The Third Twin by Ken Follett

was a thin, earnest man. Although he was one of the most outstanding scientists of his generation, he looked like an accountant. “The clinics have always made money,” Preston said. Genetico owned three fertility clinics that specialized in in vitro conception—test-tube babies—a procedure made possible by Preston’s pioneering research in the seventies. “Fertility is the biggest growth area in American medicine. Genetico will be Landsmann’s way into this big new market. They want us to open five new clinics a year for the next ten years.”
    Jim Proust was a bald, suntanned man with a big nose and heavy glasses. His powerful, ugly face was a gift to the political cartoonists. He and Berrington had been friends and colleagues for twenty-five years. “How come we never saw any money?” Jim asked.
    “We always spent it on research.” Genetico had its own labs and also gave research contracts to the biology and psychology departments of universities. Berrington handled the company’s links with the academic world.
    Berrington said in an exasperated tone: “I don’t know why you two can’t see that this is our big chance.”
    Jim pointed at the TV. “Turn up the sound, Berry—you’re on.”
    The Emmys had given way to Larry King Live, and Berrington was the guest He hated Larry King—the man was a red-dyed liberal, in his opinion—but the show was an opportunity to talk to millions of Americans.
    He studied his image, and he liked what he saw. He was in reality a short man, but television made everyone the same height. His navy suit looked good, the sky blue shirt matched his eyes, and the tie was a burgundy red that did not flare on the screen. Being supercritical, he thought his silver hair was too neat, almost bouffant: he was in danger of looking like a television evangelist.
    King, wearing his trademark suspenders, was in an aggressive mood, his gravelly voice challenging. “Professor, you’ve stirred up controversy again with your latest book, but some people feel this isn’t science, it’s politics. What do you say to that?”
    Berrington was gratified to hear his own voice sounding mellow and reasonable in reply. “I’m trying to say that political decisions should be based on sound science, Larry. Nature, left to itself, favors good genes and kills off bad ones. Our welfare policy works against natural selection. That’s how we’re breeding a generation of second-rate Americans.”
    Jim took a sip of scotch and said: “Good phrase—a generation of second-rate Americans. Quotable.”
    On TV, Larry King said: “If you have your way, what happens to the children of the poor? They starve, right?”
    Berrington’s face on the screen took on a solemn look. “My father died in 1942, when the aircraft carrier Wasp was sunk by a Japanese submarine at Guadalcanal. I was six years old. My mother struggled to raise me and send me to school. Larry, I am a child of the poor.”
    It was close enough to the truth. His father, a brilliant engineer, had left his mother a small income, enough so that she was not forced to work or remarry. She had sent Berrington to expensive private schools and then to Harvard—but it had been a struggle.
    Preston said: “You look good, Berry—except maybe for the country-western hairstyle.” Barck, the youngest of the trio at fifty-five, had short black hair that lay flat on his skull like a cap.
    Berrington gave an irritated grunt. He had had the same thought himself, but it annoyed him to hear it from someone else. He poured himself a little scotch. They were drinking Springbank, a single malt.
    On the screen, Larry King said: “Philosophically speaking, how do your views differ from those of, say, the Nazis?”
    Berrington touched the remote control and turned the set off. “I’ve been doing this stuff for ten years,” he said. “Three books and a million crappy talk shows later, what difference has it made? None.”
    Preston said: “It has made a