Before, his daily life had not involved many choices, and Noah functioned well that way. He’d come from a modestly passionate family, full of jagged skids and desperate apology, whose greatest legacy to him was the permanent extraction of his capacity for boredom. During his parents’ noisy youth, he and his sister had often ended up on his grandfather’s alfalfa farm, where they were given chicken and mashed potatoes every night for supper. In Noah, the repetition only instilled a craving for that very same meal. For his sister it was absolutely the opposite.
But since Owens’ offer, Noah found himself wondering just how good a scientist he really was. Sunday night, he’d ridden around Alta, on the wide-sidewalked streets where department chairmen lived or the guys who’d started companies. He had the spare time. A lot ofwhat he did every day was think. At the lab, it was easy to forget these houses and the people living in them, who were not much older than he was. Scientists and grad students and postdocs all shared a snobbery about the ones who left. But now he wondered how deep that prejudice really was, how ideological. Maybe the Owenses of the world were this century’s Niels Bohrs or Galileos. Didn’t Pasteur discover microbes while consulting for the French wine industry?
But the chairman of Noah’s department, who lived the conference life of accountable pleasures, did his real work years ago. He still regaled the incoming grad students with forty-year-old phage lore.
The treed streets were quiet; vehicles of family life lay strewn on lawns: the fallen bike, the triangular device recently invented so women could jog and push along their babies. Noah had never ruled out such pleasures for himself. Pleasure—well, life, he supposed—was going to come later, as reward. The only time he hadn’t lived like that was with the girl who’d ridden on his chair in college. During those rare weeks, his ambition had evaporated. She’d stepped out of nowhere, perhaps too early in his life. He would have done anything to keep her.
Most of the lots in Alta had remained the same size since the time of the founders, but in the last decade some of the original houses had been torn down to build bigger ones, as the valley had grown affluent. Even though Noah grew up here, now he couldn’t afford it. He lived in Auburn, the next town west. Noah liked the smaller houses, the old wood and adobe. He had no idea of prices, but if he went to work for Genesis, he could buy one. Two, even. He could buy his parents a house. They could enter this tranquillity. His parents had always rented. For twenty years, they’d been afraid of the landlord, even though his father had probably put a thousand dollars into the ground. His father still worked at the job he’d always hated: insurance.
Doubts nagged Noah at the lab too. The same tasks that had contained ample excitement a week earlier changed under the weight of their price. Making this library, of the embryo at six hours old, had cost him a million dollars. And was it something so special, that onlyhe could do? Well, no. This wasn’t. Louise could map out genes better than anyone he knew. But what was, exactly? What specifically was it that needed his alleged talent?
Noah segregated his day into what was creative, requiring thought and choice and even imagination, and what was just benchwork. A year before or a year later, Noah would have pronounced such a separation impossible; his mind seemed to require the calm performance of precise manual tasks to generate ideas, as if they were born out of the beginnings of boredom. But after Owens’ offer, this wisdom, which he had previously expounded to a generation of students, seemed only justification for a mediocre, gutless life.
By Noah’s age, Watson had already discovered the double helix and a handful of Noah’s friends had mapped their own proteins. A lot of this was luck—Noah’s gene didn’t seem to live near any
But since Owens’ offer, Noah found himself wondering just how good a scientist he really was. Sunday night, he’d ridden around Alta, on the wide-sidewalked streets where department chairmen lived or the guys who’d started companies. He had the spare time. A lot ofwhat he did every day was think. At the lab, it was easy to forget these houses and the people living in them, who were not much older than he was. Scientists and grad students and postdocs all shared a snobbery about the ones who left. But now he wondered how deep that prejudice really was, how ideological. Maybe the Owenses of the world were this century’s Niels Bohrs or Galileos. Didn’t Pasteur discover microbes while consulting for the French wine industry?
But the chairman of Noah’s department, who lived the conference life of accountable pleasures, did his real work years ago. He still regaled the incoming grad students with forty-year-old phage lore.
The treed streets were quiet; vehicles of family life lay strewn on lawns: the fallen bike, the triangular device recently invented so women could jog and push along their babies. Noah had never ruled out such pleasures for himself. Pleasure—well, life, he supposed—was going to come later, as reward. The only time he hadn’t lived like that was with the girl who’d ridden on his chair in college. During those rare weeks, his ambition had evaporated. She’d stepped out of nowhere, perhaps too early in his life. He would have done anything to keep her.
Most of the lots in Alta had remained the same size since the time of the founders, but in the last decade some of the original houses had been torn down to build bigger ones, as the valley had grown affluent. Even though Noah grew up here, now he couldn’t afford it. He lived in Auburn, the next town west. Noah liked the smaller houses, the old wood and adobe. He had no idea of prices, but if he went to work for Genesis, he could buy one. Two, even. He could buy his parents a house. They could enter this tranquillity. His parents had always rented. For twenty years, they’d been afraid of the landlord, even though his father had probably put a thousand dollars into the ground. His father still worked at the job he’d always hated: insurance.
Doubts nagged Noah at the lab too. The same tasks that had contained ample excitement a week earlier changed under the weight of their price. Making this library, of the embryo at six hours old, had cost him a million dollars. And was it something so special, that onlyhe could do? Well, no. This wasn’t. Louise could map out genes better than anyone he knew. But what was, exactly? What specifically was it that needed his alleged talent?
Noah segregated his day into what was creative, requiring thought and choice and even imagination, and what was just benchwork. A year before or a year later, Noah would have pronounced such a separation impossible; his mind seemed to require the calm performance of precise manual tasks to generate ideas, as if they were born out of the beginnings of boredom. But after Owens’ offer, this wisdom, which he had previously expounded to a generation of students, seemed only justification for a mediocre, gutless life.
By Noah’s age, Watson had already discovered the double helix and a handful of Noah’s friends had mapped their own proteins. A lot of this was luck—Noah’s gene didn’t seem to live near any
Similar Books
