"There's a great range of genetic issues," he said. "Let's move on."
"Dr. Bellarmino," said a kid to the left, "I wanted to ask about antisocial personality disorder. I've read there is a gene for it, and it's associated with violence and crime, sociopathic behavior..."
"Yes, that's true. The gene appears in about two percent of the population around the world."
"What about New Zealand? It is in thirty percent of the white New Zealand population, and sixty percent of the Maori population..."
"That's been reported, but you must be careful - "
"But doesn't that mean violence is hereditary? I mean, shouldn't we be trying to get rid of this gene, the way we got rid of smallpox?"
Bellarmino paused. He was starting to wonder how many of these kids had parents who worked in Bethesda. He hadn't thought to ask for the names of the kids in advance. But the questions from these kids were too knowledgeable, too relentless. Was one of his many enemies trying to discredit him, by using these kids? Was the whole network plan a trap to make him look bad? The first step toward pushing him out of NIH? This was the information age; it was how such things were done today. Arrange to make you look bad, make you look weak. Push you to say something foolish, and then watch your words repeated over and over for the next forty-eight hours on every cable news show and in every newspaper column. Next, have congressmen call for you to retract your statements. Clucking tongues, shaking heads...How could he be so insensitive? Was he really suited for the job? Wasn't he really a liability at his post?
And then you were out.
That was how it was done, these days.
Now Bellarmino was facing a dangerously loaded question about Maori genetics. Should he say what he really believed, and risk being accused of demeaning a downtrodden ethnic minority? Did he mute his comments, but still risk criticism for promoting eugenics? How, actually, could he say anything at all?
He decided he couldn't. "You know," he said, "that's an extremely interesting area of research, but we just don't know enough yet to answer. Next question?"
CHapter 051
It had beenraining all day in southern Sumatra. The jungle floor was wet. The leaves were wet. Everything was wet. The video crews from around the world had long since gone on to other assignments. Now Hagar was back with only one client: a man named Gorevitch. A famous wildlife photographer who had flown in from Tanzania.
Gorevitch had set up beneath a large ficus tree, unzipped a duffel bag, and removed a nylon mesh sling, like a hammock. He set this on the ground carefully. Then he brought out a metal case, popped it open, and assembled a rifle.
"You know that's illegal," Hagar said. "This is a preserve."
"No shit."
"If the rangers come through, you better get that stuff out of sight."
"Not a problem." Gorevitch charged the compressor, opened the chamber. "How big is this guy?"
"He's a juvenile, two or three years old. Maybe thirty kilos. Probably less."
"Okay. Ten cc's." Gorevitch pulled a dart out of the case, checked the level, and slipped it into the chamber. Then another. And another. He clicked the chamber closed. He said to Hagar, "When was the last time you saw him?"
"Ten days ago."
"Where?"
"Near here."
"He comes back? This is his home range?"
"Seems to be."
Gorevitch squinted down the telescopic sight. He swung it in an arc, then up to the sky, then back. Satisfied, he put the gun down.
"You got a low enough dose?"
"Don't worry," Gorevitch said.
"Also, if he's high in the canopy, you can't shoot because - "
"I said, don't worry." Gorevitch looked at Hagar. "I know what I'm doing. Dose is just enough to unsteady him. He'll come down by himself, long before he collapses. We may have to track him on the ground for a while."
"You've done this before?"
Gorevitch nodded.
"With orangs?"
"Chimps."
"Chimps are different."
"Really." Sarcastic.
The two men fell into an uneasy silence. Gorevitch got out a video camera and tripod, and set them up. Then a long-range microphone with a one-foot dish, which he clipped to the top of the camera with a mounting pole. It made an ungainly apparatus, but effective, Hagar thought.
Gorevitch squatted on his haunches and stared out at the jungle. The men listened to the sound of the rain, and waited.
In recent weeks,the talking orangutan had faded from the media. The story had gone the way of other animal reports that didn't prove out: that Arkansas woodpecker nobody could find again, and the six-foot Congo ape that nobody could locate despite persistent stories by natives, and the giant bat with the twelve-foot wingspan that was supposedly seen in the jungles of New Guinea.
As far as Gorevitch was concerned, the declining interest was ideal. Because when the ape was finally rediscovered, media attention would be ten times greater than it would have been otherwise.
Especially because Gorevitch intended to do more than record the talking ape. He intended to bring it back alive.
He zipped his jacket collar tight against the dripping rain, and he waited.
It was latein the afternoon, and starting to get dark. Gorevitch was dozing off when he heard a low gravelly voice say, "Alors. Merde."
He opened his eyes. He looked at Hagar, sitting nearby.
Hagar shook his head.
"Alors. Comment ?a va?"
Gorevitch looked slowly around.
"Merde. Scumbag. Espèce de con."It was a low sound, throaty, like a drunk at a bar."Fungele a usted."