“That’s not the impression you give in your speeches.”
“Well, since when have nuanced arguments ever worked in America?” Butler asked. “I make the case in a manner I know people will respond to.”
“It’s irresponsible.”
“No, it’s human cloning that is irresponsible. It was Abigail Stickling and Vernon Gaddis who were irresponsible. A prodigal twentysomething-year-old grad student doesn’t get to unilaterally rewrite the fundamental nature of our species simply because she had an epiphany. Science belongs to the people. Particularly science that has the potential to change their lives.”
“People can decide for themselves whether they want to adopt a new technology or not.”
Butler snorted dismissively. “No, they absolutely cannot. People have always been too quick to adopt whatever appears to make their lives easier in the short term. Humans are very good at inventing solutions and very, very bad at anticipating consequences.” He gazed up at the towers. “And just look how that has worked out for us.”
“So what are the negative consequences of cloning?”
“What are the positives?” Butler retorted. “For hundreds of millions of years, life on earth has followed a simple pattern—everything that is born will die. And then twenty years ago, along came Abigail Stickling to change all that. I simply feel that maybe there should have been more discussion before unleashing it on the world.”
“Clones still die. She just found a way to prolong life a little. She never solved immortality.”
“Yes, and thank God she jumped off that roof before she did. Otherwise, we . . .” Butler drifted off midsentence as a car came around the nearest tower, circling them before rolling to a stop some twenty feet away. Nothing happened. Both cars sat there idling like awkward teenagers at a school dance. Butler took one long last swig from his flask and put it in the seat pocket. Then he combed his fingers nervously through his hair as if he were about to do an on-camera interview.
“So . . . ,” Con said. “We going to go talk to them or what?”
“In a minute, in a minute,” Butler said. Like a lot of academics, he appeared to prefer theory to practice and wasn’t particularly eager to get out of the car.
“I mean, we came all this way.” Con couldn’t help herself.
“Please. Stop,” Butler implored, but he took the hint and finally got out of the car. Con followed after him. He opened an umbrella and walked out between the two cars to where the headlights crosshatched brightest. Con stood a short distance away in the rain. Huddling beneath a black umbrella with the founder of Children of Adam seemed to be asking for trouble.
“The moment of truth,” Butler muttered.
Con hoped he was right. The truth was the best she could hope for out of this.
The passenger door of the other car opened, and it was a testament to the seductiveness of Butler’s arguments that Con was genuinely surprised when it wasn’t Vernon Gaddis who opened it. Instead, Dr. Brooke Fenton, CEO of Palingenesis, got out of the car, cinching her raincoat tight against the rain. Butler glanced toward Con, registering his own surprise at having had it so wrong.
“Hello, Doctor,” Butler said, turning his attention to Fenton, his voice dipped in acid. “This feels long overdue.”
“You brought the girl, I see,” Dr. Fenton said.
“Good to my word as always. I must admit, I’ve spent years speculating about your identity. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that it would be the CEO of Palingenesis.”
“What are you talking about?” Dr. Fenton said.
Caught up in the pageantry of his own performance, Butler was slow to understand her confusion. “Let’s not be obtuse with one another, shall we? Not after so long. Just tell me why? What’s your angle?”
“I’m just here for the girl,” she said.
Maybe it was only from having dealt with her, but Con didn’t think Dr. Fenton was playing dumb. She looked mystified, brow furrowed as if she were trying to follow a conversation in a language she only half knew. Either she really was playing dumb, which made no sense at this point, or Dr. Fenton genuinely didn’t know what Franklin Butler was talking about.
“She’s not your anonymous donor,” Con said to Butler.
“I most certainly am not,” Fenton said, indignant at the very idea.
Butler gave them both a puzzled look and asked Fenton what she was doing here.
“Because you called me.”