Free Transhuman by Ben Bova

There’s McAllister, at the University of Pennsylvania, of course. He was a student of Professor Abramson’s, you know.”
    Hightower leaned back and patiently allowed her to reel off half a dozen names.
    The one name that Petrone did not mention was Shannon Bartram. She felt certain that Luke would try to get to Shannon Bartram and her private clinic in Oregon. She would have all the facilities Luke needed to treat his granddaughter. And she would welcome Luke with open arms, Petrone felt certain. With open legs, too, she seethed silently.

 
    Dinner for Three
    â€œ I WANT TO DO an MRI on her,” Tamara Minteer said to Luke in a near-whisper.
    Angela was drowsing in the bed of the private room that Petrone had arranged for her. Luke had been impressed, until he realized that the Kennedy Clinic had nothing but private rooms for its patients. Politicians, news anchors, entertainment stars—they don’t want to share a room. They want privacy, secrecy.
    â€œMRI?” he asked. “Is that necessary?”
    She nodded, tight-lipped. “To see if the tumors are still growing.”
    â€œCan’t you do that with a blood sample? Measure the tumor signature?”
    â€œThat could tell us if the tumors have metastasized into other parts of her body, but it won’t work on the brain tumors themselves. There’s no blood marker for a brain tumor. It’s not like a PSA. We need an image. Might as well make it a full-body MRI while we’re at it.”
    â€œFull-body? Why—”
    â€œI need to see her complete physical condition, Luke. See what effect all this traveling has had on her.”
    Luke looked down at his sleeping granddaughter. She didn’t seem much different than she’d appeared back at University Hospital, in Boston. Angela seemed to be in no pain. She looked relaxed, almost smiling in her sleep.
    Tamara said, “She’ll be all right for now. The staff has her under observation.”
    The child was wired up like an astronaut. In addition to the IV in her arm, a trio of sensors was plastered to her chest, abdomen, and left arm. A bank of monitors beeped softly along the side wall, and a security camera hung up near the ceiling, its unblinking red eye aimed at the bed.
    Tugging at Luke’s sleeve, Tamara headed for the door. “Let’s get some dinner. I haven’t had anything to eat since that crappy breakfast at the motel. I’m starving.”
    Luke followed her out of Angela’s room and down the corridor to the nurse’s station. Tamara gave the duty nurse her cell phone number while Luke picked up the phone on the counter and dialed Petrone’s number.
    *   *   *
    T HE RESTAURANT THAT Petrone picked was in downtown Washington. Luke followed his GPS’s directions and found it, then spent several minutes looking for a parking place. Finally he gave up and let the restaurant’s valet take the van.
    Petrone was already seated at a table when Luke and Tamara came in. It was a fairly elegant place: white linen tablecloths, heavy drapes across the windows, waiters in dark suits. A miniskirted hostess showed them to the table.
    Petrone’s welcoming smile faltered when she saw that Tamara was with Luke. He introduced the two women to each other as they sat down.
    â€œTamara is Angela’s attending physician,” Luke explained. “She’s looking after Angela while we’re…” He fished for a word. “Traveling,” he finally said.
    â€œI see,” said Petrone. “And who’s looking after the child while you’re here?”
    Tamara said coolly, “She’s in good hands at the clinic. If a problem arises they have my cell number.”
    â€œI see,” Petrone repeated.
    It finally dawned on Luke that Yolanda was annoyed. She’s sore that I brought Tamara with me, he said to himself. I told her I’d be bringing Angela’s physician. With