Two Peas in a Pod
As Alan Lansing boarded Flight 54 from Boston's Logan Airport to San Francisco, the prospect of yet another coast-to-coast flight did little to brighten his already dejected frame of mind. He knew it would probably be easier on him if he just packed up and moved to the West Coast where so much of his business was conducted, but Massachusetts was his home. It was where he had been born and grew up, where he went to college, married and planned to raise his own children.
Unfortunately, life does not always go as planned. Alan's marriage ended in divorce after only three years, and since then he only saw his daughter, Amber, on alternate weekends and holidays—and only when he was not in California's Silicon Valley. Amber was the reason he stayed in the East. She was also the reason why he was disheartened when he boarded the plane. He had stopped by his wife's house on the way to the airport to drop off a selection of his company's latest software games for his daughter, only to find Amber home alone with her "boyfriend." She was only thirteen, and already she had a boyfriend!
Alan had hoped that he would still have a few more years of being the only man in his daughter's life, but it now looked as though Amber's days of being Daddy's little girl were swiftly coming to an end. He was reminded of an old song he had heard when he was a child where, through a series of "Daddy, there's a boy outside" verses, the singer goes from being a young father to a grandfather during the course of the song. Alan had always thought that song was rather sad. It was like seeing your life flash before your eyes.
As he sat brooding at the prospect of someday losing his daughter—he did not want to even consider the "gaining a son" part yet—he watched a little girl and her parents board the plane. Although about two inches shorter and a year or so younger than Amber, the girl looked enough like his daughter to be a sister—no, not just a sister, an identical twin. The resemblance was so astonishing, that Alan could not help staring at her.
It was not until they were flying over the Great Lakes region that Alan was aware of the suspicious looks he was getting from the little girl's parents, who obviously were not pleased with his attention to their child. He took out his wallet and walked over to the family.
"Forgive me for staring at your daughter," he apologized. "It's only that she looks so much like my own little girl that I couldn't help myself. Here, see for yourself."
He handed the father a recent school photograph of Amber that he had removed from his wallet.
The girl's father, apparently no longer worried that the stranger from Massachusetts might be either a kidnapper or a child molester, laughed and claimed, "It's uncanny! If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I was looking at a picture of our Courtney. Look at this, honey," he said to his wife.
"Don't be ridiculous!" the wife snapped, barely looking at Amber's photograph. "It's only a superficial resemblance at best."
The woman's angry reaction surprised and embarrassed both men, and an uncomfortable silence followed her vehement denial. Alan then extended his hand to the husband to smooth things over.
"I'm Alan Lansing, and that picture is of Amber who is thirteen."
"I'm Wendell Schneider from San Francisco. This is my wife, Claudia, and our eleven-year-old daughter, Courtney."
Mrs. Schneider, who was clearly not pleased with her husband's divulging this personal information, elbowed him in the ribs.
"Nice meeting you," Alan said lamely, eager to return to his own seat. "Have a good flight."
For the remainder of the six-plus-hour trip, he intentionally avoided looking at either Courtney or her parents. When the plane landed at San Francisco International Airport, Claudia Schneider rushed her husband and daughter off the plane and through the terminal before he had the chance to speak to them again.
The following day, Alan was surprised to receive a phone call from Wendell Schneider, who had somehow gotten his cell phone number.
You can find anything on the Internet these days, he thought.
"Mr. Lansing," Wendell said. "I met you on the plane yesterday."
"Yes, I remember you and your family."
"I was wondering if I might meet you somewhere to discuss a personal matter."
"What matter is that, Mr. Schneider?"
"I would really rather not talk about it over the telephone. All I can say is that what I want to discuss concerns your daughter."
Intrigued, Alan agreed to meet with him at a bar not far from his office. When Wendell Schneider came through the door, he appeared nervous and hesitant.
"Thanks for agreeing to see me," he said.
"Anything that concerns my daughter is of interest to me. Now, what's this all about?"
"Your daughter is not the only little girl that bears a striking resemblance to Courtney; there are at least two others I'm aware of."
"That's interesting," Alan commented, wondering what the man could possibly be getting at. "But I'm sure it's not that uncommon for a few girls to resemble one another."
"Let me explain," Wendell said. "I wasn't completely honest with my wife when I first met her. I had been married once before, but I never told her that. You see, my first wife divorced me when we learned I was sterile. I was afraid Claudia would reject me, too, so I didn't tell her. Since there was no way Courtney could be my biological daughter, I naturally assumed my wife had been unfaithful, but it was so unlike her. Now I see these other girls who bear such a strong likeness to Courtney, and I can't help wondering."
"Wondering what?"
"If they might all have the same father."
"Wait a minute! Are you suggesting your wife and I had an affair? I swear I never laid eyes on her until I got on the plane in Boston."
"No. That's not it. I'm saying Amber might not be your daughter."
"That's ridiculous!" Alan declared emphatically, rising from his seat as though he were about to punch Wendell in the face.
"I'm sorry. Honestly, I didn't mean to offend or upset you."
Alan sighed and sat down again.
"It's okay, Wendell. I overreacted. You just hit a sore spot. You see, my wife had difficulty getting pregnant and went to a fertility expert who assured her that there was nothing wrong with her. My work schedule was quite hectic, and I had to break one appointment after another, so the doctor never had the opportunity to test me. Then one day Delia came home and announced she was pregnant. I guess I've always harbored a subconscious doubt about the paternity, especially since Amber doesn't look a thing like either Delia or me."
"That's not uncommon, Alan."
"You're right; it isn't. Amber is my daughter. I can feel it in my gut," he said, but the seed of doubt planted thirteen years earlier had now fully blossomed.
* * *
Later that evening, when Alan phoned Delia and asked about the treatment she had received from Dr. Irwin, the fertility specialist, she tried to evade the issue.
"That was almost fourteen years ago. Why would you want the information now?" she asked and then brought up her pet bone of contention. "You were too busy with your job to be interested in my pregnancy back then. Isn't this sudden concern of yours a little late?"
"Don't start with that again, Delia."
"I finished with that and with you a long time ago. But to answer your question, the doctor just gave me some hormone shots and vitamins. That's all. Now, if there are no other questions, I've got a lot of things to do."
Next, Alan tried to contact Dr. Irwin directly, but he did not get anywhere. In response to his several calls, the worried father was repeatedly told by the doctor's receptionist that the doctor was with a patient and would get back to him, but he never did.
It suddenly occurred to Alan that his particular area of expertise might work to his advantage.
What good is being a computer geek, if you don't put your skills to good use once in a while? he wondered.
Thus, once back in New England, he sat at his laptop and engaged in some illegal hacking. With surprisingly little difficulty, he was able to access Dr. Irwin's patients' records. According to Delia's file, the infertility tests were performed in April, the results of which confirmed that she was medically able to conceive, carry and give birth to a child. Five months later, at her appointment in September, Delia's pregnancy was confirmed. Between those two doctor's visits, there was one during the month of July. The only explanation for that visit was the notation "OVU35 administered." Yet Alan could find no mention of OVU35 in the Physician's Desk Reference. There was also no reference to it anywhere on the Internet, a fact that greatly disturbed him.
When business again called him to California, he contacted Wendell Schneider.
"It's probably nothing," Alan explained when the two men met up at the same bar as before, "but I'm getting nowhere with my wife and her doctor. I have to admit it's got me worried. There's a drug Delia received that I can't get any information on. You wouldn't know what your wife's treatments consisted of, would you?"
"No. She changes the subject every time I mention her pregnancy."
When the two men parted, Wendell gave Alan the name of his wife's obstetrician; and for the second time that week, Alan broke into a doctor's computer files. He was not too surprised to discover that Claudia Schneider had also received OVU35 prior to the conception of her daughter.
If it's a common medication, why isn't it in the PDR? And why don't any pharmaceutical companies list it on their websites? Could it be that, at the time Delia and Claudia received it, the fertility enhancer was still in its experimental stages and was subsequently discontinued?
Alan knew Delia would have done anything to have had a baby, even agreeing to become a human guinea pig. The same was probably true of Claudia Schneider. But would a mere fertility drug cause such an incredible resemblance in the resulting offspring? It was not likely.
"Did you find out anything?" Wendell asked anxiously the next time the two men spoke.
"I've been able to confirm that your wife had the same treatment as mine did, but I still haven't been able to find out anything about it."
"Well, I'm going to go to my wife's doctor and demand to know what this OVU35 is. If he refuses to tell me, I'll threaten him with a court order and possible lawsuit."
"Good luck. I hope you get further with your wife's doctor than I got with mine. I still haven't been able to speak with him."
Three days later, however, Wendell Schneider was dead.
* * *
It was early Friday afternoon, and Alan, who had Amber for the weekend, picked the girl up at his wife's house.
"We have to make one quick stop before we go to the movies," he told her, apologetically. "My company recently switched insurance carriers. They just want to do a quick check-up on you to be sure you don't have any serious pre-existing conditions. Don't be worried, it's just a routine exam. The doctor will check your height and weight, take your blood pressure and pulse, and administer a blood test—all the usual stuff. You should be in and out of there in less than a half hour."
"Awh, Dad, do I have to? I didn’t need to take an exam for Mom's insurance company," Amber pointed out.
When he was a boy, he did not dare question his parent's edicts. Today, however, it was as though all children were born with law degrees, ready to argue every point a parent dared to make.
"But for mine you do," he insisted. "Oh, and don't mention it to your mother. She'll demand to know why I didn't discuss it with her first."
The insurance exam was only a ruse. The doctor was a friend of Alan's who agreed to go along with the pretense in order to obtain a DNA sample from Amber. Alan wanted to know once and for all if she was his biological child. He knew that even if the test proved she wasn't, it would not change his feelings toward her. He had been present at the delivery, had cut the umbilical cord himself and had held her close only minutes after her birth. He had loved her, cared for her and worried about her for thirteen years. The result of the DNA test, whatever that might be, would not change any of that.
* * *
The following Monday, Alan was once again on a plane headed west. This time, he was the one being stared at. The woman's eyes were hidden behind mirror-lens sunglasses, but he knew she was looking at him. He had felt her gaze like a prickling on his skin.
Who is she? he wondered.
What he could see of her face behind the glasses was incredibly beautiful: high cheekbones; full, moist lips; smooth, creamy complexion. He could not tell the color of her hair because it was hidden under an enormous hat. Her body—well, that she could not hide from a blind man! She was, as people said years ago, "stacked" or "really put together." But in these politically correct days, she might be considered "physically fit" or perhaps "healthy."
It was not every day a woman that beautiful stared at Alan. In fact, no women ever stared at him since, to be perfectly honest, he was not much to look at.
Finally, he gathered his nerve and spoke to her.
"Excuse me, but do I know you?"
"No, I don't believe so," she said in a voice as sensual as her looks. "Would you like to?"
Was she serious?
"I'm Alan Lansing," he said, sitting in the empty seat next to her.
"Cecily Thorne," she replied, shaking his hand.
"Do you live in San Francisco?" he asked.
"No, I'm here on business."
"Me, too. I fly out this way about a dozen times a year, sometimes more. I could fly to the moon with the frequent flyer miles I've accumulated." Then he took the plunge. "If you're not busy, maybe we could have lunch or dinner."
"I'm not very hungry, but I would like a drink. Where are you staying?"
"I have a studio apartment I rent here. It's not much, but it's better than sleeping in hotels on every trip."
"Why don't we go to your place, then?"
Was he dreaming or would Alan Funt step out of the cockpit with Durward Kirby and yell, "Smile, you're on Candid Camera?"
Alan, who had never found himself in a situation like this, managed to stay cool, as if gorgeous women inviting themselves to his apartment was a common occurrence.
"I have a couple of bottles of wine, but if you'd like something stronger, we can pick it up on the way," he said as they both got into a rental car.
"Wine is okay with me."
When they arrived at the apartment, Cecily made no attempt to remove her hat and sunglasses. She was sitting on the couch, sipping her wine, when she spotted a framed photograph of Amber on one of the end tables.
"Is that your daughter?" she asked.
"Yes. That's Amber. She lives with my ex-wife in Massachusetts."
"I bet you were surprised by the resemblance between her and Courtney Schneider," she said matter-of-factly.
"What? How did you know about that?" he asked, realizing theirs had been no accidental meeting (he really should have known better).
"I'm the owner of the company that developed OVU35. When Mr. Schneider went to his wife's doctor and demanded to know about the product, I was notified. I'll admit I was very concerned about the whole situation. OVU35 is one of the best-kept secrets in the medical world. Only a few select doctors are aware of its existence. My security staff was alerted and sent out to find the source of Mr. Schneider's information. They found your name on his phone records. Schneider and Lansing—both of your wives received OVU35. It wasn't long before we surmised what happened. You probably saw Courtney and became suspicious. At some point, you and Wendell began comparing notes. With your knowledge of computers, you must have gotten into your wife's and Claudia's medical records where you learned that both women received OVU35. Am I right so far?"
"Yes. But that's all that I've been able to find out. I have no idea what your product is, what it does or why it's such a big secret."
"My husband and I are molecular biologists. We formulated OVU35, which is really nothing more than a genetically engineered group of cells that is injected into the womb."
"Like a test tube baby?"
"Yes, but the cells we implant are the result of years of research into the DNA structure. Your daughter and the others like her have been given genes manufactured in our laboratory."
"What do you mean manufactured?"
"We took a sample of human DNA, eliminated every known threat of hereditary disease and biological defect, and then we added a few beneficial chromosomes. Then, once we had the blueprint for a perfect human being, we reproduced the sample. If you were to compare Amber's DNA with that of Courtney Schneider, they'd be virtually identical."
"You mean my daughter's nothing but a ... a clone?"
"You make that sound like a bad thing, but it isn't. Your daughter won't have to worry about diseases that might kill or incapacitate her friends through the years. And she'll live a good fifty years longer than any of them."
"Mr. Serling," Alan said more to himself than to Cecily, "I should have paid attention to that signpost up ahead. I just stepped over into The Twilight Zone!" Then after a few minutes, he addressed his visitor again, "Did my wife and the other women know about this cloning process beforehand? Did they agree to it?"
"Yes, they knew, and all of them agreed. Do you have any idea what it's like to want a child and be unable to have one?"
"No. Do you?" he countered.
"Yes, I do. I could never have one of my own," she said desolately. "That's why my husband and I went into this line of research. Of course, given the situation, I can't help feeling that these children are more mine than their parents'."
"Why? Because you're the one who dreamed up this nightmare?"
"No," she answered, finally removing the hat and sunglasses. "It was my DNA that was used as the starting point for the original sample."
As Alan stared in amazement at her face, he wondered why he had not seen the resemblance at once even with the glasses on.
This is how Amber, Courtney and God knows how many others will look when they grow up.
Someday, Amber would be as beautiful as Cecily Thorne. She would not look anything like either Alan or Delia, but why should she? Alan had no part in her creation, and Delia had been little more than an incubator for the unborn fetus.
Alan poured himself another glass of wine, wishing he had stopped and bought something stronger after all. How could his relationship with Amber ever be the same again? He had been willing to accept the fact that she might be another man's child, but how could he ever accept this? Was she even human?
"I feel like I've just lost my daughter," he said helplessly. "Oh, God, I wish I'd never laid eyes on Courtney Schneider and never heard of OVU35."
"My business is almost finished here. I'll be glad to get back to New York. Could you hand me my bag, please?" the scientist asked, pointing to her purse on the other side of Alan.
As he turned to get it, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his upper arm.
"What the hell?" he asked, and saw the hypodermic needle in Cecily's hand. He wanted to grab it, but whatever she had injected him with was already beginning to take effect. "Why?" he asked as the paralysis started to spread through his body.
"I can't trust you to keep quiet, any more than I could trust Wendell Schneider. If word of their existence gets out, my children will suffer. They'll be hounded by the press and medical community alike. They'll go through life being stared at, made fun of or shunned as freaks. I can't let that happen to my babies. They deserve a normal life."
As he felt his consciousness slipping away, Alan Lansing watched Cecily Thorne put on her hat and dark glasses. His final, illogical thought was that his worst fear had come true: Amber was finally all grown up and was no longer Daddy's little girl.
Perhaps genetic research isn't such a good idea after all.
