I set the spanakopita down untasted. "Haven't you tried to separate the components? So that the reordering or whatever happens without the hemotoxin?"
"Tried and failed," he said curtly. "For longer than you have been alive. The hemotoxic effect is a necessary precursor to the metabolic changes, and nothing we have attempted has been able to speed up the metabolic reordering. This current variation of our screening is the most successful breakthrough thus far."
"But one in a hundred," I objected.
His expression was severe. "One in one hundred who would otherwise die."
"So these metabolic changes...." I trailed off.
He raised an eyebrow. "They will revert your cancerous cells to a healthy state, all of them, swiftly and permanently. The extraneous cells should undergo an accelerated senescence and healthy function should return to the remaining ones immediately."
I thought about that for a moment, turning it over in my mind. Senescence. That meant aging.
"It is a cure, then," I said slowly. "A real cure. Not a remission. Like you said before, the cancer can't come back."
As I was trying to absorb that, another server appeared, bearing two platters, one with steaming meat, the other with various artful additions. "The entrée," she said, setting it between us. "Spit-roasted young goat with pita and the chef's culinary embellishments."
Mr. Thorne gave her a wave of thanks as she discreetly retired. I ignored the entrée.
"Not a remission," he agreed. "It is a cure for your present condition and as good as an immunization against any future cancer."
"How is that possible?"
His smile was rueful. I could hardly tear my gaze from his lips. "We don't know that, either. The mechanism is, of yet, very poorly understood."
One in one hundred. Well, I seemed to be good with long odds-my chance of developing the type of leukemia I had was one in tens of thousands, my chance for the alemtuzumab proving ineffective one in ten of that. Put that way, as illogical as it was, one in one hundred seemed like almost a sure thing.
Could I even trust myself around him? My judgment? I knew he had a very unscientific interest in me. Maybe he was just some kind of rich sadist who liked to get into dying girls' heads and muck with them, make them hope for things that weren't real.
But if it was a chance, and Dr. Robeson believed it was, what choice did I have?
"I want it," I said, almost before I knew I had made the decision. "I want to live. If it's my only chance-"
"I will not take your answer now." Mr. Thorne cut me off. "You must think about it. Call in two weeks."