Perfect People Read Free

cabin door.

3
     
    Naomi opened the door to be greeted by a tall man holding a manila envelope and wearing the white jumpsuit and plimsolls that seemed to be the ship’s standard uniform. Recognizing him instantly, John stood up.
    He was surprised at just how imposing the geneticist was in the flesh, far taller than he had imagined, a good head higher than himself, six-foot-six at least. He recognized the voice also, the disarming but assertive Southern Californian accent, from the phone conversations they had had in recent months.
    ‘Dr Klaesson? Mrs Klaesson? I’m Leo Dettore. Hope I’m not disturbing you folks!’
    The man to whom they had handed over just about every cent they had in the world, plus one hundred and fifty thousand dollars they didn’t, gave Naomi’s hand a firm, unhurried shake, fixing her eyes with his own, which were a soft grey colour, sharp and alert and sparkling with warmth. She mustered a smile back, shooting a fleeting, horrified glance at the mess of clothes all around John, desperately wishing she’d had a chance to tidy up. ‘No, you’re not disturbing us at all. Come in,’ she said.
    ‘Just wanted to swing by and introduce myself, and give you a bunch of stuff to read.’ The geneticist had to duck his head as he entered the cabin. ‘Great to meet you in person at last, Dr Klaesson.’
    ‘And you too, Dr Dettore.’
    Dettore’s grip was strong, taking charge of the handshake the way he clearly took charge of everything else. John felt a moment of awkwardness between them. Dettore seemed to be signalling something in his smile, as if there was some secret pact between the two men. Perhaps an implied agreement between two scientists who understood a whole lot more what this was about than Naomi possibly could.
    Except that was not the way John ever intended it should be. He and Naomi had made this decision together from day one, eyes wide open, equal partners. There was nothing he would hide from her and nothing he would twist or distort that he presented to her. Period.
    Lean and tanned, with distinguished Latin looks, Leo Dettore exuded confidence and charm. His teeth were perfect, he had great hair, dark and luxuriant, swept immaculately back and tinged with elegant silver streaks at the temples. And although sixty-two years old, he could easily have passed for someone a good decade younger.
    Naomi watched him carefully, looking for any chinks in his facade, trying to read this stranger to whom they were effectively entrusting their entire future, studying his face, his body language. Her instant impression was one of disappointment. He had that aura, she had noticed in her work in public relations, that only the very rich and very successful had; some almost indefinable quality that great wealth alone seemed able to buy. He looked too slick, too mediagenic, too much like a White House candidate purring for votes, too much like a captain of industry schmoozing a shareholders’ meeting. But oddly, she found the more she looked at him, the more her confidence in him grew. Despite everything, there seemed something genuine about him, as well.
    She noticed his hands. He had fine fingers. Not a politician’s, nor a businessman’s, but true surgeon’s fingers, long, hairy, with immaculate nails. She liked his voice, also, finding it sincere and calming. And there was something reassuring about his sheer physical presence. Then she reminded herself, as she had done so often these past weeks, that only a couple of months ago, beneath a photograph of Leo Dettore’s face, the front cover of Time magazine had borne the question, TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY FRANKENSTEIN ?
    ‘You know,’ Dettore said, ‘I’m actually really intrigued by your work, Dr Klaesson – maybe we can talk about it some time over the next few days. I read that paper you published in Nature a few months back – was it the February issue?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    ‘The virtual dog genes. Fascinating