Pandemic
Chapter 80 : Cheng’s smile faded. “The YBR2874W strain, Doctor Feely. Properly named — Y for yeast,

Cheng’s smile faded. “The YBR2874W strain, Doctor Feely. Properly named — Y for yeast, B for chromosome two, R for right arm, 2874 for strain number and W for coding strand.”

Tim slapped his hands on the table in an exaggerated bit of outrage. “Oh no you don’t, Chubby. Naming goes to the discoverer or creator, and I be both. We already have a proper name, you blowhard, and that proper name is Saccharomyces feely. But you can call it the Feely Strain, if you like. Note the repeated emphasis on the word Feely, as in, you feel what I’m cookin’?”

The teleconference screens let people in different parts of the world make actual eye contact, let Cheng look Feely right in the eyes.

“Naming nomenclature is an established practice, Doctor Feely,” Cheng said. “Many researchers are involved in this project. We wouldn’t want to disa.s.sociate them from any credit by putting only your name on it.”

And with that, it was instantly clear that Cheng’s decision was about disa.s.sociating someone. He intended to take the credit for Tim’s brilliance, for Margaret’s discovery of the new cellulase, for everything, even though he’d been safe on Black Manitou Island while Margaret and Tim had been shot at, nearly blown up and almost drowned. Cheng couldn’t grab all the glory if the strain was named after Tim.

Tim leaned back in his chair. He smiled, laced his fingers behind his head, and looked at Murray’s monitor.

“Director Longworth, perhaps you should arbitrate this disagreement,” he said. “As our impartial third-party observer, who is right? Cheng … or me.”

Murray stiffened. Tim seemed so confident, almost as if he had something on Murray, or as if the two had worked out a backroom deal.

The director waved a hand in annoyance. “Fine. Cheng, you wouldn’t have had anything to work on in the first place if it weren’t for Feely’s work. The yeast already has a name, so use it and let’s move on.”

Tim rocked slowly in his chair, smiling wide at Cheng.

Cheng’s fat cheeks quivered with anger. “Very well. We’ve initiated an intensive incubation program to increase the yeast cultures that were delivered yesterday. We’ve also, as I mentioned earlier, altered the genome to create additional strains — some of which, I might add, show far more potential to be our magic bullet.”

Margaret wasn’t surprised. Cheng was a climber and a glory grabber, no doubt, but he was no fool and he had a small army of scientists at his disposal. Creating multiple strains was the logical approach. The more weapons they developed, the better chance of having one or two that would devastate the enemy.

“Developing variant strains is mandatory, Doctor Cheng,” Margaret said. “But that doesn’t address ma.s.s production. How are we going to make enough of this stuff to dose over seven billion people?”

Cheng’s easy, arrogant smile returned. Margaret knew he’d come up with an original idea, one he’d be ent.i.tled to claim as his own.

“Breweries,” he said.

Margaret’s eyebrows raised … not just an original idea, a brilliant original idea.

Clarence looked from Cheng to Murray to Margaret — he didn’t understand what Cheng was talking about.

Tim leaned back in his chair, surprised. He looked almost disappointed that Cheng had thought of it and not him.

“That’s great,” he said. “How many breweries are involved?”

Now it was Murray’s turn to smile. “Most of the breweries in America, Canada and Mexico are onboard. President Blackmon’s been on the phone nonstop with beverage company executives. Believe me, she’s quite convincing.”

Tim shook his head slowly. “Well, spank my a.s.s and call me Sally,” he said. “Cheng, I always thought you were a smelly, stupid douchebag with the integrity of a five-dollar wh.o.r.e, but you know what? You’re not stupid at all.”

Cheng started to give a nod of thanks, then stopped, unsure if he’d just been insulted.

Clarence looked at Tim, then to the screen, then at Margaret again, anywhere for an answer. “Sorry, can someone tell me what’s happening? Breweries?”

Tim slapped the table again. “Beer, man. People have been using yeast to make beer for, s.h.i.+t, well since before we started recording history. We don’t need to build production facilities for” — he turned to look at Cheng — “for Saccharomyces feely” — Tim turned back to Clarence — “because all over the world there are places already equipped to brew yeast cultures around the clock. Those places are called breweries.”

Cheng’s face was reddening. Tim had refused to let the man have his moment of triumph; Cheng couldn’t help but chime in.

“And the distribution infrastructure is already in place as well,” he said. “Most of the breweries have either their own bottling facilities or direct contracts with them, fleets of trucks, dedicated distribution centers — they can brew it, bottle it, and s.h.i.+p it.”

No wonder Murray thought he was going to win.

“Sounds good in theory,” Margaret said. “But will it work for the entire planet?”

Murray waved a hand in annoyance. “Do you mind if we focus on the USA first, Margaret? This is a ma.s.sive effort, yes — one of the biggest projects in our nation’s history. Fifty of the largest breweries already have starter cultures. Each of those fifty is delivering subcultures to at least ten more. In two days, we’ll have fifteen hundred American breweries producing inoculant. We can make everyone who drinks it immune.”