that simulates the tight living conditions of space travel. The data from this study will help us to design protocols for healthcare during extended space missions, such as visits to the Moon or Mars.”
The Roses could have spent the rest of the morning there asking questions, but Jerry consulted his watch and said they had to move on. They said their goodbyes to the nurses and followed Wentzel out into the hall.
Diane regretted her choice of shoes as her clopping footfalls echoed in the marble corridor. She would have happily traded her fashionable black pumps for the squeaky running shoes that Jerry wore.
A right turn into a block-long hallway led to the laboratory of Pete Sabedra, the cigar smoking refugee from Hematec. Pete, a chemist, was a jolly soul. He reported that he was working on a blood test to determine the presence of a specific breast cancer antigen. His hearty “welcome aboard” was a bit premature since they had not been offered, nor had they accepted, positions at BRI. Nevertheless, they shook hands and moved on to the third floor, then to the forth.
None of the earlier parts of the tour, although impressive, prepared Diane and Vincent for their introduction to the laboratory and offices that encompassed most of the top floor at BRI, the former domain of a scientist named Dr. Harry Lee.
From the marbled fourth floor elevator lobby, Jerry Wentzel led them along an opulent hallway to a set of ebony doors, opened them with a flourish and stood aside. “This is the lab bench area,” he said. “The data area is on the other end. Make yourselves at home. Go exploring. Feel free to ask any questions.”
Diane stepped through the doorway and whispered, “Wow.” The laboratory was enormous and absolutely pristine. Several work stations were situated along rows of stainless steel counters, still wearing their factory sheen. Each area had its own hood and vacuum system to remove any noxious chemicals. The counter tops held the usual test tube racks, centrifuges and microscopes. Glass-fronted upper cabinets held flasks and beakers, and other glassware.
Diane walked slowly along the counters, running her hand on the cool metal surfaces, mentally “decorating” the lab to suit her needs— spectrophotometer here, chromatography setup over there— preparing the space to receive the treasures from her expeditions.
She is transported back to the jungle, to her sources: usually a shaman, but sometimes the mother of a sick child or a beekeeper or a fisherman or a drifter.
She is shown a leaf, its blades resembling a devil’s fork. It is crushed and masticated and mixed with mud, then applied to an old man’s skin lesions. And eureka—a native cure is found! A scab of tree bark is crumbled and boiled and strained through woven palm fibers and fed to a scrawny infant with diarrhea. And hallelujah—a life is saved! She trembles with the joy of such discoveries. She is humbled by the privilege of peering into the pharmacopoeia of native lore. Leaves, fronds, bark, seeds, flowers, soil, roots, fungi are collected, pressed, dried, prepared for the lab where they are screened for bioactive compounds. The specimens are processed, assayed, distilled, scanned, isolated, fractionated, deconstructed; like playing a symphony backwards to find the lead notes—the ones that give rise to the music. The results are digitized, analyzed and synthesized.
Then back to the jungle craving another dose of eureka.
Vincent broke through her ruminations, “Di?”
Slightly disoriented, she turned toward the sound of his voice.
He beckoned to her from the triple wide doorway connecting to the next room. “You have to see this contraption!”
She followed him into the data area, weaving through rows of counters and desks, towards a floor-to-ceiling glass cubicle with an exit sign over it. Inside the glass walls, a rectangular frame stood about eight feet tall, five feet wide.
Jerry Wentzel stood beside the structure,
The Roses could have spent the rest of the morning there asking questions, but Jerry consulted his watch and said they had to move on. They said their goodbyes to the nurses and followed Wentzel out into the hall.
Diane regretted her choice of shoes as her clopping footfalls echoed in the marble corridor. She would have happily traded her fashionable black pumps for the squeaky running shoes that Jerry wore.
A right turn into a block-long hallway led to the laboratory of Pete Sabedra, the cigar smoking refugee from Hematec. Pete, a chemist, was a jolly soul. He reported that he was working on a blood test to determine the presence of a specific breast cancer antigen. His hearty “welcome aboard” was a bit premature since they had not been offered, nor had they accepted, positions at BRI. Nevertheless, they shook hands and moved on to the third floor, then to the forth.
None of the earlier parts of the tour, although impressive, prepared Diane and Vincent for their introduction to the laboratory and offices that encompassed most of the top floor at BRI, the former domain of a scientist named Dr. Harry Lee.
From the marbled fourth floor elevator lobby, Jerry Wentzel led them along an opulent hallway to a set of ebony doors, opened them with a flourish and stood aside. “This is the lab bench area,” he said. “The data area is on the other end. Make yourselves at home. Go exploring. Feel free to ask any questions.”
Diane stepped through the doorway and whispered, “Wow.” The laboratory was enormous and absolutely pristine. Several work stations were situated along rows of stainless steel counters, still wearing their factory sheen. Each area had its own hood and vacuum system to remove any noxious chemicals. The counter tops held the usual test tube racks, centrifuges and microscopes. Glass-fronted upper cabinets held flasks and beakers, and other glassware.
Diane walked slowly along the counters, running her hand on the cool metal surfaces, mentally “decorating” the lab to suit her needs— spectrophotometer here, chromatography setup over there— preparing the space to receive the treasures from her expeditions.
She is transported back to the jungle, to her sources: usually a shaman, but sometimes the mother of a sick child or a beekeeper or a fisherman or a drifter.
She is shown a leaf, its blades resembling a devil’s fork. It is crushed and masticated and mixed with mud, then applied to an old man’s skin lesions. And eureka—a native cure is found! A scab of tree bark is crumbled and boiled and strained through woven palm fibers and fed to a scrawny infant with diarrhea. And hallelujah—a life is saved! She trembles with the joy of such discoveries. She is humbled by the privilege of peering into the pharmacopoeia of native lore. Leaves, fronds, bark, seeds, flowers, soil, roots, fungi are collected, pressed, dried, prepared for the lab where they are screened for bioactive compounds. The specimens are processed, assayed, distilled, scanned, isolated, fractionated, deconstructed; like playing a symphony backwards to find the lead notes—the ones that give rise to the music. The results are digitized, analyzed and synthesized.
Then back to the jungle craving another dose of eureka.
Vincent broke through her ruminations, “Di?”
Slightly disoriented, she turned toward the sound of his voice.
He beckoned to her from the triple wide doorway connecting to the next room. “You have to see this contraption!”
She followed him into the data area, weaving through rows of counters and desks, towards a floor-to-ceiling glass cubicle with an exit sign over it. Inside the glass walls, a rectangular frame stood about eight feet tall, five feet wide.
Jerry Wentzel stood beside the structure,
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