Micro. Michael Crichton
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Drake said. “Means ‘work is done.’ ”
“Strange name for a duck pond,” Danny said. “Because that’s what it is. I saw three or four families of ducklings here before.”
“And did you see what happens?” Drake said.
Danny shook his head no. “Is this going to upset me?”
“That depends. Look in the fronds about three feet above the water.”
The group paused, stared. Karen King saw it first. “Gray heron,” she whispered, nodding. A dusty-gray bird, standing about three feet tall, with a spiky head and dull eyes. It looked unkempt and lazy. It was absolutely motionless and it blended perfectly into the shadows of the palm foliage.
“It can stay that way for hours,” Karen said.
They watched for several minutes, and were about to leave when one of the duckling families began to skirt around the edge of the pond. They kept their bodies half-hidden in the overhanging waterside grasses, but to no avail.
In a swift motion, the heron left its perch, splashed among the ducks, and resumed its perch, this time with tiny duck feet protruding from its jaws.
“Ewwww!” Danny.
“Yuch!” Jenny.
The heron threw back his head, looking straight up, and in a single flip motion gulped down the remains of the duckling. It then lowered its head, and turned motionless again in the shadows. It had all taken place in a few seconds. It was hard to believe it had happened at all.
“That’s disgusting,” Danny said.
“It’s the way of the world,” Drake said. “You’ll notice the arboretum is not overrun with ducks, and that’s the reason why. Ah! If I am not mistaken, here are our cars, waiting to take us back to civilization.”
Kalikimaki Industrial Park
28 October, 6:00 p.m.
On the way back to the Nanigen headquarters, Karen King drove the Bentley convertible and the other students crammed themselves into it, while Alyson Bender and Vin Drake went in the sports car. They hadn’t gone far when Danny Minot, the science studies student, cleared his throat. “I think,” Minot said, speaking above the rush of the wind, “that Drake’s arguments about poisonous plants are subject to dispute.”
“Subject to dispute” was one of Minot’s favorite phrases.
“Oh? How’s that?” Amar said. Amar in particular loathed Minot.
“Well, this notion of poison is slippery, isn’t it,” Minot said. “Poison is what we call any compound that does us harm. Or we think does us harm. Because it may not, in reality, be so harmful. After all, strychnine was once dispensed as a patent medicine in the 1800s. It was thought to be a restorative. And it’s still administered for acute alcohol poisoning, I believe. And the tree wouldn’t go to the trouble of making strychnine unless it had some purpose, self-defense most likely. Other plants make strychnine, like nightshade. There must be a purpose.”
“Yes,” Jenny Linn said, “to keep from being eaten.”
“That’s the plant’s view.”
“It’s our view, too, because we don’t eat it either.”
“But for humans,” Amar said to Minot, “are you arguing that strychnine is not harmful? Not really a poison?”
“That’s right. As a concept, it’s slippery. One might even say it’s indeterminate. The term ‘poison’ doesn’t really refer to anything fixed or specific at all.”
This brought groans throughout the car.
“Can we change the subject?” Erika said.
“I’m simply saying the idea of what is poison is subject to dispute.”
“Danny, with you everything is subject to dispute.”
“In essence, yes,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Because I have not adopted the scientific worldview of fixed verities and immutable truths.”
“Neither have we,” Erika said. “But some things are repeatedly verifiable and therefore justify our belief in them.”
“Wouldn’t it be pleasant to think so? But that’s just a self-serving fantasy that most scientists have about themselves. In reality, it’s all power structures,” Minot said. “And you know it. Whoever has the power in society determines what can be studied, determines what can be observed, determines what can be thought. Scientists fall in line with the dominant power structure. They have to, because the power structure pays the bills. You don’t play ball with the power structure, you don’t get money for research, you don’t get an appointment, you don’t get published, in short you don’t count anymore. You’re out. You might as well be dead.”
There was silence in the car.
“You know I’m right,” Minot said. “You just don’t like it.”
“Speaking of playing ball with power,” Rick Hutter said, “look over there. I think we’re coming to the Kalikimaki Industrial Park, and Nanigen headquarters.”
Jenny Linn took a small insulated Gore-Tex case the size of her hand and carefully clipped it to her belt. Karen King said, “What’s that, show and tell?”
“Yes,” Jenny said. “If they’re really going to offer us jobs, well, I thought…” She shrugged. “These are all of my extracted and purified volatiles. What did you bring?”
“Benzos, baby,” Karen said. “Benzoquinones in a spray container. Blister the skin, burn your eyes—it may come from beetles, but it’s the ideal personal-defense chemical. Safe, short-lasting, organic. It’ll make an excellent product.”
“Of course, you would bring a commercial product,” Rick Hutter said to Karen.
“That’s because I just don’t have your scruples, Rick,” Karen said. “Why? You going to tell us you didn’t bring anything?”
“No, no.”
“Liar.”
“Well, okay.” He tapped his shirt pocket. “There’s a latex extract from my tree. You daub it on and it kills any burrowing parasites under your skin.”
“Sounds like a product to me,” Karen said, swinging the wheel, and the Bentley slipped around a hairpin turn, glued to the road. “Maybe you’ll make a billion dollars from it, Rick.” She took her eyes off the road for a second and flashed him a wicked smile.
“No, no, I’m just studying the underlying biochemical mechanism—”
“Tell it to the venture capitalists.” Karen glanced at Peter, who sat in the front seat beside her. “And what about you? You’ve got a lot on your mind. Did you bring something?”
“Actually,” Peter said, “I did.”
Fingering the CD in his jacket pocket, Peter Jansen felt a nervous shiver pass through his body. Now that he was going into the Nanigen building, he realized he hadn’t fully worked out his plan. Somehow he had to get Bender and Drake to confess in front of the group, and playing Jorge’s recording of the phone call between Alyson Bender and Vin Drake would provoke that, he hoped. And if all the graduate students heard a confession, then Drake would be unable to retaliate. There were seven of them; he couldn’t attack them all at once.
At least that was the idea.
Lost in his thoughts, Peter stayed with the group as they moved into the building, led by Alyson Bender. “This way, please, and ladies and gentlemen…” They stopped first at the elegant black-leather reception area. “I will need your