Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

But beyond all that, Raymond suspected he had found his trump card. Vincent Rose had developed an abiding passion for boating on Chesapeake Bay while attending college in Maryland. Now, living in Pittsburgh, he was limited to sailing his twenty-five-foot sailboat in circles three months out of the year on a small manmade lake north of the city. For him BRI’s proximity to Galveston Bay and the Gulf of Mexico might be inducement enough.

At any rate, Raymond saw a preemptive offer as the only way to go—no cat and mouse games, just bowl them over with an outrageous proposal.

Now the Enterprise reached a blinking green navigational light that marked the western edge of the Houston Ship Channel. Raymond made a lazy right turn and took a southerly heading toward Galveston. He called Vincent’s attention to the yacht’s electronic chart, pointing out the channel and its navigational markers and their corresponding blips on the radar screen.

“The channel is about fifty miles long and forty-five to fifty feet deep in the center and runs from Galveston to the turning basin up in Houston. Houston is the third largest seaport in the country, but as you can see, it’s actually located inland.”

Raymond went on to tell Vincent about the debate between shipping interests and local conservationists about widening and deepening the ship channel. “The conservationists thought they were doing the right thing, I suppose,” Raymond said. “But after a lot of time and money was wasted, the project went forward, and the Corps of Engineers did their best to preserve the local ecology—just as they would have without the hullabaloo.

“Those people are just temporary deterrents—much like the activists who raid research laboratories and go to the courts in an attempt to delay gene therapy and so forth. In the end, they can’t stay the hand of progress.”

Raymond took the opportunity to segue into a discussion of how the scarcity of funding suppressed research to a far greater extent than even the picketing, lab break-ins and law suits by activists.

“I hear you,” Vincent said. “Our federal science grant renewal was just denied.” His voice held an edge of bitterness. “These days it’s the scientists who find themselves under the microscope. And since many of us are funded by the government, the value of our projects is being determined by political agendas: AIDS research was very popular in the 80’s and 90’s. Then there was the genome. Now, the flavor-of-the-month seems to be stem cell research. If you’re not into gene therapy or stem cells, forget about the funding. As far as government grants are concerned, this time around, my Parkinson’s drug never had a chance.”

Raymond was pleased with the direction the conversation had taken. He told Vincent the scientific community in Houston was quite competitive; everyone vying for the same government or investor dollars. There had been instances of spying and theft of intellectual properties. And brutal competition went on even within the same organization; everyone taking credit for new discoveries.

“Last year at Hematec Labs, a biotech company up north of the city, one of their scientists injected another researcher’s prized cigars with a known carcinogen,” Raymond said. “The case is still in the courts. Pete Sabedra, the plaintiff, works with us now. So far he’s cancer free.”

Raymond turned and looked at Vincent. “Do you believe those sons-of-bitches at Hematec Labs still have the other guy on their staff? He’s probably trying to blot out colleagues as we speak.”

In response to Vincent’s questioning, Raymond gave him a summary of the research projects going on at BRI. He then told Vincent that due to royalties from past ventures and investor confidence, BRI was awash in funding for new research. “Our scientists can concentrate on their projects without living in fear of a change in the political climate at the National Institutes of Health.”

A blip on the radar screen grabbed Raymond’s attention. A large boat approached from the south. He surveyed the water up ahead through his night-vision binoculars and suddenly became agitated. “Speak of the devil!” Raymond throttled back the engines.

Out of the mist emerged a large power cruiser with a displacement hull similar in design to that of the Enterprise . The boat came toward them, up the ship channel. It passed the Enterprise on her port side and continued on its way up the bay. Its huge wake caused the yacht to roll slightly. A chorus of gleeful wheee’s arose from the salon below them.

“Bloody rude. Didn’t even have the courtesy to slow down,” Raymond grumbled.

After few quiet seconds with Raymond negotiating some waves, he leaned toward Vincent with a smug grin. “It’s ten feet shorter than this one.” Then, in answer to Vincent’s puzzled expression, he added: “That was Hematec Lab’s boat that passed. They usually keep it in Bermuda or somewhere in the Caribbean. Sometimes they’ll bring it up here to wine and dine potential investors—especially during holiday seasons.”

“Are you in direct competition with Hematec?” Vincent asked.

“Affirmative. They’ve been developing lab tests, exclusively. We beat them to the market with the test for Swine Flu. Then Pete Sabedra jumped ship and joined us. I’d say the folks at Hematec are rather miffed at us right now.” Raymond chuckled.

The smell of butter and garlic wafted up from the galley and Raymond took a deep whiff. At that moment, Colton Fey, the ship’s captain, arrived on the scene and Raymond made the introductions.

“Colton here will take over so we can go below and have a bite to eat… unless you’d like to take the helm for a while.” Raymond winked at Colton. “I’m sure Colton won’t mind sitting in the copilot seat.”

Vincent enthusiastically volunteered to take the wheel. Raymond switched on the autopilot then forced his collar closed at his throat and reattached his bow tie. “Let me give you a quick briefing.” He pointed down the channel. “It’s clearly marked. We draw seven feet. If you see you’re getting into less than twenty feet of water, steer her back toward the center a little. I have our way points punched into the GPS in case this fog gets any denser. Have you ever used satellite navigation?”

“On road trips,” Vincent said.

“Good.” He cut his eyes to Colton. “Colton here can answer your questions if anything comes up.”

Colton nodded, his smile glowing an eerie red in the reflection from the instrument panel.

Vincent settled into the helmsman’s seat, and for a moment he was an awe-struck kid again, sitting on his grandfather’s lap behind the wheel of his Buick sedan. He ran his palms part way around the wheel, then back to the center.

Raymond excused himself and went below.

By 9:30 p.m. the Enterprise had docked in Galveston. Thoroughly sated guests enjoyed an after dinner cappuccino or Courvoisier on the upper and lower decks. After playing a set of old standard dance music, the musicians took a break.

Vincent had gone off with Raymond and Charlotte Bellfort and Carlos Carrera to board the tall ship, Elissa , docked nearby. Diane had begged off the tour stating that her short-cropped satin jacket would not be adequate against the cool night air.

She sat on one of the Enterprise’s upholstered bar stools, sipping a cappuccino. From outside the pockets of laughter, she watched the crowd in an attempt to pierce through all the revelry and assess the aggregate that was BRI. In conversations throughout the evening, she had been mostly unsuccessful at penetrating the heart of the organization. Party dresses and tuxes were accessorized with sterling party manners. Any attempt at delving into company policies and politics was met with a wall of pleasantries.