"Henry Slesar - THE DINNER PARTY" - читать интересную книгу автора (Slezar Henry)

THE DINNER PARTY

THE DINNER PARTY

"That experiment was not done at our company, Mrs. Fitzmorris -- "
"It's Haley-Fitzmorris, Mr. Whitlow. And there are rumors that some of your experiments are even more outrageous! We've heard that you've been inserting human genes -- people genes! -- into animals and plants of every variety! You're creating monsters and releasing them into the environment, threatening a transfer of dangerous viruses across species! Sometimes these transfers happen by accident, like AIDS -- assuming it was an accident -- but your company is conducting experiments that may make the AIDs epidemic seem like nothing more than a bad cold! You're not just dealing in genes, Mr. Whitlow, you're dealing in genies! Genies we can never get back into the bottle!"
She felt a touch on her left elbow. Two waiters were there, and judging from their size and build, they hadn't been hired for their plate-juggling skills.
"All right!" she said. "I'm willing to leave now, if I may ask just one more question."
Whitlow seemed so relieved by the offer that he merely nodded his head.
"The most frightening rumor we have heard," she said, "is that you are conducting experiments on human beings. I don't mean cloning. I mean that you are inserting plant and animal genes into human bodies to determine their effect -- "
Whitlow's hand was raised and so was his voice.
"That's enough, Mrs. Fitzmorris! The question is preposterous. I am neither Dr. Frankenstein nor Dr. Moreau. The Whitlow Corporation is in the business of nourishing the human race -- not mutilating it!"
There was a smattering of applause, all of it from the long table on the raised platform.
"Throughout history," he said, "ignorant people, small-minded people, have objected to scientific investigation, calling every experiment `tampering with nature.' But Mother Nature, Madam, has been tampering with the human race since Man appeared on this planet. Science is our first line of defense against her continuing hostility."
Maureen looked at the two young waiters, a look that made them release her elbows. Then, with a dignified toss of her head, she started for the exit and they followed. She was clutching her purse fiercely, but she knew she would never employ its contents.
WHEN THE VALET parker delivered her Lexus, Roy Lummer appeared as well. He moved behind the wheel and they drove away.
"I hope you had better luck than I did, Roy." "I almost got caught twice," he smiled, "but I told them I was a waiter, like you said, and they told me to go back downstairs."
"And did you?"
"Yeah, sure, but I went right back up again. I didn't find no laboratory though. I mean, laboratories, that's where they have bottles and machines and operating tables and like that, right?"
"Yes," Maureen said wearily.
"Once I opened this door, and there was this woman in bed. That kind of scared me so I closed the door pretty quick."
"I understand, Roy."
He related more of his adventure, but Maureen was no longer listening. She realized that all her plans had been badly laid; that the triumphant scenes she had anticipated had all been foolish fantasies. The Derringer in her silken purse now seemed like a ludicrous affectation. She would never have been able to commit an assassination, even if she was convinced of Whitlow's infamy...Now she was having doubts that the STF had received the correct intelligence about the Whitlow agenda...
That morning, at three A.M., Maureen sat up in bed as if wakened by a cannon shot.
Her heart pounding, she picked up the phone and dialed Vincent Roker's home number. His voice was thick with sleep, but he was still relieved to hear hers.
"We've got to take action!" Maureen says. "We've got to move right now, before Whitlow realizes that we know the truth! Roy did say that he was seen on that second floor -- "
"All right," the chairman said, "We'll make our move first thing in the morning. I can even get a warrant -- the police commissioner is my father-in-law."
"What can we call it?"
"How about suspicion of abduction? Kidnapping? All that matters is that we produce that poor woman!"
It was six-thirty when the police car and ambulance arrived at the Whitlow mansion, and after ten minutes of loud and angry protest they made their way to the second floor and to the bedroom where Roy had committed his blunder of the night before. Only Vincent Roker was permitted to enter. The woman covered her bright red face with the bed sheet and burst into tears. When the STF chairman solemnly guaranteed her privacy, she agreed to accompany him.
When Maureen emerged from the secured hospital room her pallor was as white as the hospital walls. Vincent Roker took her hands and led her to a seat in the solarium.
"Now tell me about it," he said. "How did you know? What made you realize the truth -- at three o'clock in the morning?"
"I would have known earlier," Maureen said, "if I had listened more carefully to what Roy Lummer was saying, if I had understood that he wasn't simply using slang."
"And what was it Roy said?"
"He was telling me about the woman he saw in the bedroom. He said she was some tomato."

THE DINNER PARTY

THE DINNER PARTY

MRS. MAUREEN HALEY-Fitzmorris, struggling into the Dior gown she had bought ten years ago, looked at her matronly reflection and realized, not without amusement, that she had finally grown into her name.
When she married Herbert Haley-Fitzmorris, CEO of the Tektor Corporation, she had been simply Maureen Brown, and wore Dior only on runways at fashion shows. Herbert was a dull husband, but the marriage had been a revelation just the same. She would listen to his dinnertime stories of corporate skullduggery, his defense of ground well poisoning, the illicit dumping of toxic waste, cruel animal experiments, a dozen other offenses against man and beast, and an activist was born.
When Herbert's Type A personality left her a rich widow with a large bundle of corporate shares, Maureen dedicated her life to Causes, and none more compelling than the one which was now forcing her into a dress two sizes too small. She was going to a dinner party, given by Franklin Whitlow of the Whitlow Corporation, a company which considered itself the cutting edge of the genetic engineering revolution. There would be revelations at this dinner table, too. Just like old times.
Maureen wasn't going alone. The activist group known as STF (Save The Future) had suggested an escort. He was a large, amiable man who looked superb in evening dress, and whose IQ was well below a hundred. His name was Roy Lummer, and Roy was as friendly and loyal as an Alsatian puppy. STF chairman Vincent Roker, aware of Maureen's sometimes radical behavior, had decided that Roy's protection might be prudent.
She was dressed and ready, except for one accessory. She chose the largest evening bag in her closet and placed the dainty but deadly Derringer into its silken folds.
Roy Lummer was downstairs, wearing evening dress identical to what the waiters would be wearing. He grinned toothily when he saw her. "You know something, Mrs. H? You're a good-looking babe."
"Just remember what you were told, Roy. Before Mr. Whitlow begins his presentation after dinner, you go to the men's room. Don't come back to the table until you've made a thorough canvass of the house."
"What's `canvas,' Mrs. H?"
"Just check out the place, Roy. There's a rumor that Whitlow maintains a private laboratory in the house, perhaps even a clinic. See what you can find. If anyone questions you, just pretend you're a waiter who lost his way. Got that?"
"You betcha," Roy said.
The Whitlow mansion was as grand as the aspirations of its owner. Every automobile that wheeled about the circular driveway was large, black, and shiny. Most of the men who emerged from the back seats were large (if only in circumference), white, and silver-haired. Some of their wives were afterthoughts; some were showpieces.
There were a dozen round tables in the dining room, facing the oblong one on a platform. It looked like the setting for the Last Supper before the Guests arrived, but Maureen dropped the analogy when she counted only seven chairs. Whitlow and his six Vice-Presidents.
They didn't make their appearance until after the main course was served, and by then Whitlow's guests were so seduced by the remarkable food that no one paid them any attention. Even Maureen, whose own cook had once been cited by Michelin, found herself mellowing toward the man she had once cheerfully called "a monster."
Maybe, she thought, she might not use the gun after all.
The dessert, a spectacular tower of chocolate, fruits, creams, and spirits, brought on audible groans of ecstasy among the diners. When coffee was served, and Franklin Whitlow rose to speak, there was loud applause. He might have been well-advised to skip his speech and ask for his funding right then and there.
Instead, Whitlow said: "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like you to know one fact about tonight's dinner. Everything you have just eaten was genetically modified."
There was a stir, of course. With few exceptions among the corporate executives present there was doubt, apprehension, and even fear of the subject of genetic engineering. They were no different from the rest of the public, who chewed and digested their food in exactly the same way.
"Now we're not going to have a debate here this evening about the rights and wrongs, the benefits and dangers of genetic modification, or GM as we call it. But in this room are many of the men and women who will sooner or later decide the fate of not only this infant science, but perhaps of the Planet Earth."
Whitlow picked up a white placard, and turned it around to face them. It read:
6,000,000,000.
"I trust you all recognize this number. Only a short time ago, statisticians concluded that the world population had finally reached it. Six billion of us on this small planet. Six billion mouths to feed on a world with shrinking arable land and resources. Six billion potential sufferers from diseases as old as cholera and as new as AIDS.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you think our little world has faced crises before, if you think the Apocalypse horses we should fear most are War and Pestilence, think again. It is Famine which should scare the Hell out of us. Famine that will cause suffering on a scale beyond anything we've known. Famine that will start wars and bring pestilence down upon us. Mr. Malthus will be chuckling in his grave in this wonderful twenty-first century, because, ladies and gentlemen, he will be proven right.
"Unless, of course, we find the answer. And I'm here to tell you that we have found it, not by discovering more arable land -- there isn't any -but by making the foods we produce bigger, better, healthier, and cheaper. Some of you may think I have left out a word. Safer. That's the key word of the argument from those who call genetic modification Frankenfood. With a dread based more upon superstition than scientific fact, they are convinced that GM foods are simply not safe for human consumption.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you've all made pigs of yourselves tonight -guinea pigs."
He grinned, expecting a laugh that never came.
"But have no fear. There has yet to be a shred of evidence that genetic manipulation produces anything but beneficial results. And this is only the beginning -- "
"Mr. Whitlow!"
He looked genuinely surprised. Even more so when he realized the interruption came from a handsome, matronly woman who was dining alone, and was now standing beside her chair.
"Wasn't there a `shred' just a few weeks ago? When The Lancet in England published a study about how rats fed with modified potatoes developed thickening of the stomach wails and other -- "
"Madame, excuse me! I did say at the outset that we weren't here for a debate -- "
"I'm not debating, Mr. Whitlow, I'm asking a question! And while I'm about it, could we please have your views on GM's effect on the ecosystem? Did you know that the Monarch butterflies are dying when exposed to pollen from genetically modified maize?"
The man at the end of the table rose, and asked sternly: "Madame, would you kindly identify yourself?"
"I am Mrs. Haley-Fitzmorris, and I am chairwoman of the EDI-Zeta Corporation, formerly known as Tektor. And as a corporate officer, I'm also concerned about the profit motive in GM seeds which can only be used with the products of certain companies, and in Terminator seeds that can't be planted again -- "
"Mrs. Fitzmorris," Whitlow said, licking his lips. "we're prepared to answer all of your concerns, but this isn't the proper time or place --"
"But what I need to know most of all," Maureen said, in a rising voice, "is about the rumor that your company is now experimenting with transgenics -- growing human parts on the backs of mice, for instance
"That experiment was not done at our company, Mrs. Fitzmorris -- "
"It's Haley-Fitzmorris, Mr. Whitlow. And there are rumors that some of your experiments are even more outrageous! We've heard that you've been inserting human genes -- people genes! -- into animals and plants of every variety! You're creating monsters and releasing them into the environment, threatening a transfer of dangerous viruses across species! Sometimes these transfers happen by accident, like AIDS -- assuming it was an accident -- but your company is conducting experiments that may make the AIDs epidemic seem like nothing more than a bad cold! You're not just dealing in genes, Mr. Whitlow, you're dealing in genies! Genies we can never get back into the bottle!"
She felt a touch on her left elbow. Two waiters were there, and judging from their size and build, they hadn't been hired for their plate-juggling skills.
"All right!" she said. "I'm willing to leave now, if I may ask just one more question."
Whitlow seemed so relieved by the offer that he merely nodded his head.
"The most frightening rumor we have heard," she said, "is that you are conducting experiments on human beings. I don't mean cloning. I mean that you are inserting plant and animal genes into human bodies to determine their effect -- "
Whitlow's hand was raised and so was his voice.
"That's enough, Mrs. Fitzmorris! The question is preposterous. I am neither Dr. Frankenstein nor Dr. Moreau. The Whitlow Corporation is in the business of nourishing the human race -- not mutilating it!"
There was a smattering of applause, all of it from the long table on the raised platform.
"Throughout history," he said, "ignorant people, small-minded people, have objected to scientific investigation, calling every experiment `tampering with nature.' But Mother Nature, Madam, has been tampering with the human race since Man appeared on this planet. Science is our first line of defense against her continuing hostility."
Maureen looked at the two young waiters, a look that made them release her elbows. Then, with a dignified toss of her head, she started for the exit and they followed. She was clutching her purse fiercely, but she knew she would never employ its contents.
WHEN THE VALET parker delivered her Lexus, Roy Lummer appeared as well. He moved behind the wheel and they drove away.
"I hope you had better luck than I did, Roy." "I almost got caught twice," he smiled, "but I told them I was a waiter, like you said, and they told me to go back downstairs."
"And did you?"
"Yeah, sure, but I went right back up again. I didn't find no laboratory though. I mean, laboratories, that's where they have bottles and machines and operating tables and like that, right?"
"Yes," Maureen said wearily.
"Once I opened this door, and there was this woman in bed. That kind of scared me so I closed the door pretty quick."
"I understand, Roy."
He related more of his adventure, but Maureen was no longer listening. She realized that all her plans had been badly laid; that the triumphant scenes she had anticipated had all been foolish fantasies. The Derringer in her silken purse now seemed like a ludicrous affectation. She would never have been able to commit an assassination, even if she was convinced of Whitlow's infamy...Now she was having doubts that the STF had received the correct intelligence about the Whitlow agenda...
That morning, at three A.M., Maureen sat up in bed as if wakened by a cannon shot.
Her heart pounding, she picked up the phone and dialed Vincent Roker's home number. His voice was thick with sleep, but he was still relieved to hear hers.
"We've got to take action!" Maureen says. "We've got to move right now, before Whitlow realizes that we know the truth! Roy did say that he was seen on that second floor -- "
"All right," the chairman said, "We'll make our move first thing in the morning. I can even get a warrant -- the police commissioner is my father-in-law."
"What can we call it?"
"How about suspicion of abduction? Kidnapping? All that matters is that we produce that poor woman!"
It was six-thirty when the police car and ambulance arrived at the Whitlow mansion, and after ten minutes of loud and angry protest they made their way to the second floor and to the bedroom where Roy had committed his blunder of the night before. Only Vincent Roker was permitted to enter. The woman covered her bright red face with the bed sheet and burst into tears. When the STF chairman solemnly guaranteed her privacy, she agreed to accompany him.
When Maureen emerged from the secured hospital room her pallor was as white as the hospital walls. Vincent Roker took her hands and led her to a seat in the solarium.
"Now tell me about it," he said. "How did you know? What made you realize the truth -- at three o'clock in the morning?"
"I would have known earlier," Maureen said, "if I had listened more carefully to what Roy Lummer was saying, if I had understood that he wasn't simply using slang."
"And what was it Roy said?"
"He was telling me about the woman he saw in the bedroom. He said she was some tomato."