up plankton like a vacuum cleaner. Then there's the lion fish, a real cutie. They carry spines that can poison humans, and they com- pete for food with native species."

"You make an excellent point, but the situation with transgenic fish is even more complicated than a competition for food. Some of my colleagues are more worried about the 'Trojan gene' effect. You recall the story of the Trojan horse, naturally."

"The wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers," said Paul. "The Trojans thought it was a gift, brought it inside their city walls-and that was the end of Troy."

"An appropriate analogy in this case," Throckmorton said.

He tapped his finger against the cover of a thick staple-bound re- port that was lying on the table. "This was published by English Na- ture, the group that advises the British government on conservation matters. It contains the results of two studies. As a result of the find- ings, English Nature is opposing release oftransgenic fish unless they are made infertile, and a House of Lords committee wants an out- right ban on GM fish. The first study was done at Purdue Univer- sity, where researchers found that transgenic male fish have a

fourfold advantage in breeding. Larger fish are preferred as mates by females."

"Who says size isn't important?" Paul said, with his usual dry humor.

"It happens to be very important in fish. The researchers looked at the Japanese medaka, whose transgenic offspring were twenty- two percent larger than their siblings. These big males made up

eighty percent of the breeding against twenty percent for the smaller males."

Gamay leaned forward with her brow furrowed. "It would even- tually be a disaster for the wild population."

"Worse than a disaster. More like a catastrophe. If you had one transgenic fish in a population of 100,000, GM fish would become fifty percent of the population within sixteen generations."

"Which isn't long in fish terms," Gamay commented.

Throckmorton nodded. "You can cut that time even further. Com- puter models show that if you introduced sixty DNA-altered fish into a population of sixty thousand, it would take only forty genera- tions to pollute the gene pool to extinction."

"You said there was a second study." Throckmorton rubbed his hands together.

"Oh yes, it gets even better. The researchers at universities in Al- abama and California gave salmon growth-promoter genes to some Channel catfish. They found that these transgenic fish were better at avoiding predators than were their natural counterparts."

"To put it succinctly, you think one of these superfish might get into the wild, where it would outbreed and outlive the natural species, quickly driving them to extinction."

"That's it." Paul shook his head in disbelief. "Given what you've just told us," he said, "why would any government or company be fooling around with genetic dynamite like this?"

"I understand what you're saying, but in the hands of a profes- sional, dynamite can be extremely useful." Throckmorton rose from his chair. "Come see, Dr. Frankenstein's workbench is right this way."

He led them to the other side of the lab. The fish swimming in the tanks ranged in size from finger-length to a couple of feet long. He stopped in front of one of the larger tanks. A silver-scaled fish with a dark ridge along its spine was swimming slowly from one end of the tank to the other.

"Well, what do you think of our latest genetically modified mon- ster?"

Gamay leaned close so that her nose was inches from the glass. "Looks like any other well-fed salmon you might see swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe a little more girth around the middle than normal."

"Appearances can be deceiving. How old would you say this hand- some fellow is?"

"I'd guess it's about a year old."

"Actually, only a few weeks ago, it was a mere egg."

"Impossible." "I would agree with you if I hadn't played midwife at its birth. What you're looking at is an eating machine. We've managed to soup up its metabolism. If that creature were placed in the wild, it would quickly out-eat the native stocks. Its little brain shouts one message over and over. 'Feed me, I'm hungry!' Watch."

Throckmorton opened a cooler, extracted a bucket of small bait fish and threw a handful into the tank. The salmon pounced on the fish, and within moments it had devoured its meal. Then it devoured the floating shreds.

"I practically grew up on a fishing boat," Paul said with wide eyes. "I've seen shark go for a hooked cod and schools of blues drive bait fish onto the beach, but I've never come across anything like this. Are you sure you didn't insert some piranha genes into your little baby?"

"Nothing that complicated, although we did some physical engi- neering as well. Salmon have weak, brittle teeth, so we gave this model sharper, more durable dentures that allow it to eat more quickly."

"Amazing," Gamay said, equally impressed by the display. "This fish was only slightly modified. We've built some real mon- sters, true Frankenfish. We destroyed them immediately so that there was no chance they might escape into the wild. We found that we could control size, but I started to worry when I saw how aggressive our creations were, even though they looked fairly normal."

Gamay said, "The fish we caught was aggressive and abnormal in size.

The worried look came back onto Throckmorton's face. "There's only one conclusion I can draw. Your devilfish was a mutant created in a lab. Someone is doing research that has gotten out of control. In- stead of destroying their mutants, they've allowed them into the wild. It's a shame the fish you caught was destroyed. I can only hope that it was sterile."

"What would happen if genetically engineered fish like the one we may have seen start to propagate?"

"A biotech fish is basically an alien species. It's no different than an exotic life-form brought in from Mars and introduced into our en- vironment. I see environmental and economic damage on an un- precedented scale. They could destroy whole fishing fleets, causing huge economic hardship, like that experienced by Mr. Neal and his fellow fishermen. It would totally upset the balance of nature in the waters along our coasts, where the most productive areas are. I have no idea what the long-term consequences would be."

"Let me play devil's advocate," Gamay said after some thought. "Suppose these so-called superfish did supplant the natural popula- tion. The commercial fishermen would in effect become the preda- tors who keep the population within reasonable limits. You would still have fish that could be harvested and sold at market. They would just be bigger and meatier."

"And meaner," Paul noted. "There are too many unknowns to take the risk," Throckmorton

said. "In Norway, hybrid salmon escaped into the sea and bred suc- cessfully with the native fish, but were less able to survive in the wild. So you could have a case where the superfish that replaces the wild stock dies out as a species, eliminating itself as well as the natural pop- ulation."

A sardonic voice said, "My dear Throckmorton, are you trying to frighten these poor people with your dire warnings?"

A man wearing a lab coat had quietly slipped into the lab and was observing them, a wide smile on his face. "Frederick!" Professor Throckmorton said, beaming. Turning to the Trouts, he said, "This is my esteemed colleague, Dr. Barker. Frederick, these are the Doc- tors Trout from NUMA." In an audible aside, Throckmorton said, They may call me Frankenstein, but this is Dr. Strangelove."

Both men laughed over the shared joke. Barker came over and shook hands. He was in his early fifties, with an imposing physique, a shaved head and sunglasses that hid his eyes. His skin had a bleached-out look to it.

"It's a great pleasure to meet someone from NUMA. Please don't let Throckmorton frighten you. You'll never eat a salmon amandine again after listening to him. What brings you to McGill?"

"We were on vacation and heard about Dr. Throckmorton's work/' Gamay said. "As a marine biologist, I thought there might be something in it NUMA would be interested in."

"A busman's holiday! Well, let me defend myself against this slan- der. I am a strong proponent oftransgenic fish, which makes me sus- pect in the eyes of my friend here."

"The doctor is more than a proponent. He is affiliated with some of the biotech companies that are pushing to bring these creatures to market."

"You make it sound like a dark conspiracy, Throckmorton. My friend forgets to tell you that I am working with the full complicity and financial support of the Canadian government."

"Dr. Barker would like to create a designer salmon, so that peo- ple could have a different flavor every day of the week."

"That's not a bad idea, Throckmorton. Do you mind if I bor- row it.

"Only if you claim full responsibility for creating such a monster."

"The professor worries too much." He gestured toward the fish tank. "That fine fellow is proof there is no need to create a transgenic fish of monstrous size. And as he said, biotech fish are less able to sur- vive in the wild. It's easy enough to sterilize the fish so they won't replicate themselves."

"Yes, but sterilization techniques are less than one hundred per- cent reliable. You might not be so casual after you hear the news that the Trouts have brought me."

Throckmorton asked the Trouts to tell their story and run the video again. When they were finished, he said, "What do you make of it, Frederick?"

Barker shook his head. "I'm afraid I share some blame. I got the message from Neal when he called. But I never called him back."

"And what do you think?"

Barker's smile had disappeared. "I would say that it was impossi- ble, if it had not been witnessed by two qualified observers and video- taped. This has all the earmarks of a transgenic experiment gone wrong."

"Who would be so irresponsible as to let a fish like this escape into the wild? Apparently, there are others, if we are to believe the fish- ermen. We must get someone in the field immediately."

"I agree wholeheartedly. It's evident that this white devilfish is al- ready competing with the wild species for food. Whether it can pass along its genes is another question."

"That's what has bothered me all along about this whole issue, its unpredictability," Throckmorton said.

Barker glanced at his watch. "What is not unpredictable is my next class, which meets in a few minutes." He bowed slightly and shook hands with Paul and Gamay. "I'm sorry that I have to run. A pleasure meeting you."

"Your colleague is fascinating," Gamay said. "He looks more like a professional wrestler than a geneticist."

"Oh yes, Frederick is one of a kind. The female students love him.

He rides a motorcycle around the city, which they think is very cool."

"Is there something wrong with his eyes?"

"You noticed the sunglasses, of course. Frederick tends toward al- binism. As you can see from his lack of complexion, he avoids the sun, and his eyes are very sensitive to light. His handicap hasn't hindered his accomplishments, though. Everything I said about his brilliance is true, though, unlike me, he is putting his expertise to work in the private sector. He'll probably become a millionaire. Anyway, we must both thank you for alerting us. I'll start immediately to put a field team together/'

"We've taken enough of your time/' Gamay said. "Not at all. It's been a treat to talk to you. I hope we'll meet again." Throckmorton asked if he could copy the video. Minutes later Paul and Gamay were in a cab headed down the hill to the hotel. "Interesting afternoon/' Paul said.

"More so than you think. While Throckmorton and I were copy- ing the tape, I asked him who Barker's employers were. I thought it wouldn't hurt to have another lead to chase down. He said the com- pany was named Aurora."

"Pretty name," Paul said with a yawn. "What did he say about it?" Gamay smiled mysteriously. "He said Aurora is a subsidiary of a larger company."

Paul blinked. "Don't tell me-" She nodded. "Oceanus."

He thought about it for a moment, then said, "I tried to look at this as if I were creating a computer graphic, but the problem is more like a kid's picture puzzle. Barker is one dot, the guys who tried to drive us off the road are another dot. If we connect the two, we can start to sketch out a picture. So our course of action is very clear." "And what might that be?" Gamay said with skepticism. Paul gave her a lopsided grin. "We have to come up with more dots."