Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Mel saw Daniel’s frown. “Yes. I would say this whole interview is a sort of blackmail. Why do you ask?”
“Ouch,” Mel replied.
“It’s a family matter,” he said after a moment. “Emotional blackmail. You can retract your journalistic antennae.”
“Can’t blame a good journalist for having an acute awareness of certain words.”
“I suppose not.”
She decided to change tack. “I mean, Meyer has been known to use some pretty underhanded tactics to get what they want.”
“My speech pretty much covered everything I would say in an interview. I assume you recorded it, right?”
Mel nodded just as they went into a tunnel. Above them in the darkened ceiling, two rows of lights illuminated the roadway.
“I’ll summarize and we can see what else pops up,” he said.
“In my opinion, the research proves Meyer’s insecticide creates a condition that is similar to AIDS.
It weakens the bees’ immune system and makes them susceptible to every opportunistic virus, parasite, or microbe that comes along.
Add in other factors, like other manmade chemicals, fungicides, and the environmental stresses of industrial beekeeping, and the problem is compounded.
But it’s a complex disorder. That’s how Meyer and other corporations defend themselves, by flaunting every bit of research that shows some virus or parasite or microbe is attacking the bees.
It’s like saying that if someone with AIDS dies of Kaposi’s sarcoma, then it wasn’t the AIDS that killed them.
And if you happen to be developing a treatment for Kaposi’s sarcoma, you might have another economic incentive altogether. ”
“Kind of scary to think someone might want to profit from not going after the actual cause, but just treating the symptoms,” Mel said.
Daniel sighed. “It happens more than anyone cares to admit. But it’s compounded by the fact that the corporation that benefits from continued use of the product is the one funding most of the research investigating the product.”
“The fox guarding the henhouse,” Mel said. “That sounds like Meyer.”
“In biotech, the burden of proof that a product is harmful shouldn’t fall on those in harm’s way, but on those benefiting from the sale of the product when there’s”—he held up one finger—“a clear indication of harm”—he held up a second finger—“and a lack of scientific consensus on the role of the product in that harm.”
“Isn’t that the precautionary principle?”
Daniel nodded. “Exactly. But it’s complicated by the fact that the consumers of the product, large-scale factory farms, are focused on the short-term impact of not having the insecticide—insect infestation of their crops.
They aren’t thinking about the long-term impact of not having the bees and other pollinators—no crops at all. ”
“That’s a great summary,” Mel said. “So, what do you recommend, Dr. Woodruff? Meyer has a potent propaganda machine. They have lots of money for smoke and mirrors with the regulatory agencies, politicizing the issues, and mesmerizing their customers. They fund all kinds of grants for academics, often as diversionary tactics to shift focus away from their product. Like the one they offered you.”
They emerged into the sun and she could tell Daniel wasn’t pleased that she had brought the discussion back to him.
“Meyer implied that I could easily get a generous grant from them to study the impact of CCD on feral bees,” Daniel said slowly. “A very time-consuming process, beelining and hiking in and out of the woods to study feral colonies,” he added.
“To keep you out of their hair,” Mel said.
“Seems like a logical assumption,” Daniel agreed. “But it’s only an assumption.”
“For the record, what is beelining?”
“An old method for locating wild hives. But the point is, I said I wasn’t interested,” Daniel said. “It’s certainly important research, but other people are already doing it. Have done it. End of story.”
“They only dangled it in front of you once?” Mel asked.
Daniel looked over his shoulder at the panorama of mountains. “I bet there’s a more scenic drive through these mountains that has some really great views.”
“There is. But we’re chasing a high-speed train,” Mel responded, persisting. “Did Meyer return with an even more generous grant?”
“You sound like you already know the answer to that. Yes, they did. And I declined again.”
“You act like I’m trying to catch you out. I’m not. I’m trying to expose Meyer.”
“Sorry. You get burned often enough, you learn to hold your cards close to your chest.”
“I get it,” she said.
“You seem to really know Italy well,” Daniel said. “Do you come over here a lot on business?”
“My grandfather was Italian. We traveled over here when we could to visit la famiglia, and I picked up the language. So, when there’s a story where Italian comes in handy?” She raised her hand. “What can I say? I love the ancient bones of this place.”
Daniel gestured to the forested slopes speeding past. “The culture is ancient, but these mountains, not so much. My mountains are far older.”
“Since there are volcanoes still belching down south, you’re probably right. I don’t think volcanoes are a problem in the Appalachians, right?” Mel said.
“No. Our mountaintops are being blown off by mining corporations,” Daniel replied.
“Speaking of corporations, how many times did Meyer come at you?”
He groaned and laid his head back. “Your middle name. Let me take another guess. Is it Persistent?”
“I’m the one doing the interview.”
Daniel muttered something about a bulldog with a bone, then said, “They tried two more times. The last one was back at the conference. They sent a couple of high-level drones…” He frowned. “Erase that, I meant executives, down here on Friday.”
“An even better offer?”
“To which I said no.”
“Do you see all this largesse of theirs as legal bribery?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is the end result. The public doesn’t know which scientists to believe, the ones paid by generous private donors, which is most of them these days, or the ones struggling along on a public salary. It’s not like we wear sponsor labels on our lab coats.”
“Exactly,” Mel said. And that was a priceless quote, Dr. Woodruff. “But, if you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you want to call them drones?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Pops taught me that when you are reduced to name-calling, you lack a good, logical argument. Besides, calling them drones gives drones a bad name.”
Mel smiled at that. “I know a drone is a kind of bee, but beyond that…” She shrugged. “What are they, mindless workers?”
“Not exactly.”
“So what did your grandfather teach you about drones?”
“Pops didn’t teach as such. He told stories.”
“Stories are meant to be shared.”
Daniel smirked. “I can see why you’re a journalist. Is that a natural gift, or were you taught how to do that?”
Mel smiled back at him and tucked her wrist under her chin, wiggling her fingers. “I told you before. It’s just a little magic. Now, spill, Dr. Woodruff.”
He sighed in defeat. “When I was six, one of the first things I learned about bees was that the honeybee lives out its life without damaging so much as a petal on a flower, much less another creature, unless forced to,” Daniel began.
“In fact, the honeybee is one of the few things in this world that improves almost anything it touches, instead of using it up or destroying it. One day, I was watching a hive and saw some of these gentle creatures shoving some other bees out of the entrance, basically tossing them to the ground. I asked Pops about it, since it seemed a bit out of character.”
Mel noticed the serene look on his face as he told the story.
“Pops told me those doing the tossing were the worker bees, and those being tossed were the drones. So I asked why the drones were being treated like that. He told me those drones were like this fellow named Bobby Farrell who lived up in a hollow in the mountains. Old Bobby had sired a passel—a lot—of girls and spent most days sitting on the porch, eating and watching his girls work. That was when he wasn’t off giving Mrs. Bobby some kind of mysterious, but minimal, assistance in producing even more girls. ”
Mel gave a soft chuckle.
“But then a real bad winter was forecast, and while Mrs. Bobby felt like she had plenty of girl-workers around the place, she also thought she had one too many lazy-assed, beer-swilling, girl-producing nonworkers sitting on the porch, so”—he paused for effect—“the girls all united to toss Bobby off the porch and into the dirt to starve because, of course, Bobby had no idea how to get food and drink for himself.”
Mel laughed out loud.
“It’s not a perfect analogy, because any drones who manage to impregnate the queen bee on her mating flight die in the process.
The ones who get tossed out are those who didn’t fly high enough or fast enough to catch her.
But it was good enough for a six-year-old to figure out that drones were pretty much the lazy do-nothings of the bee world, and that the girls ruled it.
” He finished with a flourish of his hand.
“Of course, this was not exactly a happy discovery for someone with two sisters.”
“So, the bees who do all the pollen gathering and make the honey and build all those cells are…?”
He smiled. “All girls. The drones—the males—only exist for one purpose.”
“Making baby bees?” Mel laughed. “Perfect! Er, I mean, my condolences to your gender.”
Daniel’s demeanor was more relaxed now. The stress in his face was gone. This was the Dr. Daniel Woodruff she had seen in the lecture hall. The strong, untarnished spirit she had sensed before he had shaken hands with that young Italian woman.