The Cure by Douglas E. Richards

precisely correct levels, you still get the psychopathic condition. In fact, if normal genes aren’t expressed correctly, you could make the condition worse than if you hadn’t fixed them at all. So the trick is to not only fix the genes, but determine the levels needed, and modulate their expression accordingly.”
    Erin shook her head. If she hadn’t believed this was possible before, Raborn certainly hadn’t helped his case by explaining it was even more difficult than she had thought. She wasn’t a molecular biologist, but cells had numerous complex mechanisms for controlling genes. There was a lot going on at the molecular level, and trying to understand such a complex interaction, let alone measure it, had to be fantastically difficult. “And you were able to determine the precise levels needed for all eight genes?” she asked skeptically.
    “Unfortunately, no. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but this proved to be an intractable problem. Even with mice. I ended up having to arrive at the answer through trial and error. As far as I can tell, there is no other way. It took many hundreds of attempts to get it right. Much as you might have to try hundreds or even thousands of combinations to stumble on the one that would open a padlock.” He paused. “For the modulation of these genes, theory doesn’t help. It has to be determined empirically.”
    There was a long silence on the line.
    “I know my call is out of left field, and what I’m telling you sounds utterly fantastic. But I urge you to look up my credentials and read some of my work, which is quite rigorous. And I’d be happy to send you all of the data I’ve generated so far. I think you’ll find it quite eye-opening.”
    Erin considered. “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s imagine that you send me your data and it’s everything you claim it to be. So if it is, why haven’t you initiated clinical trials in man to try to get this cure of yours approved?”
    “That’s the rub,” said Raborn, the enthusiasm in his voice giving way to weariness. “This therapy will never be approved. Not using the standard drug-approval pathway. First, the FDA likes to see efficacy in two animal species, if possible, and I only have one. One that hasn’t even been designated as an appropriate model yet. And even if they accept my model, the therapeutic window in mice is too small to ever get past them. The effective dose and the lethal dose are too close for comfort. Even though I have theoretical and experimental reasons for believing the therapeutic window will be larger in man.”
    “For something this important, won’t the FDA take that into account?”
    Raborn laughed. “I see you haven’t had many dealings with the FDA. They’d make a steel pipe look flexible. Trust me, they’d never let me begin a trial.”
    Erin’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Why do I have a sick feeling that I know why you called me?”
    “I need your help, Erin. I could sense your passion in the article I read. Your drive to give society a tool to deal with these monsters. It came through, loud and clear. And you’re one of only a handful of researchers going into prisons and studying psychopaths, and taking MRIs of their brains on a daily basis.”
    “You want me to test your therapy on my inmates, don’t you?”
    There was another long silence on the line.
    “You’re out of your mind,” said Erin.
    “It’s the only way. It has to be done empirically.”
    “Sure. And I go to jail.”
    “No one will ever know. I’ll give you the therapeutic cocktail, and separately, the eight genes whose precise modulation is critical, at a wide variety of expression levels. You just have to add them to the mix in every possible combination until you find the one that works. It won’t be easy, since we can be all but certain the delicate balance of these genes that does the trick in mice won’t be the same balance needed in man. It took me hundreds of experiments, and it might