Ideas Chapter 2

Henry Mann was usually up and out the door by eight. Today he didn’t drag his short rugged frame out of bed until street noise awoke him at nine forty-five. He did his usual twenty minutes of exercises, brushed his teeth, shaved and took a quick shower. Softly humming a Mozart melody, he dressed in faded jeans and an old blue t-shirt that stated, “SKY DIVERS DO IT HIGHER”. After pulling a rather worn pair of sneakers on over clean socks he began making his bed and straightening up the room. Satisfied everything was in order; he grabbed his old leather jacket, carefully locked his door and descended one flight of carpeted stairs to the hotel lobby. It was exactly ten-thirty by the large clock above the front desk.

Checkout was eleven-thirty, and several of the hotel’s polished brass baggage carts were loaded with luggage and stationed near the large glass front doors. Making his way past small groups of chatting guests clustered near the front desk, Henry dropped his room key through a slot in the counter top. Smiling, he gave a quick thumbs up to Mike, the overworked desk clerk. Crossing to a narrow door on his left, he exited the lobby following the smell of coffee, and went down one step into a small diner.

Henry had been awake until almost three in the morning. Sitting in his hotel room stripped down to his boxer shorts in a comfortable easy chair with his feet up, he had been thinking. This was Henry’s favorite time for thinking. His mind seemed to work best late at night, and most of his major life decisions had been formulated in the wee small hours. And so, sipping 25-year-old Flor de Cana rum from a plastic hotel cup, Mozart string quartets playing softly, he had tried to solve a problem. It was a particularly thorny problem and he wasn’t even sure it had a solution. Sometime after two in the morning, the germ of an idea took hold. Deep down he knew it was at best half-baked, and almost meritless. But the more he tried to move in another direction the more he kept coming back to this crazy idea.

Henry was no genius and he knew it. However, over the years, he had discovered several things to be true. First, maintain a positive attitude. The only thing more powerful than negative thinking was positive thinking. Second, when trying to solve problems, one should never impose restrictions. If you assumed you could bring unlimited assets to bear, most problems were solvable. Later, after scaling back to a level more in keeping with reality, the fix might still be workable. Third, once you thought you had the answer in hand, the thing to do was play devil’s advocate. Try to tear it apart and beat it to death. In the end, if the solution survived, the problem got solved. If not, you could always start over from scratch.

After a quick breakfast, Henry went out the diner’s front door and on to Sutter Street. The sky was a bright blue and even with the midday sun, the air was brisk. He inhaled deeply, turned right and with a slight bounce in his step headed down Sutter Street. Today Henry would begin beating on his idea. To do this he needed information. He also needed lots of help. He believed he knew where to begin looking for both.

Henry walked eight or so blocks through the midday crowds deep in thought. He paused before a building with Mechanics' Institute Library painted in large gold lettering over an entrance. Entering a small lobby through a heavy glass door, he extracted a white plastic card from his wallet. He handed it to a portly gentleman behind a desk who swiped it through a card reader and handed it back. Henry crossed the small lobby, bypassed a bank of elevators, and went up a flight of worn marble stairs to the second floor. Using the card again at an electronic turnstile allowed him entrance to the library itself.

The Mechanics’ Institute Library was a members-only organization. It occupied most of an old nine-story granite building at 57 Post Street, in the heart of San Francisco's business district. The first floor of the venerable old structure was given over to Rangoni Shoes, a branch of the First National Bank, and a small lobby for the Mechanics' Institute itself. Floors two through eight housed a world-class research library while the oldest continuously operated chess club in the United States occupied the top floor.

Henry sequestered himself in one of the library’s many small wood paneled rooms. For the next several hours, he had researched the impact of the Islamic Jihad on everyday life. Scholarly types found this subject fertile ground and Henry had located, in the stacks and on the internet, a wealth of information. Sitting in a comfortable leather chair, at a heavy hardwood desk lit by green shaded brass lamps he had tried to learn what he could. After cutting through the excess dialogue generated by the “publish or perish” world of academia, a general consensus became clear. It was depressing, to say the least.

Now, at three-thirty on this crisp clear Thursday afternoon, Henry found himself working his way up through the stacks. Leaving behind the library’s heavy grated flooring and the smell of books, he passed up a final, short flight of stairs, through an oak paneled fire door and out into a small marble-floored foyer. He paused long enough to re-tuck his T-shirt into his faded jeans and square up his worn leather jacket. Then opening a frosted glass door, marked “Members Only”, he entered the chess club.

Henry was in search of a chess player named Samuel. At this hour, only a few of the tables were occupied, and he immediately spotted the object of his search. He would have been hard to miss. Samuel, or more specifically Samuel Jakes III, was a slender six foot four inches tall, completely bald and coal black in complexion. He was soft spoken, reserved and always dressed conservatively. Today he wore a tailored, long sleeve, blue chambray shirt, a light gray silk tie, pressed dark gray slacks and simple loafers.

At the moment, Samuel was in a heated battle with someone Henry hadn’t seen before. Half a dozen Russians were watching the action. The Russians, being avid chess players, made up a sizable portion of the club and loved kibitzing almost as much as playing. Henry joined the spectators. The game went on for another 5 minutes or so. First one player then the other would make a move and lightly slap the timer to stop his clock and start his opponent’s. Finally, there was a collective mumbling from the Russian spectators. Samuel groaned. He placed his king on its side, shoved a $10 bill across the table, and unbending his lanky frame, rose from his chair. “Nice game,” he conceded. “I should have seen that coming.”

Samuel spotted Henry and headed his way as another player filled the vacant seat. Samuel loved chess, was close to a Masters level and rated at a highly respectable 2050. Although Henry had once beaten, more by accident than plan, a 1600 level player, he was considered an unrated novice by most club members.

”Hello Henry,” Samuel smiled. His even white teeth looked whiter against the jet-black of his face. In his early forties, Samuel had a curious way of engaging people that left them in no doubt they were dealing with a superior intellect. This was not at all surprising since Samuel had an I.Q. well above 150, a PhD in Biomedical Engineering from Yale, and a master's degree in Molecular Biochemistry from Stanford University.

“Hi Samuel. Who’s the new guy?” he queried. "Haven't seen him before.”

Samuel frowned. “First time for me too. Yet another Russian. He claims to be in town from New York for a convention and is here on a guest pass. Plays a very good game of chess. He got me three times, and if I had to guess, I‘d say he’s rated well above 2200. Might even be a master. No one has beaten him yet, and he has been at the table for hours.”

As Samuel got his jacket from the coat rack by the door, Henry glanced back at the tables and asked, “Got someplace to be or can I buy you a drink? I have something I want to talk to you about if you can spare the time.”

“A drink sounds good. I could use something cold and wet. It has been some time since anyone has beaten me this badly,” admitted Samuel as he slipped on his jacket.

They took the elevator to the small ground floor lobby. Nodding to the portly doorman, they went out onto Post Street. It was approaching four pm. Foot traffic was fairly heavy and the passing vehicles noisy. The afternoon sun, well down in the china blue sky, cast sharp lengthening shadows along the financial district's concrete canyons.

“Walking or driving?” Henry asked as he zipped up his jacket.

“Walking,” responded Samuel as he glanced at the display in Ragoni Shoes’ window.

“Want to go up to the Flagship?”

“Fine by me. It will do me good to stretch my legs,” remarked Samuel as he too zipped up his jacket against the chilly breeze.

They turned left into the breeze and headed for Kearny Street.

“So Samuel, how are things at the office?” Henry asked as they turned right onto Kearny and cut over towards Sutter Street.
“Not bad. The usual boring stuff most of the time. I can’t talk about the truly interesting things as you well know,” he replied while admiring a passing Jaguar Sedan.

“You get back to normal yet after the move to G.R.A.D.’s new black glass monstrosity?” Asked Henry as he deftly sidestepped a fat lady with a cell phone to her ear. G.R.A.D. was short for Genetic Research and Development. The biotech giant was valued in the billions of dollars and had recently moved into its new home out near the S.F. airport.

“Yes, my department is up and running again, and things are indeed back to normal,” smiled Samuel as he watched Henry dance around the woman with her cell phone. Samuel was the long-time head of the department responsible for searching the human genome for genes that coded for diseases. The company would then apply for a patent on the gene and its markers while another department attempted engineering a genetic remedy.

According to Samuel, about 90% of the human genome had until recently been classified as “junk DNA”. Guys like Samuel and Companies like GRAD made a lot of money searching this mountain of junk for genes, or groups of genes that weren’t junk at all. Samuel's kind of sleuth work required a brilliant disciplined mind, and more than a little perseverance. Samuel was ideally suited to the task.

“Actually, I have some questions that might be right up your alley, so to speak. That is if you don’t mind me picking your brain a bit,” Henry said as they worked their way around a small group of Japanese tourists. Sporting cameras, they were paying rapt attention to their tour guide.

“You buy the drinks. I’ll suffer the questions,” Samuel smiled shortening his stride to match Henry's pace.

“Well I’ll try to see that the questions aren’t all stupid ones.”

“They say that the only stupid question is the one you don’t ask,” replied Samuel in a mock professorial tone pointing a boney ebony finger to the sky.

Turning left at the corner, they dodged a speeding bike messenger and started the seven-block climb up Sutter Street to the Flagship Bar.
After a few blocks, Samuel broke the silence. “I haven’t seen you since you got back. How was your trip?”

They were crossing Powel Street, and Henry waited for a noisy cable car to pass before responding.

“I was in the Middle East again. Not my favorite part of the world. Hot, lots of sand, and unless you can get to an international hotel, no cold beer. But I will admit I like the food. Great place for lamb. In fact, the restaurants there serve some of the best lamb dishes I've ever had,” he remarked with a smile. “Pretty dull trip, generally speaking. However, I did get to witness a suicide bomber do his thing. I can’t begin to tell you how much fun that little experience was,” Henry reflected no longer smiling.

Samuel looked at Henry in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. He was the real deal. And “was” is the operative word here.”

They proceeded in silence for a couple of blocks, waited for a delivery truck to clear the intersection at Sutter and Jones Street, and walked the remaining half block to their destination. Samuel got the door and the pair entered the quiet, dim confines of the Flagship Bar. Half a dozen regulars were at the bar perched on stools playing bar dice. Three more locals, refugees from a Bridge Club around the corner, occupied one of the tables near the door. Sarah, who worked days, was behind the bar loading bottled beer into one of the four large chest coolers.

“What cha drinking Samuel?” Henry asked as he started for the bar.

“Bottle of Budweiser and a glass,” he replied as he lowered himself into one of the chairs at a table in the corner.

Sarah looked up as Henry approached. “Hi, Sarah. Two Buds, a glass and can you start me a tab please? And let me have a bowl of those salty things you call pretzels.”

Sarah went down the bar to another chest cooler, extracted a couple frosty bottles, popped the caps off and set the beers on the polished oak bar, all in one smooth motion. She smiled as she came up with a glass and the bowl of pretzels. “Here you go Henry. I’ll start that tab for you.” Turning, she headed back down the bar to finish loading bottles into the cooler for the night shift.

Back at the table, Henry raised his beer in silent tribute and downed a third of it, before lowering the bottle and beginning a series of wet rings on the heavily varnished wood tabletop.

Samuel took a sip of foam from the top of his glass. “So, you want to tell me about this bomber thing?” He asked, studying the label on his beer bottle.

“Not right now. Let’s just say it made quite an impression,” responded Henry fishing a few pretzels from the bowl.

“I would imagine so,” he replied eyeing his friend speculatively.

“Actually that little event has to do with what I want to talk to you about.”

“Ask away,” Samuel replied. He took another longer pull on his glass, this time getting beer.

Henry took a swallow from the bottle to chase the pretzels. “As you know I get a lot of time to read. What with my job and all the vacation time that goes with it. Well, for a while now I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on related to history. Anyway, after this bomber incident, I started to look more closely at the effects of religion on major historical events. I have realized for quite a while that religion and politics have always been in bed together. It’s just been a question of who’s on top, so to speak. Generally, I think politicians use religion as a control device. Sometimes religion has the upper hand, and then you get a theocracy. Actually theocracy, in my opinion, is hands down, the worst form of government ever devised by man.”

“I assume this is leading somewhere,” commented Samuel as he inspected the pretzel bowl and carefully extracted a single pretzel.

“Bear with me a bit longer.” Henry leaned back in his chair and continued. “What I’m leading up to is an idea sparked by something you told me about a year ago. Do you remember saying that our genes control everything we are, less the conditioning we receive from life? Or words to that effect.”

Samuel carefully placed the lone pretzel next to the glass on his now damp beer coaster. “If I remember correctly what I said was, we are our genes, modified only by life experiences. It’s from a poster someone had up in the break room at work.”

“ Ok. Well, what I want to know is this. Do genes control temperament and emotions? I mean I know they control things like hair and eye color. But it seems to me that’s not the whole story.”

Samuel slowly poured more beer into his glass as he replied. “There are varying schools of thought on the subject, but it is generally conceded that genetic makeup can predispose an individual to any number of emotional behaviors. Inherited disorders are well documented. I honestly don’t have enough information to provide you a more detailed response, but I do think that life conditioning would trump genetic makeup in most cases." Setting his now empty bottle carefully back on its coaster, he looked up with a straight face. "Just where is this going Henry?"

Henry smiled broadly brushing pretzel crumbs from his t-shirt. "Samuel, you always sound like a professor at a lecture. Anyway, my idea is this. If a gene could be found that is linked to extremely strong religious beliefs, maybe a cure could be developed to fix the problem. That is, assuming of course an extremely strong religious belief is a trait in need of a cure. I'm not saying I want to eliminate religion completely. I just think that a little restraint would be a good thing.” Henry paused and drank the last of his beer. “Ready for another?”

“Sure,” Samuel replied, handing him his empty bottle, appearing lost in thought as Henry made his way toward the bar.

After Henry returned with the beers and was seated, Samuel remarked, "You have no idea what it would take to locate the genes you want to find. Additionally, if they exist and if you could find them, you could never be sure they didn't do something besides control the trait you want to adjust. You may not know this, but a lot of genes code for more than one trait."

Henry, stopped, the fresh beer half way to his lips. “I hadn’t heard that before.”

Samuel‘s bottle remained centered and untouched on its coaster. Sitting back in his chair, he crossed his slender legs, folded his hands in his lap, and looked squarely at his friend. “Set aside for a moment the technological challenges. Look at the moral and ethical issues. You would adjust humanity’s psychological makeup through the manipulation of its genome. You say, and may actually believe, the result would be beneficial. Even if the changes proved to be of benefit, what gives you the right to force them on humanity? There is another issue to be addressed. Develop the tools necessary to accomplish this and you create a monster. A case in point: In the short term, the ability to build the nuclear devices that shortened WWII may have saved lives, but that technology has haunted the world ever since. I would advise considerable caution.”

“I see both your points, Samuel. They’re two of several that came to mind when I was trying to work my way through this problem. I think the ability to do this will be developed by someone, and probably in the near future.” Henry stopped for a second. “Would you prefer this technology initially be deployed by an Islamic Jihadist?”

Then Henry leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You want to know what gives me the right to attempt moderating religious fervor. Perhaps you think I should ask for permission. Even if I knew who or how to ask, I wouldn’t," he stated tapping his index finger on the table for emphasis. Letting his voice rise a bit he continued. "Religion has never asked for permission to do anything. Religion just dictates. A few individuals make decrees and demand compliance. The Pope grants a papal Bull and Spain starts an Inquisition that lasts for centuries. The Muslims don’t like the way things are going and launch a Jihad." Relaxing and lowering his voice again he continued. "Hell, even within religions a few men make decisions that disrupt society and kill thousands of their fellows. The Catholics burn the Protestants at the stake. The first chance they get, the Protestants cut off Catholic heads. The Sunnis kill the Shiites and the Shiites send suicide bombers to destroy the Sunnis in their mosques as they worship. Never has anyone asked “the man on the street” for permission to do these things. They are forced on populations that, if given the opportunity, might well opt for a little moderation. All I’m suggesting is a little moderation might be a good thing.”

“You obviously have strong feelings on the subject,” remarked Samuel, showing some surprise at his friend’s intensity.

Henry took a long drink from his beer and leaned back in his chair. “Samuel, you are way smarter than I am, so let me ask you this. If you had the ability to do so and had to choose, would you force moderation on an increasingly chaotic world?" Samuel studied his friends face intently. Henry continued. "Before you answer, I have two more points to make. First: Please keep this in mind. Man, at his core, is a contentious animal and does not play well with others under the best of circumstances. World population has doubled in our lifetimes. Space and resources are running out. To survive, humanity needs to be less violent. Second: From what I‘ve read, we’ve had the ability to make genetic traits “jump” back and forth for a long time. A woman named Barbara McClintock had corn traits jumping back and forth in the 1970’s. If only a few genes were involved, it might well be possible to undo a less than desirable outcome.” Henry paused for a second and searched his t-shirt for more pretzel crumbs. “So, Samuel, strictly for the sake of argument, if you could, would you do this?”

Henry knew this was a pivotal moment. He might later sway Samuel’s position on this issue, but knew it was better to help establish the initial stand. Changing someone’s mind was often difficult. He had done his best to make his case. He held several points in reserve, but hoped they would not be needed. If Samuel even considered this idea, it would be out of intellectual curiosity more than anything else. Henry hoped he had provided Samuel with enough justification to bypass the thornier parts of the issue.

Samuel sat with his lips pursed, studying the edge of the table. He looked up at Henry who sat across from him munching pretzels and balancing a beer on his knee. “Some of your arguments are sound. Most appear emotionally driven. You do make a point though, and the question you pose is intriguing on a number of levels. Whether I would do this if I could, I can’t say. However, I have sometimes wondered which emotional predispositions might be linked to individual genes or gene sequences.” Appearing lost in thought for a moment he continued. “Factoring out life experiences would be almost impossible. Maybe a genome search for commonality might reveal something useful given a subject population sufficiently large and preselected for the trait in question. A baseline for comparison could be generated using individuals with the opposite characteristic. You would need very specific DNA data bases. I’m not sure they exist.”

Henry pretended to study his nearly empty bottle for several seconds.

“If you had the data bases you’re talking about, would you be interested in seeing what could be found? Strictly out of academic curiosity I mean,” Henry responded setting the bottle on the table and looking directly at his Samuel.

“Most likely, yes.” Then Samuel squinted one eye and looked directly at Henry. “That sounded like a loaded question. What do you have up your sleeve my friend?”

Henry smiled and reached for the last of the pretzels. “I might know where to find the data. And I think I know the man to go get it. He’s your co-worker, our mutual friend, and just the man for the job.”

Samuel sighed, “Sherman Kline.”

Henry’s smile broadened, “None other. Yep, Sherman’s perfect for this little hunt.”

Samuel shook his head resignedly.“Henry, you talk Sherman into getting something for me to look at and I’ll see what I can find.” He checked his watch, stood up and looked down at Henry. “Sometimes I think you have too much time on your hands. Right now I’ve got to go. Thanks for the beer.” He took a step towards the door and stopped. “By the way, Barbara McClintock won the Nobel prize in 1983 for that little corn jumping trick.” Smiling broadly, he headed for the door before Henry could reply.

Henry watched his friend exit the bar and allowed himself a mental pat on the back. His idea had survived its first test. Now to find Mr. Sherman Kline. Just the thought of Sherman made Henry smile.