“Because researchers and their universities have become much more sophisticated about patent issues. There used to be a rush to print because they yearned for the notoriety, but they’re much smarter now. There are fortunes to be made in biotech, and this area of organogenesis might be the biggest yet. It will probably overshadow every other technological milestone in the history of medicine. Believe me, when the Rothman work hits Nature, it’s going to be all over The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and every other media outlet.”

Edmund and Russell rode the elevator in silence. It was the same car that Edmund had assaulted the day before. He’d taken a prescription painkiller from his cache, so he was feeling only a dull throb in his left hand. He looked closely and thought he could make out a slight indentation in the metal elevator door. The trouble was he felt like doing it again.

Only when they reached the street, away from any prying ears, did they speak.

“What do you think?” Russell said.

“I think we paid those idiots too much money. And we will sue them.”

They met their car in front of the building and got in. Edmund thought for a moment. His mind was racing.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. Today. No more diabetics, obviously. Tell the sales force, even if they’re hooked on the line, even if they’re in the boat and you have the billy club in your hand, put ’em back in the water. Any contracts in the works—cancel. Checks being cut—cancel.

“Have someone go back and look at contracts of people who have diabetes and something else. We like the something else now. Get the lawyer to draft a letter in his best incomprehensible legalese to say we’re no longer interested in diabetes and send it to these people. Scrub those people out of the stats. They never had diabetes. And we need new policies. Target smokers. I know they’re the worst because none of them thinks they’re going to get sick and when they do, they die too fast. Find out if we can target smokers or ex-smokers with policies who’ve missed a couple payments. They’re all lying anyway. And offer them twenty-five percent—”

“But the model—” said Russell.

“Fuck the model!” roared Edmund. “Don’t you understand? As of today, there is no model. We don’t have a business if this shit goes down, never mind a model. Jesus. These are Band-Aids I’m talking about and we’ve got a head wound.”

“Potentially,” Russell said.

“Right, yes, there’s a chance this research may not get anywhere. But still, we’re up to our necks in this either way. Gloria Croft is already shorting us, and she won’t be shy talking about it. We have to do something. It’s not like we can sell our stock and walk away.”