Editors
note: The One and the Golden Circle is intelligent, fascinating,
ingenious and thoroughly entertaining.
The
sequencing of the human genome is complete and great strides forward
in medicine are anticipated. But what other secrets await us and our
DNA internal roadmap of life?
Do
we have ancestral and evolutionary memory locked in our genetic make
up? Do we have the ability to consciously recall the events that led
to modern man? This
book examines that very possibility in an ingenious and compelling
way.
CHAPTER
1
HAITI
2018
BAREFOOT
AND GLISTENING with sweat, Blane MacBain ran along the sand.
The long stretch of beach was deserted, and the soft dawn light cast
its timeless spell upon the deep, each wave making its hypnotic run
onto the beach, only to meet its friend behind it as it rushed back
into the sea.
High tide is a time of renewal for the beach; it brings all manner
of things to the sand—some interesting and valuable, some ugly
and harmful, just as living brings these things into our lives. The
inrushing tide cleans and smoothes the sand, taking away the fears
of yesterday and making it new for the hopes and challenges of the
new day.
Blane searched the beach ahead. It was bordered by the two parallel
lines of ocean edge and lush green jungle, converging to kiss one-another
in the misty distance. The old coconut palm that marked his six-mile
halfway point loomed ahead, its trunk curving gracefully over the
water. He stopped under it, feeling its singular presence. It seemed
to say, I am here; I am alive, just as you are. He looked
to the south, where the water’s edge cut a straight line for
four miles to Kaliko Beach, and then took a gentle forty-mile, half-moon
curve to the southeast, to end at City Soleil on the northern edge
of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
Kaliko Beach and City Soleil are neighbors on the tropical seashore,
but they are worlds apart. Kaliko, with its clean white sand, thatched-roofed
cabañas and tall, cool tropical rum drinks, caters to the upper
class and blan. In Creole, “blan” literally means
a white person, but in local usage it means someone from the other
side: a foreigner.
City Soleil is a hodgepodge of improvised shacks made from sheets
of metal, old boards, cardboard and scraps of anything that will keep
out the rain or blazing sun. It is a maze of narrow alleyways filled
with garbage and human waste, where families of eight or ten share
one-room shacks and cook by open sewers. Babies are bathed in the
green stinking water that runs past doorways, while threats come from
the government to bulldoze the only place people have to lay their
heads. Yet, no alternate plan is offered for living space. They are
the isolated, the displaced, the unwanted.
Blane was a blan, but by a strange turn of events, he had become accepted
as a Haitian. Some even called him a houngan, a voodoo witchdoctor.
He retraced his upside-down footprints, his smooth strong strides
those of a well-conditioned athlete. His lean brown body was tall,
muscular and sinuous. Although he had the graceful appearance of a
young man, his hair was a shock of gray streaked with black, and his
handsome features showed the lines of life and experience.
His square jaw was slack as he breathed through his mouth, and his
ice-blue eyes were glazed and fixed on the distant horizon. Without
slowing, he turned toward the jungle’s edge and stopped at the
foot of stone-hewn steps that led up a sharp cliff and disappeared
into an overgrowth of banana trees and tropical foliage. He looked
at his watch and nodded with approval.
Suddenly, a small thin peasant woman stepped from the tangle of brush
beside the steps. She spoke Creole to him in a high-pitched, frantic
voice. Blane knew her, for she had worked in his villa some years
before. “Papi Mac, Papi Mac! Se ti garcon Mwen a, Ti Jean.
Youn gvo bef mache sou tet li M pa ka fel leve!” she shrieked.
The poor women was telling him what had happened to Ti Jean, her youngest;
his head had been stepped on by a bull, and he was sleeping and would
not wake up.
“When did this happen?” Blane asked in Creole.
“Yesterday, about noon!”
He threw up his hands in exasperation, then drew his cell phone from
the clip on his running shorts, quick-draw fashion, as if he were
a movie cowboy. He quickly dialed and spoke into the mouthpiece. “This
is Papi Mac from the MacBain Benevolent Foundation. We have an emergency
here. Send an ambulance to Rue MacBain, North Shore Road. That’s
seven miles south of Saint Mark, got it?”
He signed off and instructed the woman to bring the child to his villa.
He ran up the 154 steps, then stripped and showered under the showerhead
placed at the top of the landing.
Aahmmmm, aahmmmm…. The deep mellow sound of someone
blowing a conch shell drifted to his ear from the beach below. Blane
stepped to the edge of the cliff, still nude and dripping.
Two men stood in a long dugout canoe with an outrigger along its side.
They gracefully maintained balance as waves rocked the little craft
to and fro. Their tall, thin bodies made jet-black silhouettes against
the azure sea behind them.
One raised a spider-thin arm and waved. Blane could see his snow-white
teeth in the midst of his black face. It was Jean Claude and Fortilus,
the village spear fishermen. Blane raised both arms over his head,
and then placed one hand on his stomach, the signal that he wanted
ten fish of medium size.
Jean Claude and Fortilus dug their paddles into the water and headed
out to the reef, a half-mile off shore. They were happy, knowing that
the money for these fish would feed their families for a week.
“Bon jou, Papi Mac,” came the sweet, melodic
greeting from Marie, the head housewoman. She crossed the patio, carrying
a towel and a white terrycloth robe.
He toweled off and slipped into the robe that she held open for him.
The native stone patio between the villa and towering cliff was spacious,
filled with flowering trees and shrubs placed aesthetically here and
there. A lone spreading acacia tree shaded a round, white, wrought-iron
table near the cliff’s edge. On the table were piles of papers,
a briefcase, a decanter of ice with glasses, and a bottle of five-star
Barbancourt rum.
Blane sat down at the table facing the sea and scanned the arcing
horizon where sea met sky. His mind was carried off into the hazy
distance. How long have I been in this place? He thought.
He had come here when he was sixty-five, and now he was eighty. That
was an even fifteen years. It seemed almost unbelievable. It had been
good, and he had been lucky to spend these years among these sweet
and loving people, helping them the best he could.
He slid a document from his briefcase and read the face sheet, as
he had done so many times before, almost as if he were afraid it might
change somehow.
It read:
I. By declaration of the United States Congress in this year of 2004,
we duly and rightfully declare that, from this day forward, we shall
make to exist The MacBain Benevolent Foundation.
II. To wit, it shall serve the needy of Haiti and said instrument
shall be governed solely by and at the full discretion of one Dr.
Blane A. MacBain.
III. In addition, each and all of his personal and/or all of his immediate
family’s needs shall be met.
IV. This fund shall be irrevocable and initially funded in the sum
of three billion dollars.
V. We do this in undying gratitude for Dr. MacBain’s unselfish
and courageous service to all of mankind.
Marie appeared with a tray on which there were a bowl of cereal, mixed
fruits and a pot of strong Jamaican coffee. “Your staff is here
for the morning meeting, Papi Mac,” she announced.
“Have them wait in the anteroom for ten minutes, then bring
them to me. And, in the meantime, have Willis come to me.”
A moment later, Blane looked up and smiled at a short, stocky man
with a shock of unruly red hair and a face splotched with freckles.
Willis was an American who had been with Blane in Haiti from the beginning.
He was in his latter thirties and lived in the west wing of the villa
with his wife and children. His job was to oversee the zone managers
in their search for those who needed help.
They discussed this and that over breakfast and were finishing their
last pieces of papaya when the eight-member staff arrived. Once the
others had arranged themselves around the wrought-iron table, Blane
said, “Let’s begin with Zone One in Petionville. Paco,
you’re on. Let’s have it—first the progress report
and then the needs and wants list from your scouts. Now, how many
scouts do you have, as of this date?”
“In Zone One, we have fifty scouts,” Paco responded.
That was how it went for the next three hours, each zone manager giving
his or her report. They reviewed cases of people in dire need being
helped and how. New cases were scrutinized to determine need and authenticity.
After the meeting was adjourned, Papi Mac called for Marie. “Marie,
Madame is returning from her shopping trip in Miami at six o’clock
on flight number 1214, and Dr. Macintosh will be on the same flight.
Leave the smaller children with Antoinette for their afternoon nap,
and then go to the airport to help Madame with her things. Take François
and Pierrot to drive the Land Rovers.”
“Yes, Papi Mac,” she said, then scurried off to the main
house.
Blane strolled into the side yard and entered the garden house, which
was filled with all manner of tropical plants. He found Arthur leaning
intently over a little plant, speaking to it with his English accent.
“Now, listen, love. You must do precisely as Uncle Arthur says–
” He stopped abruptly, startled by Blane’s sudden appearance
and a little embarrassed at being caught talking to a plant. Despite
the wild tropical shirt he wore, Arthur personified all that it meant
to be English. Slight in build, he carried himself board-straight,
his posture betraying his career as a butler and valet. A neatly clipped
fringe of gray hair formed a halo around his deeply tanned bald head,
and his close-set eyes were shockingly reminiscent of a fierce, bald
eagle.
“Papi Mac, sir.” He had taken to using the Haitians’
name for his employer. “The ambulance took the little boy to
the hospital.”
“How does it look?”
Arthur shook his head.
“I shall tend to that later,” said Blane.
“Precisely, sir.”
“Arthur, Doctor Bob Macintosh will be coming this evening and
we will be having dinner in the great room around eight. Bring Jesula
and the children and join us.”
“As you wish, sir, and will the doctor be bringing news from
the institute?”
“I’m sure he will.”
With the mention of the institute, a great flood of images rushed
up from the depths of Blane’s mind. He went back to the patio,
nearly stumbling as he made his way to the wrought-iron table. He
sat down at the table and placed a bottle of rum in front of him.
He put two ice cubes in a glass and poured the amber liquid over them.
As he held the glass up to the light and peered into its depths, his
mind swirled in an ever-descending circle…back, back, back,
to the beginning.
CHAPTER 2
THE STORY
It had all begun late in the winter of 2002 in Kansas City, Missouri.
Blane had called an old friend to catch up on his activities, but
primarily simply to keep in touch.
Both he and his good friend Bob Macintosh had been retired for four
years. After a career in paleontology, genetics and human behavioral
studies, Bob had retired from the chairmanship of the Department of
Paleontology at the University of Missouri, at about the same time
Blane had retired from the practice of Oral and Maxillofacial surgery.
During their mutual retirement, Blane had made it a frequent practice
to drop by Bob’s place for coffee and general conversation,
ranging from the spiritual to the stock market.
When Bob answered the phone this time, Blane immediately detected
that something was amiss. Bob’s tone of voice was lackluster
and without spirit; his words drooped like wet putty on his ear; there
was no crispness, no interest and no fire. They struggled through
a short conversation, then said goodbye.
Blane sat for some time, his hand still on the phone. His first inclination
was to call Bob back and ask him pointblank what the hell was wrong.
After all, he had known him for over thirty years, and they were the
best of friends. They could talk about anything, right?
In the end, he decided to let it rest, at least for now.
About
a week after their curt conversation, he happened to see Bob’s
sister in the local grocery store. Jane was a plump, pleasant-looking
brunette in her mid-fifties, who had been living with Bob since her
divorce. They exchanged pleasantries and chatted about this and that.
Then, suddenly, she looked him straight in the eye. With her eyes
narrowed, she moved closer to him, then glanced over her shoulder
before whispering in a low and desperate voice, “Blane, you’ve
got to help me with Bob. Something is terribly wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” I knew it, I knew it. Something
has its teeth in him and won’t let go, he thought.
She looked at him with a helpless, little-girl look, tears welling
up in her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. He won’t
talk to me about it.” She tried to go on, but her voice trailed
off into a sob.
They stood there in the aisle, and he held her for a long moment.
Finally, he said, “I’ll do what I can.”
That evening, he sat with a stiff drink of scotch whiskey on the table
before him. He stared deep into its tawny depths, as if it were a
crystal ball. Something come to me, he thought. Give me a way
to help my old and trusted friend.
A plan slowly started to form in the back streets of his mind. Bob
and he had spent many happy and relaxing hours at Blane’s fly-in
fishing cabin in Canada. The cabin was magic, and, over the years,
she’d had her way with many an insensitive brute, turning them
into slobbering crybabies when it was time to return home.
Joyfer Island had worked her charms on Bob many times during their
friendship, and maybe it would work again, if only Blane could convince
him to come to the island.
And the timing was right, Blane thought. The only reason he could
even consider going away, just now, was because of the recent good
news from his wife’s oncologist. Sara was suffering from terminal
cancer, but she had recently finished the last chemotherapy treatment,
and the doctor had assured Blane that she had several more months
to live in relative comfort. Their son Mike and a nurse would be with
her constantly.
In the end, it was Sara who convinced him he should go. She sat curled
up in his lap as he held her frail body in his strong arms. Looking
into Blane’s eyes with her pale blue ones, she said, “Sweetheart,
Bob is in trouble, and you may be able to help. Go to him and my prayers
will be with you.”
So, there it was. The plan was to get Bob to come with him to the
cabin, just the two of them. They would have ten relaxing days, simply
fishing, eating, drinking and sleeping, with no outside distractions.
If he couldn’t get Bob to open up to him in that atmosphere,
there was no hope. After all, he’d cracked some pretty tough
cookies after Joyfer had softened them up.
It took a conspiracy between Blane and Jane before Bob would agree
to go to Canada. In the past, he would have jumped at the chance;
it was his favorite place in the world. But this time, he used every
excuse he could think of and then some to get out of it. Jane told
Blane that Bob had increasingly refused to go out or see friends,
and that he stayed in bed for most of the day. But finally, she got
him to commit to go. They would leave on May 8, 2002.
Once Blane had gotten Bob to say he would go, he started to have second
thoughts about it. He had a minor in psychology but was no trained
psychiatrist. What if Bob became suicidal, and Blane had not urged
him to seek professional help? Jane assured him she had been trying
that tack for months, to no avail, so he decided to chance it.
What could it be? Cancer, deep depression, a woman problem? He had
no idea, but he was determined to help his friend, since he knew Bob
would do the same for him.
CHAPTER
3
THE CANADA SURPRISE
D-day finally arrived, and Blane met Bob at the airport. Jane dropped
him at the gate and drove off but not before giving Blane one last,
long pleading look.
Bob looked well enough. His movie-star gray hair was coiffed to a
tee, and his matching gray goatee was trimmed to perfection. Bob was
not a big man, but he had maintained his slim-hipped, broad-shouldered
look well into his sixties. Standing beside Blane’s six-foot-four
frame, he resembled Mutt of Mutt and Jeff. He had on his trademark
safari outfit, giving him the appearance of the great white hunter.
Yet, Blane could see immediately that he lacked his old familiar zest
for life.
They checked in their bags and rod cases and began the familiar trip.
It would include traveling on a 737 commercial jet, a smaller turboprop
plane, a taxi, and then, finally, a Beaver nine-cylinder float plane
that would deposit them on Joyfer’s dock, a hundred-and-fifty
miles from civilization, with their bags, fishing gear and ten days’
worth of groceries.
When the pontoon plane taxied away from the dock, the feeling of remoteness
and isolation started to nibble away at the back doors of their consciousnesses.
Opening up the cabin, they went about their duties silently, working
as a team to light the refrigerator and hot water heater, pump water
into the five-hundred-gallon holding tank, put away the food, make
their beds and put their fishing rods together.
Blane thought he could see Bob relax a tad as he went about these
familiar tasks, but he could see that his friend still had his guard
up.
The next four days could not have been more pleasant. They had great
food, good fishing and a few drinks in the twilight of the long Canadian
evenings. Bob even laughed a little.
It was not until their fifth evening that Blane decided to make his
move. Because he had as yet made no attempt to breach Bob’s
shell, Bob was obviously unsuspecting. Blane felt a little as if he
were betraying Bob, but he was determined to set and trip the trap
that very night. He was aware that this might cost him his friendship
with Bob, but he also thought that he was the only one to whom Bob
would open up.
They had had a particularly good fishing day, and on the last cast
of the day, Bob had boated a twenty-three pound Northern Pike. He
seemed more relaxed than Blane had seen him in months.
When they got back to the cabin, Blane put his game plan into action.
He grabbed a quick shower, then told Bob to go ahead and shower, while
he fixed Bob’s favorite dinner—linguini and clam sauce,
with a side of Italian sausage.
While Bob was in the shower, Blane took a strong scotch and water
to the shower house for him and made a weak one for himself. By the
time Bob had finished showering and dressing, Blane had dinner ready
and on hold on the back burner.
Bob found him sitting on the front deck and joined him with another
apparently stiff scotch. I’ll just bide my time now,
Blane thought.
It was a beautiful evening. The loons were making their haunting calls,
and the lake was smooth as glass. They talked a little about the day,
but mostly they sat in silence, taking in the beauty that lay before
them.
Presently, Bob went inside and returned with another scotch. This
was unusual for him, since he normally limited himself to two drinks.
It looked to Blane as if Bob suspected something was afoot.
Blane sighed a long sigh, and then, at length, he said, “Can
you talk about it?”
There was a long pause as Bob stared across the lake. Then, without
looking at Blane, he said in a low, almost inaudible voice, “Talk
about what?”
“Talk about what’s been eating at you. You haven’t
been yourself for some time now, and I would like to help if I can.”
Bob shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He shook his head slowly and
stared at the deck at his feet. He drew a long uneven breath and said
in a doleful voice, “Blane, you don’t want to know what
I know. Look at what it’s done to me. I don’t want to
infect you or anyone else with this.”
“How bad could it be? You and I have talked about every subject
under the sun.”
“Look, Blane…” Now, he sounded a little irritated.
“It’s not my health, finances or a woman, and it’s
not even the retirement blues—nothing so mundane, nothing so
trivial and easy to fix.” He threw back his head in despair
and peered at the clear, cloudless, cobalt sky. “It’s
something much more ominous, much more insidious,” he groaned.
They hung at that point for what seemed to be an eternity. Well,
that’s it. I’ve lost him, Blane thought. He’s
not going to confide in me.
Bob seemed to be trying to protect Blane from something, but what
could this big bad thing be, which, if he knew it, would throw him
into the pit of despair? Now, his curiosity was almost as great as
his need to help Bob, and he flushed with embarrassment at the thought,
but he kept pressing.
“Bob, I’m a big boy, and you, of all people, know I have
faced the slings and arrows of life and survived intact. What makes
you think this particular thing will crush me?”
Bob turned in his chair and looked him full in the face. “Okay,
you asked for it, but don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.”
Oh boy, here it comes! he thought. He felt a stab of fear
in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he really didn’t want to know
this thing! But it was too late. He’d come this far, and he
was not turning back now! “Okay, let’s have it,”
he said.
“Aliens have invaded us,” Bob said in a strong voice.
Blane sat in silent shock for what seemed like half the Canadian night,
although it was only a few brief seconds. But, in those seconds, his
mind sped like a comet. He thought of all the years he had known Bob
and how he had always thought he was one of the most stable and rational
people he had ever known. He thought of Bob’s broad educational
background. He wasn’t the type to hallucinate that aliens from
outer space had abducted him. They had, however, discussed the possibility
of intelligent life in the universe and had agreed that it was highly
likely, even a near certainty.
At length, Blane said meekly, “Would you like to elaborate on
that?”
“I’ve told you I would, and I will, but first let me get
my pipe and slippers.” With that, he disappeared into the cabin.
The cobalt sky was now deep purple, with a hint of the northern lights
before their full debut. The brightest stars were visible, and soon
the Milky Way would stream across the heavens, allowing them to peer
deep into the galaxy, its clarity enhanced by their latitude and isolation.
As Blane looked to the heavens, he was once again filled with the
wonder of his childhood. What and who are out there?
These rambling thoughts were interrupted by Bob’s return. As
he sat down, he turned his chair to face him, so Blane did the same.
Bob seemed almost enthusiastic now, and Blane concluded that he was
relieved at having made the decision to share his secret with another
human being.
Bob thoughtfully filled, packed and lit his pipe. Blane’s legs
trembled with excitement and anticipation.
Bob started slowly, almost haltingly, as if he were struggling to
find just the right words. “Blane, you know me as well as anyone
else on Earth. You know my personal and educational background.”
“Right.”
“Let me remind you of a few details. I am a paleontologist and
have been called to the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs. I was present
with Doctor Leaky at some of the most famous digs in Africa, when
monumental discoveries linked the lineage of primitive man with Homo
sapiens.”
“True, true.”
“I am also a geneticist and made the initial discoveries that
lead to genome research. I was instrumental in finding numerous genetic
markers that play an important role in determining human behavior.”
“All true,” Blane said, removing his glasses and biting
on the earpiece.
Bob scooted his chair a few inches toward him, as if to emphasize
his next point. “But more importantly, and most pertinent to
this conversation, I am a behaviorist. I have studied far-flung nations
and cultures from this century, to past centuries, to prehistoric
times, and I have compared them for differences and similarities.
I have studied what traits and behavioral constants in humans have
remained basically the same for millions of years. Then I’ve
compared those constants to human and animal genetic markers, ranging
from 2.8 million years ago to modern times in the case of the Homo
sapiens and longer in the case of other animal lineages. For this,
I was awarded the Nobel Prize in Science in 1996, just before my retirement.
In that study, it was shown that genetic behavioral markers in precursor
man, with brain volumes of 650 cc or less, were much fewer and simpler
than those in modern man, matching early man’s needs.
“This was pre-emergent of such things as sympathy, empathy,
love, intuition, abstract thinking, reason and so on, which came later.
Primitive man’s needs were simple and rudimentary, and the genetic
markers were found to fulfill only the needs man had at that time.
The few markers we found in early man matched fear, hunger, the sex
drive, anger, curiosity, plus a few more. The other, more advanced
markers we possess were not found. The advanced markers appeared slowly,
as the brain enlarged to encompass the higher functions.”
By this time they were both sitting on the edge of their chairs with
their elbows on their knees. They both sat back at the same time.
Blane was not certain where Bob was heading with all of this, but
he trusted that this review was necessary. After all, Bob’s
whole life and career had been based on facts and logic.
It was dark now, and since they hadn’t lit a gas lantern, he
could see only the outline of Bob’s dark figure. The linguini
and clam sauce had long been forgotten, and this promised to be one
of those marathon nights, of which they had had so many.
Blane spoke first. “Now, let me get this straight. The number
of genetic markers increased in number and complexity as man evolved
toward modern man and as the brain enlarged to take on higher and
higher functions.”
“Exactly,” Bob said.
“So, tell me which came first—the genetic markers, the
higher functions or the larger brain?” He actually thrilled
a little to think that he could ask that question and have it answered
from the horse’s mouth, a Nobel Prize winner.
“Not so simple to answer, my friend,” Bob replied, really
getting into it now. “None of them came first, and yet all of
them came first, at one time or another. This may sound like hocus-pocus
at first glance, but it’s only when you grasp the big picture
that it becomes clear. Thus far, we haven’t been able to lay
out the whole of evolution in one continuous, unbroken line in linear
time. At times, its progress was slow and halting; then, at other
times, it leapt ahead in one geographical location, only to slowly
reach the same state in another location. There were many false starts.
At times, hundreds of thousands of years of evolution in certain populations
ended in mistakes or catastrophes that resulted in that population’s
annihilation.”
Blane interrupted. “What’s all that got to do with an
invasion by aliens?”
“Everything,” he said. He lowered his chin to his chest.
His hand came to his brow, and he massaged a little spot there slowly
with his index and middle fingers. “Blane, you’re right.
Maybe I’m trying to drag you through my thirty-year career.
It’s only that I want you to fully understand where I’m
coming from, so that, in the end, my conclusions will be logical and
clear to you.” He looked up at the enormous full moon. “What
time do you make it to be?”
“Twelve, twelve-thirty.”
“What do you say we wolf down some of that linguini and clam
sauce and hit the sack? Then we’ll take a slightly different
tack tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Blane said. He really wanted Bob to go on, but
he figured he needed some time to develop a new strategy to express
himself. After a few days on the upper Manateu Lake, inner peace and
patience were your brothers.
After dinner, Blane lay on his bed and contemplated what Bob had said.
Some possibilities of what all this could mean danced around the edges
of his awareness, but he decided to push them aside and let Bob lead
where he would tomorrow.
A pack of wolves howled to the west, and as the inky blackness of
the Canadian wilderness night enfolded him, he drifted off to sleep,
dreaming of the wolf and how its long evolutionary life and genetic
traits had served him well.
The next morning, Blane was awakened by what sounded like a giant
sledgehammer hitting the cabin. The windows shook in their frames
like a rattlesnake’s tail. Thunder, he thought sleepily.
When he regained full consciousness, he smelled the aroma of fresh
coffee. Ah, Bob’s up, he thought.
He slipped on his robe and house shoes. Then, to the sound of torrents
of raindrops striking the roof, he descended the stairs. Bob was at
the stove, placing strips of thick bacon in a black iron skillet.
“Good morning,” Bob said with a smile. “Boy, we’ve
got a real Nor’easter going this morning!”
How right he was! Nowhere in the world could you get a storm with
the ferocity of those spawned in the northern provinces.
Blane poured a cup of coffee and looked out the big wraparound windows
and out across the lake. In contrast to its calmness of the night
before, the lake was rising in three-foot swells, with the whitecaps
being blown off their tops like the head off a beer. The Canadian
and American flags on the flagpole stood on point, like a good pair
of bird dogs pointing to the southwest.
They finished a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs with Texas toast
and Canadian Malkin’s blackberry jelly. They pushed their plates
aside and poured another cup of coffee.
“Okay, let’s continue,” Bob said.
Blane was delighted. He had been concerned that maybe the spirits
of the night before had loosened Bob’s tongue, and that today,
he might have second thoughts about being so open.
“The alien that has invaded our planet is very ancient, very
powerful, adaptive and creative. Its goal is to reproduce its kind
at all costs and to spread itself to encompass the entire universe.
Its plan is to hopscotch from planet to planet, from solar system
to solar system, and from galaxy to galaxy and so on. It has one big
problem. It doesn’t have its own vehicle. In other words, it
doesn’t have a physical body, and because it doesn’t,
it can’t find or produce the food and nourishment to keep it
alive. Even if it could, it couldn’t survive in any raw environment
without the covering of a body.”
“So, this alien is a force, an intelligence, a kind of super-consciousness,”
Blane commented.
“In a real sense, you are correct. In order for this intelligence
to reproduce and spread itself, it must have a host in which to find
safe harbor—just as we would not survive that storm out there
for very long, and we need this house or host to derive food, warmth
and protection.
“This force came to our planet long ago and has directed the
Earth’s progress through the ages. This may lead you to believe
that the force is benevolent and cares for the Earth and her inhabitants,
and in a selfish way, it does. Without a healthy Earth and without
a healthy population, it is incapable of carrying out its single-minded
mission of reproduction and forward mobility to conquer the universe.
“Now, are you starting to get an inkling of why I’ve been
depressed? What I’m telling you is by no means the whole story.
This is just the tip of the iceberg, and by the time I’m finished,
I think you will grasp the ugly truth. I hope it doesn’t mark
you for life. Are you sure you still want me to go on?”
“We’ve come this far. Let’s go on.”
“You see, the force came to the Earth during the Earth’s
early existence, but not too early, because, remember, it needed a
host in which to survive. It needed a somewhat hospitable environment,
although it didn’t need the atmospheric conditions we have today.
In fact, it didn’t even need the concentration of oxygen we
have today. It needed only a host that could survive the hot, volatile
and caustic atmosphere—at least, caustic, compared to today’s
conditions.
“It didn’t come when the Earth was first formed about
4.5 billion years ago, although, for sure, some early advance forces
did arrive at that time and became expendable casualties in the cause
of conquering the universe. Remember, the force is not sentimental.
It’s more than willing to sacrifice some of its own, if it means
victory in the end. It came somewhere around 1.5 billon years ago,
when the Earth had cooled enough from its gaseous beginnings. It needed
water, oxygen and primitive one-cell or multi-celled life forms to
begin its work on this planet. There was one huge problem. The life
forms available were few in number and clung precariously to life.
They had limited, asexual means of reproduction, confined mainly to
cellular division.
“It has been demonstrated in the biotechnology laboratory at
Loma Linda that the RNA molecule surely existed at that time. From
chemical analysis of bedrock, the laboratory duplicated the global
and atmospheric conditions of that time. In short, the experiments
produced amino acids, including the eight essential amino acids that
make up the basic building blocks of life. But, more importantly,
they produced RNA— ribonucleic acid.
“So it was—and had been, for a long time before the force
came—an RNA world, without any DNA. RNA was capable of passing
only the most basic information to the next generation, and this made
for a sluggish sameness, generation after generation for eons.
“RNA is still present in the human being, but its duties are
dwarfed in comparisons to DNA. To put it simplistically, it works
locally inside the cell, doing housework and delivering messages,
while the DNA molecule does the glamour jobs.”
.“As I said, “Bob continued. “The force came to
this planet, as it has to many other planets, and entered the early
life forms with the plan of making the Earth a nursery—a factory,
so to speak—much as one would plant a garden with seeds and
tend it, weed it, fertilize it and train the plants to grow straight
and tall with stakes and cages.
“Its intention was to start with a small number of one-celled
organisms and slowly raise their consciousnesses over the millennia,
so they would become a self-contained and self-perpetuating mega-celled
source of hosts in which the force could increase and multiply. The
task was to grow this factory without the host’s knowing it
was being used to harbor the force, and would unwittingly do its bidding.
“This would be no easy task as the life forms became more and
more conscious, conscious to the point of self-awareness and beyond,
graduating to reason and abstract thinking. The plan was cunning and
ingenious. It called for the force to be so integrated, so insidious
and ingrained in the host that it was indistinguishable from the sense
of self that the force had also implanted in the host. The host was
to bend to the will of the force but still think its behavior was
natural, that it was normal human behavior, stemming from its own
humanity, which the force had as well endowed in him. The plan has
worked flawlessly for one-and-a-half billion years…until now.”
“This is all very dark and sinister, if this is true,”
Blane said, “or even if you only believe it’s true. I
can easily see how it has put you down in the depths of despair. It’s
easy to visualize you observing people jumping through the burning
hoops of fire of their lives, oblivious to the fact that they are
just pawns, manipulated like robots.”
Bob got up from the stump and paced back and forth in quickstep. He
doubled up his fist and shook it rapidly next to his ear. “That’s
it, that’s it exactly! I knew you would understand!” he
said excitedly. “Now, I guess that it will come as no surprise
to you that the force is our very own, very near and dear to us, DNA
molecule.”
“Not surprised,” Blane mumbled as he put on another batch
of fish. He couldn’t help but think of how many DNA molecules
he was sacrificing for the cause as the filets tumbled into the pot.
“Wonderful,
wonderful,” Bob said with glee. “Now, let’s put
a cap on this thing. You know my life’s work and how close to
my studies I’ve been for thirty years. Since my retirement,
I have had time to think. I have had time to ponder the meaning of
all that I’ve learned in three fields of endeavor. At the time,
I was caught up in each project one at a time, and I looked at each
one through a microscope and with blinders on. Now that I’ve
had four years of retirement to examine all those facts and findings
swirling dizzily in my head for all those years, everything becomes
crystal clear.”
“It was very observant of you to note how painful it was for
me to observe people going obliviously about their daily lives. I
watch my granddaughter as she meticulously puts on makeup to make
herself fit-in and look more desirable. I watch the young men preen
and strut on the football field in front of the cheerleaders, and
I watch the man in the gray flannel suit scratch and claw his way
up the corporate ladder to gain a higher position that brings more
respect, more money and thus more apparent success to show society
or a prospective mate. These near-involuntary behaviors are scantly
veiled mating rituals, and the human being has hundreds of them, not
to mention the rest of the animal kingdom.
“I see the woman who detests children become a blubbering, baby-talking,
adoring mother when she has that unexpected child. It’s her
DNA boss, cajoling her to care for this helpless little DNA package.
“In the earliest times of human development, when we lived in
small close-knit groups in isolated regions, man was obsessed with
the urge to explore, to see what was over the next mountain or what
was on the other side of the big waters. On the surface, this trait
may appear to be present only to appease his curiosity, to war and
conquer, to find new food sources, or to find new and more interesting
women, but these were only secondary reasons in disguise. Man valiantly
ventured forth, risking life and limb…and for what?
“He did it, not for the apparent reasons, but in order serve
the DNA’s need to spread and to strengthen the molecule by inseminating
his DNA into other gene pool populations.
“Blane, I could go on and on in this vein, but I think you get
the picture. There is virtually no aspect of life that is not either
controlled or directed by the DNA molecule, to fulfill its agenda.
Life is about sex and sex is about life, and without it, life halts
on all fronts, at all levels. We are the operatives that stand between
the molecule and sexual reproduction, and reproduction is absolutely
the central focus of the molecule.
“We control our overt actions, but the only purpose of those
actions is to carry out the molecule’s covert orders. We think
we have free will, but in truth, free will is an illusion. When one
looks deep enough into our choices and our behaviors, we find that
those choices and behaviors benefit the DNA molecule in its quest
to survive, multiply and spread. If our choices are not beneficial
we are eliminated. There is no exception.
“It takes innocent young boys and girls—who are natural
enemies in the first ten to twelve years of their lives—and
converts them to lusting sexual beings. Gonadotrophins, released on
instructions from the DNA molecule, make new neural connections in
the young male’s brain that induce him do all sorts of shenanigans
in an effort to obtain sex.
“In females, estrogen sets the stage by developing certain parts
of her body that are extremely interesting to males. At this point,
she develops her first egg or ovum, but she is still unreceptive to
the male’s relentless pursuit of sex. The DNA’s diabolical
plan needs but one more ingredient to make a sexual explosion occur
between the sexes, hopefully ending in pregnancy. At the critical
moment, the molecule orders the release of a small amount of testosterone
into the young female’s bloodstream, the hormone that dramatically
turns on her sex drive.
“Unbeknownst to the children, the DNA molecule has played them
like a fine violin. The molecule is super-intelligence personified,
but we must not be duped into believing that it has feelings, morals
or scruples. It could care less if the woman child is only thirteen
when she conceives. It is mindless, in the sense that we think of
mind. It has one goal and will even kill to achieve that goal.
“It programs menopause in women, so they can’t have babies
late in life, so that the new package of DNA will have a young and
fresh mother who won’t die before the package is mature, giving
it the best chance of survival. You may say this is good for the human
race and you’re right, but you’re right for the wrong
reasons.
“The DNA molecule doesn’t care if you are happy for your
own happiness’ sake, but it wants to keep you happy because
a happy plant is a productive plant.
“What does the molecule do when you become old, beyond the child-bearing
or child-rearing age, when you are set in your ways and less productive?
Well, you don’t have to worry about that, because it’s
all been preprogrammed into your genes to exterminate you when you
become unproductive and a burden to society. The molecule decrees
that you must die to make room for new young hosts who will be prolific
and productive, so that society will be much more successful in producing
the wealth needed to care for and feed the planned population explosion,
without the drain on wealth represented by the old.
“What does the molecule do with weak and addictive personalities?
It has preprogrammed responses to release certain chemicals into the
bloodstream to produce addiction, to encourage abuse, so that disease
or overdose will take their undesirable genes out of the gene pool.”
The light was waning, so Bob lit a Coleman lantern. “Take any
part of the human experience.” He said. “You will find
that you cannot dissect it from the overriding influence of the molecule.”
“How about religion?”
“Easy as pie,” he retorted. “As you know, I have
studied mankind’s religious practices as far back into the mists
of time as any other scholar in the world.
“As far back as man can be traced, he has worshiped and sacrificed
to the gods or God. This has been true in every culture in the world,
bar none. Picture primitive man in a world out of control. There were
volcanoes, earthquakes and floods, and wild animals that would eat
you at every turn. Man was weak and not well-armed to face these daunting
elements. He felt helpless and defenseless against these monumental
forces of nature. When some of these natural occurrences would transpire,
he would interpret it as meaning that something more powerful than
he was angry with him. He desperately needed a god to appease. The
molecule was ready and activated the tendency that’s in all
of us to worship and pray to a higher power to intercede for us. The
trait is ageless and universal.
“So, why would this trait fit in so nicely with the molecule’s
plan? If man were to be subdued by the forces of nature, he would
be meek and unwilling to risk exploring over the next hill, the next
valley or across the waters. But if he could invent a god and offer
sacrifices to him to please him, he would receive protection, and
this would give him the necessary confidence and feeling of control
to fulfill his role in helping produce and spread DNA.”
“Well said. I have one more question,” Blane said. “Then
let’s eat and put it to sleep for tonight. My head is spinning.
Why would the force—pardon me, the DNA molecule—allow
us to become so conscious and lucid as to be able to figure out its
game plan?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Bob said in an English accent
and feigning holding a pipe in his hand. “First of all, it’s
too late for us to do anything about it. It has become the essence
of what we think we are. And if we wanted to do something, what would
or could we do? It’s the only game in town. Secondly, it was
a calculated risk. If the molecule could bring us from a primitive
life form to the point at which we were intelligent enough to figure
out we had been used, we would also be smart enough to escape the
throes of this planet and travel out into space…taking what
with us?”
“The DNA molecule,” Blane intoned. Then he added, “When
are you going to tell me how the DNA molecule got to Earth?”
“That will be one for the boat tomorrow. Let’s eat.”
