Read Online Beggars and Choosers by Nancy Kress - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Kress
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late afternoon we went to the labs. Sara Cerelli and Jonathan
Markowitz were there, dressed in shorts, barefoot. One of the
requirements of the project was that at no stage did anything need to
be sterile.
“Hello, Drew,” Jon said. Sara nodded. Their concentration on their
work made closed, muddy shapes in my mind.
A blob of living tissue sat in a shallow open tray on a lab bench,
connected to machines by slender tubes and even more slender cables.
Dozens of display screens ringed the rooms. Nothing on any of them was
comprehensible to me. The tissue in the tray was flesh-colored, a light
dun, but no particular form. It looked as if it could change shape,
oozing into something else. On my last visit, Miri had told me it
couldn’t do that. No Sleepless are squeamish. I’m not either, but the
shapes that crawled in and out of my mind as I looked at the thing were
pale and speckled and smelled of dampness, although diamond-precise on
their edges. Like the nanobuilt walls of Huevos Verdes.
I said, stupidly, “It’s alive.”
Jon smiled. “Oh, yes. But not sentient. At least not…” He trailed
off, and I knew he couldn’t find the right words. It should have made a
bond between us. It didn’t. Jon couldn’t find the right words because
any words that he picked would be too easy, too incomplete, for his
ideas—and still too hard for me to follow. Miri had told me that Jon,
more than any of the others except Terry Mwakambe, thought in
mathematics. But it was the same with all of them, even Miri: her
speech was a quarter beat too slow. I had caught myself talking like
that only a month ago. It had been to Kevin Baker’s four-year-old
great-grandson.
Miri tried. “The tissue is a macro-level organic computer, Drew,
with limited organ-simulation programming, including nervous,
cardiovascular, and gastrointestinal systems. We’ve added Strethers
self-monitoring feedback loops and submolecular, self-reproducing,
single-arm assemblers. It can… it can experience programmed biological
processes and report on them minutely. But it has neither sentience nor
volition.”
“Oh,” I said.
The thing moved a little in its tray. I looked away. Miri saw, of
course. She sees everything.
She said quietly, “We’re getting closer. That’s what it means. Ever
since the breakthrough with the bacteriorhodopsin, we’re getting much
closer.”
I made myself look at the thing again. Faint capillaries pulsed
below the surface. The pale, damp shapes in my mind crawled, like
maggots over rock.
Miri said, “If we pour a nutrient mixture into the tray, Drew, it
can select and absorb what it needs and break it down for energy.”
“What kind of nutrient mixture?” I had learned enough on my last
visit to be able to ask this question.
Miri made a face. “Glucose-protein, mostly. There’s still a way to
go.”
“Have you solved the problem of getting nitrogen directly from the
air?” I had memorized this question. It made a tinny, hollow shape in
my mind. But Miri smiled her luminous smile.
“Yes and no. We’ve engineered the microorganisms, but tissue
receptivity is still foundering on the Tollers-Hilbert factor,
especially in the epidermal fibrils. And on the nitrogen
receptor-mediated endocytosis problem—no progress.”
“Oh,” I said.
“We’ll solve it,” Miri said, a quarter beat too slow. “It’s just a
matter of designing the right enzymes.”
Sara said, “We call the thing Galwat.” She and Jon laughed.
Miri said quickly, “For Galatea, you know. And Erin Galway. And John
Gait, that fictional character who wanted to stop the motor of the
world. And, of course, Worthington’s transference equations…”
“Of course,” I said. I had never heard of Galatea or Erin Galway or
John Gait or Worthington.
“Galatea’s from a Greek myth. A sculptor—”
“Let me see my performance stats now,” I said. Sara and Jon glanced
at each other. I smiled and held out my hand to Miri. She grasped
Markowitz were there, dressed in shorts, barefoot. One of the
requirements of the project was that at no stage did anything need to
be sterile.
“Hello, Drew,” Jon said. Sara nodded. Their concentration on their
work made closed, muddy shapes in my mind.
A blob of living tissue sat in a shallow open tray on a lab bench,
connected to machines by slender tubes and even more slender cables.
Dozens of display screens ringed the rooms. Nothing on any of them was
comprehensible to me. The tissue in the tray was flesh-colored, a light
dun, but no particular form. It looked as if it could change shape,
oozing into something else. On my last visit, Miri had told me it
couldn’t do that. No Sleepless are squeamish. I’m not either, but the
shapes that crawled in and out of my mind as I looked at the thing were
pale and speckled and smelled of dampness, although diamond-precise on
their edges. Like the nanobuilt walls of Huevos Verdes.
I said, stupidly, “It’s alive.”
Jon smiled. “Oh, yes. But not sentient. At least not…” He trailed
off, and I knew he couldn’t find the right words. It should have made a
bond between us. It didn’t. Jon couldn’t find the right words because
any words that he picked would be too easy, too incomplete, for his
ideas—and still too hard for me to follow. Miri had told me that Jon,
more than any of the others except Terry Mwakambe, thought in
mathematics. But it was the same with all of them, even Miri: her
speech was a quarter beat too slow. I had caught myself talking like
that only a month ago. It had been to Kevin Baker’s four-year-old
great-grandson.
Miri tried. “The tissue is a macro-level organic computer, Drew,
with limited organ-simulation programming, including nervous,
cardiovascular, and gastrointestinal systems. We’ve added Strethers
self-monitoring feedback loops and submolecular, self-reproducing,
single-arm assemblers. It can… it can experience programmed biological
processes and report on them minutely. But it has neither sentience nor
volition.”
“Oh,” I said.
The thing moved a little in its tray. I looked away. Miri saw, of
course. She sees everything.
She said quietly, “We’re getting closer. That’s what it means. Ever
since the breakthrough with the bacteriorhodopsin, we’re getting much
closer.”
I made myself look at the thing again. Faint capillaries pulsed
below the surface. The pale, damp shapes in my mind crawled, like
maggots over rock.
Miri said, “If we pour a nutrient mixture into the tray, Drew, it
can select and absorb what it needs and break it down for energy.”
“What kind of nutrient mixture?” I had learned enough on my last
visit to be able to ask this question.
Miri made a face. “Glucose-protein, mostly. There’s still a way to
go.”
“Have you solved the problem of getting nitrogen directly from the
air?” I had memorized this question. It made a tinny, hollow shape in
my mind. But Miri smiled her luminous smile.
“Yes and no. We’ve engineered the microorganisms, but tissue
receptivity is still foundering on the Tollers-Hilbert factor,
especially in the epidermal fibrils. And on the nitrogen
receptor-mediated endocytosis problem—no progress.”
“Oh,” I said.
“We’ll solve it,” Miri said, a quarter beat too slow. “It’s just a
matter of designing the right enzymes.”
Sara said, “We call the thing Galwat.” She and Jon laughed.
Miri said quickly, “For Galatea, you know. And Erin Galway. And John
Gait, that fictional character who wanted to stop the motor of the
world. And, of course, Worthington’s transference equations…”
“Of course,” I said. I had never heard of Galatea or Erin Galway or
John Gait or Worthington.
“Galatea’s from a Greek myth. A sculptor—”
“Let me see my performance stats now,” I said. Sara and Jon glanced
at each other. I smiled and held out my hand to Miri. She grasped
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