And always there was an eye to the inevitability that sooner or later, Jeremy Rifkin and his Foundation on Economic Trends would take a lively interest in the company's plans. Rifkin was not to be taken lightly. Through sheer force of personality and a charismatic stage presence, he had made himself a force to be reckoned with in biotech.
Working through the courts, Rifkin had stalled the Frostban tests for several years. Later, by threatening to sue the EPA, he had caused the agency to reject a permit application from Monsanto. Rifkin was waging biotech battles nationwide, with an opposition to the new science that amounted to a crusade. He almost certainly could be counted on to fight Crop Genetics.
Richardson, though, was not intimidated. "The most effective way to deal with the Rifkins of this world is to be in a situation in which you're hiding nothing, to be prepared to answer any fair questions," he says. "And if people then attack you in some way that seems to call your good faith into question, they weaken their own position, not yours." He advised a policy of maximum disclosure of the company's work.
In the summer of 1986, the federal government decided that it wouldn't need a new law for biotech -- the threat that had lingered after that congressional hearing in March. Instead, it devised the so-called "combined coordinated framework for biotechnology." The idea was to ensure that existing regulatory standards meshed, to present a unified federal approach.
This was a welcome development. Instead of operating on uncertain regulatory terrain, Henry knew the rules. But as it turned out, the new system placed yet another hurdle in his path. He was no longer dealing with just the EPA. He now had to obtain a separate test permit from the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service (APHIS).
Henry accepted this burden with equanimity. "You can't have a wild reaction to regulation," he says. "You have to take the world as you find it, and make it work for you. That is the tremendous insight that Bill Ruckelshaus and Elliot Richardson helped me with."
For openers, he sent his top scientists down to EPA headquarters to meet with the agency's pesticide specialists, the people who actually made the decisions. This was in mid-1986, more than a year before the company applied for its first permit.
"We explained our technology and asked them to tell us what the safety issues were," he says. "We did the lab tests, and then went back to them. Each time, we narrowed the areas of concern about our biopesticide. Does it spread? Is it harmful? Is it in the food? We entered a process of first getting a consensus on the issues, and then going out to get the data they wanted."
Next Henry turned his attention to politicians and environmental activists in Maryland, where the test would be held. It was critical to have local opinion makers on his side to offset the not-in-my-backyard syndrome. To orchestrate this delicate operation he brought in yet another high-powered adviser, Russell "Tim" Baker Jr.
Baker, a product of Harvard Law School, had been a partner in the Baltimore firm of Piper & Marbury. In 1986 he had narrowly lost a bid to become attorney general of Maryland. A Democrat, he had enjoyed unanimous support from the state's environmental groups, for whom he'd done a great deal of pro bono legal work. He also had strong connections in state politics, stemming from eight years as a federal prosecutor, including four as U.S. Attorney for Maryland.
After the election, Baker had worked with two of the venture capital firms backing Crop Genetics. Once he understood that the new technology could help eliminate chemical pesticides, he applied himself fervently to the company's cause.
"John asked me to take him around and introduce him to a series of groups," he says. "We wanted everybody to know about us before they read about us in The Washington Post. We were afraid the reporters would quote Rifkin saying how horrible this project was. So we talked to community associations and PTAs. We held a town meeting. We talked to local politicians, people in the governor's office, the state's U.S. senators and representatives -- some 40 politicians in all. We explained that the technology was safe, that they shouldn't be worried. Their eyes just glazed over.
"But in talking to friends, I happened to point out that if this technology works, it's going to replace pesticides, which is one of the largest unsolved problems in the pollution of the Chesapeake Bay. John had been hesitant about bringing this up for fear of arousing the competitive juices of the chemical giants. But when you talk about eliminating chemical pesticides, you're hitting apple pie and motherhood. So we quickly started including that in our presentation."
On a Saturday morning in early December 1987 Baker made his major strategic move. He appeared at a meeting at the Baltimore home of Ajax Eastman, a prominent environmentalist and member of the Maryland Conservation Council. Among the more than 50 guests were leaders of the local chapters of the Sierra Club, the Nature Conservancy, and others.
"I knew this was the group that would be Rifkin's natural allies," Baker says. "Our strategy all along had been to isolate Rifkin. I knew that if this group analyzed this technology objectively, they would not ally with him on this one."
For this presentation, Baker brought in Peter Carlson, the mastermind behind the new product. Carlson, a former college professor, is as much a salesman as a scientist when he speaks, taking off his jacket, pacing around, gesturing emphatically. At first the audience was skeptical. For 90 minutes, Carlson explained the plant-vaccine technology. Even as he spoke, Baker could sense attitudes changing. He knew things were looking up when Malcolm E. King, founder of a national conservation outfit called Save Our Streams, asked the first question. He wanted to know how he could buy some Crop Genetics stock.
