cuttings they had transplanted to Mtu. The growth had a number of names, though those who worked with it usually just called it bramble. The resulting plant, though not a true Rubus, certainly looked the part.
At maturity, it was estimated that a thigh-thick trunk would reach perhaps two meters before spreading up into a weeping-willowlike spray that would rise another twenty meters. This would then spill over in a graceful arch that dangled the ends of the straight and barbed branches all the way back to the ground. The bramble at maturity would look like nothing so much as a giant, sparsely leaved blackberry bush, bigger than a house, without fruit, but with wicked thorns. It would be incredibly tough, the fibers of the branches being dense and very flexible; deep rooted, and genetically engineered to resist disease, insects and even fire. The wood would make great pipes for smoking, or violin bows.
The real achievement, however, would lie in a fist-shaped knot of burl that lay just under the ground between the trunk and roots. The size of a man's head, this burl would contain, if everything went as hoped for, a chemical compound that would safely allow human cells to bypass the Hayflick Limit without side effects-by a factor of five to seven.
Such a chemical elixir would give the possibility of an eight-hundred- to thousand-year life span. And various permutations of such a substance might, even if the primary purpose failed, cure virtually every known disease.
Certainly this was enough to keep the Confed from meddling in things. The payoff would be priceless, if it worked. Nobody wanted to risk killing this particular goose.
There was, however, a catch:
From first planting to maturity, it would take at least seventy-five years. The oldest patch of U. edmondia was but fifty years old. Although the plant achieved its full height within ten or fifteen years, the burl would not be ready for harvest for at least another three score after that. Computer projections and growth curves all predicted that the biological chemical factory that was the burl should work as designed, but there was no way to hurry it. Something about the processing defied artificial attempts to speed it up; certainly it had been tried. Tests on the fifty-year-old bramble showed that there was a good probability it would work, but there was no way to be sure until push came to shove at the end. Until then, the small army of biologists and support personnel would simply have to wait and see.
If it worked, then Sampson Lewis Edmonds and Elith Liotulia would etch so deeply a place in history it would never be erased as long as men lived-and men would live a long, long time indeed. A betting man wouldn't make much profit going against it, so the oddsmakers said. Current numbers were nine to one in favor, growing more likely all the time. Everybody wanted this one to work.
Reason blinked. "You certainly know an awful lot about all this," he said.
They were back in their rooms. The Pachelbel continued, spanning vast distances using its Bender drive, moving faster effectively in an eyeblink than light did in a hour. Or not moving at all, depending on how you interpreted the physics.
Sleel nodded. "Yeah, I know about it."
"I wouldn't have thought that a matador would be so up on esoteric biology."
Sleel shrugged.
Reason looked at Sleel. "You didn't learn about this in the matadors, though, did you?"
"No. Before."
"You want to tell me?"
"Not really, but what the hell. I grew up there, in The Brambles. "
"Your parents were scientists? They work with the plants'?"
Sleel took a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah, you might say that. They invented the damned stuff. "
Reason blinked, astonished, but whatever else he was, he wasn't slow. "Sampson Lewis Edmonds? Elith Liotulia?"
"Yeah. "
"The initials. S-l-e-e-"
"Yeah," Sleel cut in.
"Well, I'll be damned."
"Not while I work for you. Afterward, maybe."
Chapter FIVE
THE BOY WAS caught in the
At maturity, it was estimated that a thigh-thick trunk would reach perhaps two meters before spreading up into a weeping-willowlike spray that would rise another twenty meters. This would then spill over in a graceful arch that dangled the ends of the straight and barbed branches all the way back to the ground. The bramble at maturity would look like nothing so much as a giant, sparsely leaved blackberry bush, bigger than a house, without fruit, but with wicked thorns. It would be incredibly tough, the fibers of the branches being dense and very flexible; deep rooted, and genetically engineered to resist disease, insects and even fire. The wood would make great pipes for smoking, or violin bows.
The real achievement, however, would lie in a fist-shaped knot of burl that lay just under the ground between the trunk and roots. The size of a man's head, this burl would contain, if everything went as hoped for, a chemical compound that would safely allow human cells to bypass the Hayflick Limit without side effects-by a factor of five to seven.
Such a chemical elixir would give the possibility of an eight-hundred- to thousand-year life span. And various permutations of such a substance might, even if the primary purpose failed, cure virtually every known disease.
Certainly this was enough to keep the Confed from meddling in things. The payoff would be priceless, if it worked. Nobody wanted to risk killing this particular goose.
There was, however, a catch:
From first planting to maturity, it would take at least seventy-five years. The oldest patch of U. edmondia was but fifty years old. Although the plant achieved its full height within ten or fifteen years, the burl would not be ready for harvest for at least another three score after that. Computer projections and growth curves all predicted that the biological chemical factory that was the burl should work as designed, but there was no way to hurry it. Something about the processing defied artificial attempts to speed it up; certainly it had been tried. Tests on the fifty-year-old bramble showed that there was a good probability it would work, but there was no way to be sure until push came to shove at the end. Until then, the small army of biologists and support personnel would simply have to wait and see.
If it worked, then Sampson Lewis Edmonds and Elith Liotulia would etch so deeply a place in history it would never be erased as long as men lived-and men would live a long, long time indeed. A betting man wouldn't make much profit going against it, so the oddsmakers said. Current numbers were nine to one in favor, growing more likely all the time. Everybody wanted this one to work.
Reason blinked. "You certainly know an awful lot about all this," he said.
They were back in their rooms. The Pachelbel continued, spanning vast distances using its Bender drive, moving faster effectively in an eyeblink than light did in a hour. Or not moving at all, depending on how you interpreted the physics.
Sleel nodded. "Yeah, I know about it."
"I wouldn't have thought that a matador would be so up on esoteric biology."
Sleel shrugged.
Reason looked at Sleel. "You didn't learn about this in the matadors, though, did you?"
"No. Before."
"You want to tell me?"
"Not really, but what the hell. I grew up there, in The Brambles. "
"Your parents were scientists? They work with the plants'?"
Sleel took a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah, you might say that. They invented the damned stuff. "
Reason blinked, astonished, but whatever else he was, he wasn't slow. "Sampson Lewis Edmonds? Elith Liotulia?"
"Yeah. "
"The initials. S-l-e-e-"
"Yeah," Sleel cut in.
"Well, I'll be damned."
"Not while I work for you. Afterward, maybe."
Chapter FIVE
THE BOY WAS caught in the
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