Lang said, and smiled. Mitch studied her face, her smile, with a sharp pang. ‘My advice is, stay tuned.’
‘Then what is so significant about this virus, if it doesn’t kill, and its symptoms are so slight?’
‘It’s the first HERV – human endogenous retrovirus – to become active, the first to escape from human chromosomes and be laterally transmitted.’
‘What does that mean, laterally transmitted?’
‘That means it’s infectious. It can pass from one human to another. For millions of years, it’s been transmitted vertically – passed from parents to children through their genetic inheritance.’
‘Do other old viruses exist in our cells?’
‘The latest estimate is that as much as one third of our genome could consist of endogenous retroviruses. They sometimes form particles within the cells, as if they were trying to break out again, but none of these particles have been efficient – until now.’
‘Is it safe to say that these remnant viruses were long ago broken or dumbed down?’
‘It’s complicated, but you could say that.’
‘How did they get into our genes?’
‘At some point in our past, a retrovirus infected germ-line cells, sex cells such as egg or sperm. We don’t know what symptoms the disease might have caused at that time. Somehow, over time, the provirus, the viral blueprint buried in our DNA, was broken or mutated or just plain shut down. Supposedly these sequences of retroviral DNA are now just scraps. But three years ago, I proposed that certain provirus fragments on different human chromosomes could express all the parts of an active retrovirus. All the necessary proteins and RNA floating inside the cell could put together a complete and infectious particle.’
‘And so it has turned out. Speculative science bravely marching ahead of the real thing …’
Mitch hardly heard what the reporter said, focusing instead on Lang’s eyes: Large, still wary, but not missing a thing. Very bold. A survivor’s eyes.
He switched the TV off and rolled over on the bed to nap, to forget. His leg ached inside the long cast.
Kaye Lang was close to grabbing the brass ring, winning a big round in the science game. Mitch, on the other hand, had been handed a solid gold ring … And he had fumbled it badly, dropped it on the ice, lost it for ever.
An hour later, he awakened to an authoritative knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, and cleared his throat.
A male nurse in starched green accompanied three men and a woman, all in late maturity, all dressed conservatively. They entered and glanced around the room as if to take note of possible escape routes. The shortest of the three men stepped forward and introduced himself. He held out his hand.
‘I am Emiliano Luria, of the Institute for Human Studies,’ he said. ‘These are my colleagues at the University of Innsbruck, Herr Professor Friedrich Brock …’
Names that Mitch almost immediately forgot. The nurse brought two more chairs in from the hallway, and then stood by the door at parade rest, folding his arms and lifting his nose like a palace guard.
Luria spun his chair around, back to front, and sat. His thick round eyeglasses gleamed in the gray light through the curtained windows. He fixed his gaze on Mitch, made a small ‘um’ sound, then glared at the nurse. ‘We will be fine, alone,’ he said. ‘Please go. No stories sold to the newspapers, and no big damned goose chases for bodies on the glaciers!’
The nurse nodded amiably and closed the door behind him as he left.
Luria then asked the woman, thin and middle-aged, with a stern, strong face and abundant gray hair tied in a bun, to make sure the nurse was not listening. She stood by the door and peered out.
‘Inspector Haas in Vienna assures me they have no further interest in this matter,’ Luria said to Mitch after these formalities were observed. ‘This is between you and us, and I will work with the Italians and the Swiss, if we must cross any borders.’ He pulled a large folding map from his pocket, and Dr Block or Brock or whatever his name was held out a box containing a number of picture books on the Alps.
‘Now, young man,’ Luria said, his eyes swimming behind their thick lenses. ‘Help us repair this damage you have done to the fabric of science. These mountains, where you were found, are not unfamiliar to us. Just one range over is where the real Iceman was found. There has been a lot of traffic through these mountains for thousands of years, a trade route perhaps, or paths followed by hunters.’
‘I don’t think they were on any trade route,’ Mitch said. ‘I think they were running away.’
Luria looked at his notes. The woman edged closer to the bed. ‘Two adults, in very good condition but for the feet. The female with a wound of some sort in the abdomen.’
‘A spear-thrust,’ Mitch said. The room fell silent for a moment.
‘I have made some phone calls and talked to people who know you. I am told your father is coming here to take you from the hospital, and I have spoken with your mother –’
‘Please get to the point, Professor,’ Mitch said.
Luria raised his eyebrows and shuffled his papers. ‘I am told you were a very fine scientist, conscientious, an expert at arranging and carrying out meticulous digs. You found the skeleton known as Pasco man. When Native Americans protested and claimed Pasco man as one of their ancestors, you removed the bones from their site –’
‘To protect them. They had washed out of a bank and were on the shore of the river. The Indians wanted them put back into the ground. The bones were too important to science. I couldn’t let that happen.’
Luria leaned forward. ‘I believe Pasco man died from an infected spear wound in his thigh, did he not?’
‘He may have,’ Mitch said.
‘You have a nose for ancient tragedies,’ Luria said, scratching his ear with a finger.
‘Life was pretty hard back then.’
Luria nodded agreement. ‘Here in Europe, when we find a skeleton there are no such problems.’ He smiled at his colleagues. ‘We have no respect for our dead – dig them up, put them on display, charge tourists to see them. So this for us is not necessarily a big black mark, though it seems to have ended your relationship with your institution.’
‘Political correctness,’ Mitch said, trying to keep the acid out of his tone.
‘Possibly. I am willing to listen to a man with your experience – but, Doctor Rafelson, to our chagrin, you have described a rather gross unlikelihood.’ Luria pointed his pen at Mitch. ‘What part of your story is lie, and what part truth?’
‘Why should I lie?’ Mitch asked. ‘My life is already shot to hell,’
‘Perhaps to keep a hand in the science? Not to be separated so quickly from Dame Anthropology?’
Mitch smiled ruefully. ‘Maybe I’d do that,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t make up a story
