Page 134 - An Evening with Maxwell's Daemons
P. 134

Adjournment

            Perversity Tinderstack shrugged.
            “My turn? I haven’t anything solid left. I did have an idea for a
          story about monkeys and bananas, tentatively titled ‘Jumping Gene’.
          Maybe silly, but all the news about viruses hopping between species
          and the reports of scientists meddling with life at the chromosomal
          level started me thinking about chimeric organisms. I mean, we are
          going to make the Greek mythologizers look like pikers! Well, you
          may know that virtually all the commercial banana cultivars in the
          world are Cavendish clones. Now, transposons are genes that can
          shuffle around on a genome. My little fiction is first that a gene or
          two  has  literally  jumped  from  Cavendish  to  wild  bananas
          somewhere in the Tropics. No big deal in itself: genetic drift goes
          on constantly. But monkeys eat those wild musa sapientum. Yes, the
          fruit of wisdom, owing to its tryptophan content. Let us suppose
          the Cavendish has been bred to produce a lot of that crucial amino
          acid for brain function, the way wheat has been altered to have high
          gluten content. Further, that the jumping genes are precisely those
          related to tryptophan production. Voilà! Suddenly some very smart
          monkeys are on the loose. But that’s where I stopped. Maybe next
          time I’ll have this ready for presentation.”
            “I  think  I’d  like  to  be  one  of  those  monkeys,”  chortled  Izzy
          Azimuth. But he chortled alone. “I, too, have been cogitating about
          a  story  idea—a  parody,  perhaps;  or  more  charitably,  bringing  a
          classic up-to-date. With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, here are the
          bare  bones  of  ‘The  Tattling  Ticker’:  crematoria  must  remove  all
          electronic  devices  from  corpses  prior  to  incinerating  them;  they
          might explode in the flames, otherwise. And any of them may have
          many more years of life, as it were, than their owner. So a domestic
          murderer may seek to bury his or her victim deep in the cellar, and
          cover it with cement, but if a pacemaker is still going through its
          paces,  as  it  were,  inside  the  decedent,  a  weak  signal  might  be
          detectable  with  the  right  equipment.  Those  battery-operated
          purveyors  of  minuscule  electric  shocks  to  the  heart—dead  or

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