"I know that, Quentin, but Elixir is not like any other pharmaceutical in history. We're not talking about adding ten years to a person's life but doubling or tripling it."

"I fail to see the problem."

"The problem is we're no longer playing scientist, but God. And, frankly, I don't have the credentials! I'm asking, do we really want to open that door?"

"What door, for godsakes?" Quentin was losing his composure by the second.

"To all the nightmare potentials. If suddenly we introduce a compound that keeps the next generation from dying, the population in a hundred years would be twenty-six billion. Meanwhile, resources run out, the environment is devastated, and wars erupt between the Elixirs and the Elixir-nots-"

Quentin cut her off. "Betsy, your nightmare may be the only hope for patients suffering multiple sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's Disease… or Alzheimer's."

That was intended to ingratiate Chris. But from Quentin it was a smarmy jab. He didn't give a damn about ethics or humanity. His sole interest was his billion-dollar dream.

"The potential impact is unimaginable," Betsy continued, "and we had better think about it while we still have time."

The others nodded in agreement. Sensing a conspiracy, Quentin shot Chris a look for help. But Chris remained silent. "You mean you want to pull the plug because it might be too successful?"

"Yes-because we should be working on improving the quality of the life, not trying to prolong it."

"Prolonging it is improving the quality, damn it!"

"Then we should get Public Citizen or some other watchdog agency to monitor its development."

"Jesus Christ! We don't need to have Ralph Nader and his people hanging over us again."

Four years ago, the medical arm of Nader's consumer group got the FDA to withdraw one of Darby's high-profit arthritis drugs because it caused heart failure in some patients. The very mention of the organization made Quentin apoplectic.

"Please," said Vartan holding up his hands. "Betsy's making an important point. There are too many big unknowns to grapple with. It's only ethical we reassess matters."

Derek and Stan agreed. It was clear that they had discussed matters among themselves already. Only Quentin and Chris were hearing the dissent for the first time.

Chris felt the battle lines divide them. He did not like being on the same side as Quentin. He also felt the rising expectation to say something. It was his project, after all. Suddenly his people were talking about halting a seven-year investment of his mind and soul-and at the very threshold of the kingdom. And they were expecting him to resolve what smacked of being the ultimate conflict between science and ethics.

No longer able to stall, he said, "I think you're both right. Betsy, you raise some troublesome potentials, things we should consider. But unwanted possibilities are no reason to call a halt. Cocaine or heroin are dangerous when abused, but lots of people take them and nobody's twisting their arms. Should we stop manufacturing them because it's become a social problem? Of course not, because of all the legitimate uses in medicine. Even nuclear fission: It's not innately evil, just one of its potential applications."

"That's like saying climb the mountain because it's there: Knowledge for its own sake," Betsy said.

"Yes, but I see nothing wrong with that."

"Not all knowledge is good."

"True, but science shouldn't be prohibited from extending frontiers, especially in human biology. Like cloning, prolongevity was bound to be discovered, so why not do it right? And we're the best team there is."

"Hear, hear!" shouted Quentin and flashed Chris a thumbs-up. The man was a damn fool, and Chris resented the assumption of complicity.

"Then maybe you can tell us what exactly our objective is," Betsy said, "because I've lost sight."

Iwati's face rose up in Chris's mind. Never grow old.

"Our objective is to continue the headway we've made with an eye to moving to clinical. The fact is, the accelerated senescence may stop us before our conscience does."

Another flashcard image-Sam in the hospital, looking up at Chris, wondering who he was.

"If you're worried about it being too successful," Quentin said, "why not modify the compound so that it's good for, say, for ten or twenty years-chemically fine-tune it, kind of?"

Betsy took a deep breath of exasperation. It was a ludicrous suggestion. "Even if we discovered some built-in timers for molecules, activation would constitute mass murder."

"Oh hell, you can work out something," Quentin snapped back. "The point is that if Elixir can add a decade or two to human life, I'm all for it. So is Darby Pharms and so is the human race, damn it! We're not going to have a work stoppage. Period! Besides, we don't even know if it works on humans."

"Frankly, I hope it doesn't," Betsy said, and picked up her things and left.

The meeting was over, and Derek, Stan, and Vartan exited without a word.

When they were alone, Quentin turned to Chris. "What the hell's wrong with her? This might be the greatest discovery in all of science, and she's trying to fucking sabotage it. Jesus! Where the hell did you find that woman in the first place?"

Chris looked at the big pink musk-melon face. The same face that for weeks would mooch into his lab to check on progress, to reiterate how important Elixir was to the company, to remind him how there would be no Elixir project without Quentin. Chris did all he could to keep from whacking that face. "Quentin, I'm sure you have work to do."

Quentin gave him an offended look then left.

Chris's insides felt scooped out. Maybe they would talk, but they were not going to shut the project down. No way. He needed Betsy, but if she became a liability, he would ask her to find another lab.

He was about to leave when he looked back at the chalkboard notes and diagrams. Do we really want to open that door?

And a small voice in his head, whispered: Yes, oh yes.

Dexter had messed up-yielded to a crazy nostalgic impulse. A last-ditch effort to bathe in the fires of spring. But when the time came, Chris wouldn't be so foolish. No way.

10

Quentin arrived at two-thirty and paced in circles around George Washington and his horse for half an hour. In a shoulder bag he carried unmarked hundred-dollar bills. But not twenty-five thousand of them. Over the week he had raised only $1.5 million-a million shy of what he owed.

It was a cool drizzly day, and only a few people were in the Garden. Quentin's stomach was a cauldron of acid. He chewed Tums, thinking that Antoine was being cagey, probably waiting to see if he had brought police or narcs. The thought had never crossed his mind. About three o'clock a kid in jeans and a slicker approached him. "He's waiting for you in the lounge across the street." He pointed to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel then took off in the opposite direction.

Quentin crossed Arlington Street, feeling relief they were meeting in a civilized place. The lounge was dim and only a couple of businessmen sat by the window. A waiter directed Quentin to a table in the far corner where a man sat, but it was not Antoine Ducharme.

"How's the finger?" asked Vince Lucas.

Instantly, Quentin's hand began to throb. The finger had a permanent crook which made Vince smile.

"Where's Antoine?"

"Let's just say it's inconvenient for Antoine to travel."

Quentin sat and the waiter took their orders-a Chivas on the rocks for Quentin, a second Perrier for Vince. Quentin clenched the bag of money between his feet. He could not stop trembling. All he could think of was his daughter, Robyn.