“About the secondary marketing?” asked Kerry. “I think it’s brilliant. Hey—tell me what you think of this as a name: Rebirth. Or maybe ReBirth, with a capital ‘B.’”
“Why a capital ‘B’?” asked Lyle.
“So we could trademark it,” said Sunny, his head down over the page from Kerry. “Legal thing.”
“Never mind the ‘B,’” said Lyle, shaking his head, “you can’t possibly be okay with this marketing plan.”
“I came up with the marketing plan,” said Kerry. “I’m the marketing guy.”
“But it’s lying!”
“All advertising is lying. Women buy our makeup because they want to look like the women in the ads—never mind that those women have perfect genes and half a dozen eating disorders and we still Photoshop their pictures anyway. People accept lies in advertising—they expect them. This is the same thing.”
“It’s not the same,” Lyle insisted. “Implying that a product will make you look like a supermodel is one thing, but specifically concealing the fact that a product will alter your DNA is kind of … well, it’s pretty ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“It’s safe, though, right?”
“Of course it’s safe, that’s not the point—”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“He’s not worried about the safety,” said Sunny, “he’s very nobly worried about the credit. Apparently there are people who actually read Scientific American.”
Lyle ignored the jab. “What I’m worried about is explaining our product approval process to a federal court. I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that ‘we mislabeled it on purpose so we could make more money’ will be seen as less of an explanation than a confession.”
“We’re not mislabeling it,” said Kerry, “we’re just being careful.”
“Is that what we call lying these days?”
Sunny waved the paper Kerry had handed him. “Listen to this, Lyle, this is exactly what we’re talking about; absolutely nothing in here is a lie. ‘ReBirth uses a biomimetic herbal formula to support your body’s natural ability to produce collagen, giving you beautiful skin that looks younger and feels healthier.’ You see how they do that? It never claims anything specific—it doesn’t say your skin will be younger or healthier, it says your skin will look younger and feel healthier. That’s unprovable, and that makes it un-dis-provable. And completely defensible.”
“What about the collagen?” asked Lyle. “You said it produces collagen.”
Kerry shook his head with a smug smile. “No, we said it ‘supports’ your body in making its own collagen. ‘Supports’ is the magic marketing word—it sounds great and it makes people feel good and it doesn’t mean anything. Everything supports your body’s ability to make collagen—eating breakfast supports your body’s ability to make collagen. I, personally, politically, support your ability to make collagen. If we’re being strict on the definition, burn wounds support your ability to make collagen because they force your body to heal itself.”
Sunny bent over his desk and signed the paper. “This copy is approved, and I’ll research the trademark for ReBirth. Even if the trademark’s free, though, I doubt we could get the URL for it, so think of something else we can use for the website.”
“Will do,” said Kerry, taking the paper. He slapped Lyle on the back. “This really is a great product, Lyle—you’ve outdone yourself.” He walked out, and Sunny reached under his desk for the tennis ball.
“You going out to the plant?” asked Sunny.
Lyle nodded. “I sent them the recipe and a sample bottle yesterday. They should have a test batch ready to go—but I want to go on record that testing is not finished, and we can’t consider this a final formula until the follow-up visits for 14G are analyzed and approved.”
“The wheels of progress are turning,” said Sunny. “We’ve got to move fast to keep up.”
“I wish the wheels of progress would wait for next season,” said Lyle.
“The wheels of progress are greased by money,” said Sunny, “and this project has so much money in it these wheels are the greasiest they’ve ever been. They’re practically frictionless.”
“Friction provides control,” said Lyle. “We need it to steer.”
“We’re fine,” said Sunny. “We’ve launched a hundred other products together; we could do this in our sleep.” He grinned and threw the ball. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
* * *
NewYew had many production facilities, but their primary site—and specifically for Lyle’s purposes, their small-scale testing laboratory—was in Upstate New York. Lyle made it there in just under five hours.
“Jerry!” He waved his hand, trying to catch the foreman’s attention. “Jerry!”
Across the bright white factory, a man in a white plastic coat raised his head, smiled, and waved back. He nodded to the man next to him, handed him a clipboard, and jogged over to Lyle.
“Welcome back, Doctor.” Even at this distance they had to shout. “I wondered when you were coming.”
They stopped by a rack on the wall, and Lyle pulled on a white jumpsuit and a clear plastic hat. “How far are you?”
“No real production, obviously,” said Jerry, “just a sample run. We’ve ordered the materials for a larger run but they won’t arrive for a few weeks.” They started walking again, and the foreman led Lyle through the factory. “Sounds like they’re in a hurry on this one.” Jerry smiled. “What is it?”
“Antiaging,” said Lyle, following him up a white metal stairway. “You followed the instructions to the letter?”
“Of course.”
“All the proportions are correct?”
“I think you might want to adjust them, but yes, we followed your initial recipe exactly.”
Lyle frowned. “Adjust what?”
They stopped by a churning metal barrel full of loose, white goo. “I’d add more lecithin,” said Jerry, “the consistency’s all wrong.”
