What gave him night sweats was that this wouldn't be another wire transfer. The exchange would take place in person at the statue of George Washington in the Boston Garden at 2:30 on Friday the 1st-in unmarked hundred-dollar bills, twenty-five thousand of them.

"Chris, I think you better come in as soon as possible." It was Vartan Dolat, the molecular biologist Chris had hired from MIT. He was at the lab, and as usual he was exercising telephone caution. His voice was devoid of inflection.

But Chris's heart started to hammer. It was nine in the morning on his day off. "Do we have a problem?"

But Vartan deflected the question. "See you at ten."

Chris arrived and was met by Vartan outside the lab. "It's Jimbo."

"Is he okay?"

Vartan didn't answer but hustled him to the lab while Chris said a silent prayer that he wouldn't find Jimbo withered and dying.

Waiting for them were Stan Chow, Derek Wyman, and Betsy Watkins, a geneticist from Northeastern specializing in human aging. Chris could hear monkeys chattering, but Jimbo's cage was empty. Betsy opened the rear door to the large enclosed pen outside where the animals could move about in fresh air. Chris could see the nontoxic red J painted on his chest. "Is that him?"

Jimbo was sitting on a high perch casually grooming Fred, a male ten years his junior.

"He's quiet now, but for the last two hours he's been jumping around like a kid," Vartan said.

Jimbo saw Chris and hooted a hello.

"I don't believe it."

When Jimbo had arrived four months ago, all he did was sit in a corner or sleep. What movements he made were crimped by arthritis. When put in the group pen, he'd either ignore the other animals or whack them if they approached. Twenty-nine years had reduced Jimbo to a lethargic, flabby, antisocial curmudgeon. Incredibly, he looked reborn.

"He even made a move on Molly," Betsy said.

"You're kidding."'

"He went through some courtship gestures then he tried to mount her. We had to separate them because she's still fertile."

Chris beamed at the animal. "You old gunslinger, you."

Vartan handed Chris Jimbo's vital functions charts. "What's interesting is that he's eating less, yet he's gained nearly a pound, mostly in muscle mass."

Fred decided it was time to play and leapt to the ceiling bars. Instantly, Jimbo was behind him, chattering and swinging across the pen. His movements were slower but still fluid. It was like watching an elderly man on amphetamines.

"Even more remarkable, his blood sugars are down by 80 percent. And so are the protein substances that block arteries, stiffen joints, produce cataracts, and gum up brain tissue."

"All the signs of aging," Chris said.

"Yes. Tabulone seems to have reversed the process. I don't think he'll turn into a juvenile again, but the stuff's kicked him back a few years. My guess is that it will stabilize as with the mice."

Chris was stunned. They just hadn't noticed the effect in the mice.

Not only did Elixir prolong life, it had some initial rejuvenating effects.

Even more bizarre, several witnesses say that before the strange affliction, Quinn looked thirty years younger than his age.

My God! thought Chris, It's what took hold of Dexter.

He had a damaged heart which he knew would kill him soon. Maybe on an impulse he'd tried it on himself and experienced a backward thrust like Jimbo. It must have been like nothing else he had ever experienced. Nothing out of a medicine jar or syringe. The ultimate high: the fires of spring redux.

Betsy Watkins, who had a reputation for being a no-nonsense researcher rarely given to superlatives, was also amazed. "Tabulone appears to restore the DNA to effect a kind of cellular retrogression. I've seen nothing like it before. I don't think anyone has. It's nothing short of a miracle."

"Does Ross know?" Chris asked.

"Yes, he does." Around the corner came Quentin. He was beaming. "The real question is, What's the next step?"

Chris could smell alcohol on his breath and it wasn't even noon. What Quentin really wanted to know was when they could file application with the FDA. "I think we're talking a few years."

"Years? Why so long? I mean, you've got a monkey who's regressed a decade. We should be thinking about moving on to human subjects and all."

"We have protocol to follow. You know that," Betsy said incredulously. "Disconnect these animals, and they'll die."

"Don't disconnect them and they'll go on forever."

Betsy began to laugh, but caught herself because Quentin was perfectly serious. "Quentin, this is a compound that will make you die of old age on the spot if you overdose or underdose. It's hardly ready for human trial."

"Betsy, we supply most hospitals and clinics with Proctizam which is highly toxic."

"Proctizam is an experimental drug for cancer patients near death," Betsy shot back.

"So is Elixir! There are people who would pay dearly to have it the way it is, with all the risks."

Chris could feel the others stiffen. It wasn't just that they were dedicated university scientists not used to corporate bullying. They couldn't quite believe Quentin's suggestion. It bordered dangerously on blind desperation.

"Quentin," Betsy said, "speculation like that is not within the interests of any responsible pharmaceutical company."

Quentin's face flushed as if it had been slapped. He sucked in his breath and recomposed himself. "Well, let's just say I'm getting a tad frustrated. We've got too many important people invested in this project who don't want to wait a bunch of years to see this go to market. If you'll excuse me."

And he walked away, leaving the others wondering what that was all about.

9

"I think your sister's a little paranoid." What Chris really meant was that she was getting wackier. "She carried on about the evils of the modern world for half an hour."

It was a few days later, and Jenny had flown in for a quick visit. After driving her to the airport he had returned home to work with Wendy on the nursery. Pressure from Quentin had him working long days so he almost forgot how good it was to share time with her. Presently he was hanging wallpaper while she was putting up curtains.

"She can get like that. I wonder what set her off?"

"A radio report about drugs at some junior high. She carried on like the Antichrist was dealing in every schoolyard in the country. No wonder Kelly's so screwed up."

"Chris, Jenny's a great mother. She gave up a nursing career for Kelly. Nobody could have predicted her problems."

"Well, she's trying to make up for them with Abigail. The kid's a year old, and she's already thinking about home schooling."

"Maybe it's second motherhood. She's determined to make this one work."

So are we, Chris thought. The old wound was healing. Wendy was loving the prospect of motherhood. And with it, they had moved closer over the months. It was like going back in time themselves, happy in love all over again.

Last month they had learned that their baby would be a boy. So Chris hung paper with sailboats on a field of blue, while Wendy made nautical curtains. They bought a new crib and set up a bookcase with a collection of kiddie stories, a Jack-in-the-box, and a few stuffed animals including a big goofy Garfield cat.

"It's costing her and Ted a fortune," he said.

While shopping yesterday, Jenny had spent hundreds of dollars on toys including an inlaid pearl music box that played "Frere Jacques." While he was fond of Jenny, he worried about her influence on Wendy. It wasn't just the mood swings or neatness obsession. It was her hangups. Some people got worked up over the Russians, others the environment. For Jenny it was how our culture killed childhood innocence. At the slightest provocation, she'd hold forth on the usual demons-drugs, rock and roll, alcohol, TV violence-and how kids didn't have a chance to be kids anymore. Wendy didn't need that kind of talk. It was hard enough to get her to decide to have another child without the hyped-up ravings.