Micro. Michael Crichton
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“She’s a fitness nut. Martial arts, gym.”
They were coming back to the group. Alyson waved to Eric. “You about ready, honey?”
Eric said he was. He embraced Peter, shook his hand.
“Where now, bro?” Peter said.
“Down the road. We have an appointment at MIT. Then we’ll do BU later in the afternoon, and start driving.” He punched Peter on the shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger. Come and see me.”
“I will,” Peter said.
“And bring your group with you. I promise you—all of you—you won’t be disappointed.”
Biosciences Building
18 October, 3:00 p.m.
Returning to the lab, they experienced that familiar environment as suddenly mundane, old-fashioned. It felt crowded, too. The tensions in the lab had been simmering for a long time: Rick Hutter and Karen King had despised each other from the day they had arrived; Erika Moll had brought trouble to the group with her choice of lovers; and, like so many grad students everywhere, they were rivals. And they were tired of the work. It seemed they all felt that way, and there was a long silence as they each returned to their lab benches and resumed work in a desultory way. Peter took his milking beaker off the ice block, labeled it, and put it on his shelf of the refrigerator. He noticed something rattling around with the change in his pocket, and, idly, he took the object out. It was the little thing he’d found in his brother’s rented Ferrari. He flicked it across the bench surface. It spun.
Amar Singh, the plant biologist, was watching. “What’s that?”
“Oh. It broke off my brother’s car. Some part. I thought it would scratch the leather.”
“Could I see—?”
“Sure.” It was a little larger than his thumbnail. “Here,” Peter said, without looking at it closely.
Amar put it in the flat palm of his hand, and squinted at it. “This doesn’t look like a car part to me.”
“No?”
“No. I’d say it’s an airplane.”
Peter stared. It was so small he couldn’t really make out details, but now that he looked closely, it did indeed appear to be a tiny airplane. Like something from a model kit, the kind of kits he’d made as a boy. Maybe a fighter jet to glue onto an aircraft carrier. But if so, it was like no fighter jet he had ever seen. This one had a blunted nose, an open seat, no canopy, and a boxy rear with tiny stubby flanges: no real wings to speak of.
“Do you mind…”
Amar was already heading for the big magnifying glass by his workbench. He put the object under the glass, and turned it carefully. “This is quite fantastic,” he said.
Peter pushed his head in to look. Under magnification, the airplane—or whatever it was—appeared exquisitely beautiful, rich with detail. The cockpit had amazingly intricate controls, so minute it was hard to imagine how they had been carved. Amar was thinking the same thing.
“Perhaps laser lithography,” he said, “the same way they do computer chips.”
“But is it an airplane?”
“I doubt it. No method of propulsion. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just some kind of model.”
“A model?” Peter said.
“Perhaps you should ask your brother,” Amar said, drifting back to his workbench.
Peter reached Eric on his cell phone. He heard loud voices in the background. “Where are you?” Peter said.
“Memorial Drive. They love us at MIT. They understand what we’re talking about.”
Peter described the small object he had found.
“You really shouldn’t have that,” Eric said. “It’s proprietary.”
“But what is it?”
“Actually, it’s a test,” his brother said. “One of the first tests of our robotic technology. It’s a robot.”
“It looks like it has a cockpit, with a little chair and instruments, like someone would sit there…”
“No, no, what you’re seeing is the slot to hold the micro-power-pack and control package. So we can run it remotely. I’m telling you, Peter, it’s a bot. One of the first proofs of concept of our ability to miniaturize beyond anything previously known. I was going to show it to you if we had time, but—listen, I’d prefer you keep that little device to yourself, at least for now.”
“Sure, okay.” No point in telling him about Amar.
“Bring it with you when you come to visit us,” Eric said, “in Hawaii.”
The head of the lab, Ray Hough, came in and spent the rest of the day in his office, reviewing papers. By general agreement it was considered poor form for the graduate students to discuss other jobs while Professor Hough was present. So around four o’clock they all met at Lucy’s Deli on Mass Ave. As they crowded around a couple of small tables, a lively discussion ensued. Rick Hutter continued to argue that the university was the only place where one could engage in ethical research. But nobody really listened to him; they were more concerned with the claims that Vin Drake had made. “He was good,” Jenny Linn said, “but it was a sales pitch.”
“Yes,” Amar Singh said, “but at least one part of it was true. He’s right that discoveries do follow new tools. If those guys have the equivalent of a new kind of microscope, or a new PCR-type technique, then they’re going to make a lot of discoveries quickly.”
“But could it really be the best research environment in the world?” Jenny Linn said.
“We can see for ourselves,” Erika Moll said. “They said they’d pay airfare.”
“How’s Hawaii this time of year?” Jenny said.
“I can’t believe you guys are buying into this,” Rick said.
“It’s always good,” Karen King said. “I did my tae kwon do training in Kona. Wonderful.” Karen was a martial arts devotee, and had already changed into a sweat suit for her evening workout.
“I overheard the CFO say they’re hiring a hundred people before the end of the year,” Erika Moll said, trying to steer the conversation away from Karen and Rick.
“Is that supposed to scare us or entice us?”
“Or both?” Amar Singh said.
“Do we have any idea what this new technology is they claim to have?” Erika said. “Do you know, Peter?”
“From a career standpoint,” Rick Hutter said, “you’d be very foolish not to get your PhD first.”
“I have no idea,” Peter said. He glanced at Amar, who said nothing, just nodded silently.
“Frankly, I’m curious to see their facility,” Jenny said.
“So am I,” Amar said.
“I looked at their website,” Karen King said. “Nanigen MicroTech. It says they make specialized robots at the micro- and nano-scale. That’s millimeters down to thousandths of a millimeter. They have drawings of robots that look like they’re about four or five millimeters long—maybe a quarter of an inch. And then some that are half that, maybe two millimeters. The robots seem very detailed. No explanation how they could be made.”
Amar was staring at Peter. Peter said nothing.
“Your brother hasn’t talked to you about this, Peter?” Jenny asked.