Strong Medicine

by Arthur Hailey

  “No matter how it all looks,” Sam told Celia, “never forget that a lot of scientific history has been made here. Nobel Prize winners have worked in these rooms and walked these halls.”

  “That’s right,” Martin Peat-Smith said cheerfully; he had returned in time to hear the last remark. “Fred Sanger was one of them; he discovered the amino acid structure of the insulin molecule in a lab right above us.” He saw Celia looking at the old equipment. “In academic labs we never throw anything away, Mrs. Jordan, because we never know when we’ll need it again. Out of necessity, we improvise and build much of our own equipment.”

  “That’s true of American academia too,” Sam said.

  “Just the same,” Peat-Smith acknowledged, “all this must be quite a contrast to the kind of labs you’re both used to.”

  Remembering the spacious, immaculate, and richly equipped laboratories at Felding-Roth in New Jersey, Celia answered, “Frankly, yes.”

  Peat-Smith had brought back two stools. He offered the Windsor chair to Celia, one of the stools to Sam, and perched on the second himself.

  “It’s only fair to tell you,” he said, “that what I’m attempting here involves not just problems of science, but enormously difficult techniques. What has to be found is a means of transferring information from a brain cell nucleus to the machinery of the cell that makes proteins and peptides …”

  Warming to his exposition, he drifted into scientific jargon. “… take a gross mixture of mRNA from young and old rats and put it into a cell-free system … RNA templates are allowed to produce proteins … a long strand of mRNA may code for many proteins … afterwards, proteins are separated by electrophoresis … a possible technique could use a reverse transcriptase enzyme … then if the RNA and DNA’s don’t combine, it will mean the old rat has lost that genetic capability, so we’ll begin learning which peptides are changing … eventually, I’ll be seeking a single peptide …”

  The talk continued for more than an hour, interspersed by shrewd, detailed questioning from Sam that impressed Celia. Although Sam had no scientific training, during his years with Felding-Roth he had absorbed much on-the-scene science and the effect of it showed.

  Throughout, Peat-Smith’s enthusiasm transmitted itself to them both. And while he spoke—clearly, concisely, and from what was plainly a disciplined, orderly mind—their respect grew.

  Near the end of the discussion the scientist pointed to the rats in cages. “These are only a few. We have several hundred others in our animal room.” He touched a cage and a large rat, which had been sleeping, stirred. “This old man is two and a half years old; that’s equivalent to seventy in a human. This is his last day. Tomorrow we’ll sacrifice him, then compare his brain chemistry with that of a rat born a few days ago. But to find answers we need it will take a lot of rats, a lot of chemical analysis, and a lot more time.”

  Sam nodded his understanding. “We’re aware of the time factor from our own experience. Now to summarize, Doctor—how would you express your long-term goal?”

  Peat-Smith considered before answering. Then he said carefully, “To discover, through continuing genetic research, a brain peptide which enhances memory in younger people but, as those same people grow older, is not produced in the human body anymore. Then, having found and isolated such a peptide, we’ll learn to produce it by genetic techniques. After that, people of all ages can be given it to minimize memory loss, forgetfulness—and perhaps eliminate mental aging altogether.”

  The quiet summation was so impressive, so profoundly confident, yet in no way boastful, that neither visitor seemed inclined to break the silence that followed. Celia, despite the dismal surroundings, had a sense of sharing in a moment to be remembered, and of history being made.

  It was Sam who spoke first. “Dr. Peat-Smith, you now have your grant. It is approved, as of this moment, in the amount you asked.”

  Peat-Smith appeared puzzled. “You mean … it’s that simple … just like that?”

  It was Sam’s turn to smile. “As president of Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals I have a certain authority. Once in a while it gives me pleasure to exercise it.” He added, “The only condition is the usual one, implicit in these arrangements. We’d like to keep in touch with your progress and have first crack at any drug you may produce.”

  Peat-Smith nodded. “Of course. That’s understood.” He still seemed dazed.

  Sam extended his hand, which the young scientist took. “Congratulations and good luck!”

  It was a half hour later and teatime in the Biochemistry Building. At Martin’s invitation—the three of them had, by now, progressed to first names—they had gone upstairs to where tea and biscuits were being served from tea trolleys in the foyer. Balancing their cups and saucers, the trio moved on to a faculty “tearoom” which, as Martin explained, was a social focal point for scientists who worked there and their guests.

  The tearoom, as austere and inelegant as the remainder of the building, had long tables with wooden chairs and was crowded and noisy. The scientists were of all shapes, sexes, sizes and ages, but fragments of conversation that could be overheard were decidedly unscientific. One discussion was about official parking places, an elderly faculty member arguing heatedly that favoritism to someone junior was depriving him of his tenurial rights. Alongside, a bearded, white-coated enthusiast reported a “sensational” sale by a Cambridge wine merchant; an available Meursault was recommended. Another group was dissecting a new movie playing in town—The Godfather, starring Marlon Brando and Al Pacino.

  After some maneuvering and exchanging places with others, Martin Peat-Smith managed to find a corner for his group.

  “Is it always like this?” Celia asked.

  Martin seemed amused. “Usually. And almost everyone comes here. It’s the only time some of us get to see each other.”

  “It does appear to me,” Sam said, “that your setup in this building doesn’t allow much privacy.”

  Martin shrugged. “That can be a nuisance at times. But you get used to it.”

  “But should you have to get used to it?” When there was no answer, Sam went on, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by others nearby, “I was wondering, Martin, if you’d be interested in pursuing the same work you’re doing now, but under superior conditions, and with more facilities and help.”

  A half smile played over the scientist’s face as he asked, “Superior conditions where?”

  “What I’m suggesting,” Sam said, “as no doubt you’ve guessed, is that you leave Cambridge University and come to work with us at Felding-Roth. There would be many advantages for you, and it would be in Britain where we’re planning—”

  “Excuse me!” As Martin cut in, he appeared concerned. “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is the offer of a grant from your company conditional on this?”

  Sam answered, “Absolutely not. You already have the grant, to which there are no strings attached, other than the one we agreed. On that I give you my word.”

  “Thank you. For a moment I was worried.” The full and boyish smile returned. “I don’t wish to be rude, but I think it will save us both time if I tell you something.”

  It was Celia who said, “Go ahead.”

  “I’m an academic scientist and I intend to remain one,” Martin declared. “I won’t go into all the reasons, but one is freedom. By that, I mean freedom to do the kind of research I want, without commercial pressures.”

  “You’d have freedom with us …” Sam began. But he stopped as Martin shook his head.

  “There’d be commercial factors to consider. Tell me honestly—wouldn’t there?”

  Sam admitted, “Well, from time to time, some. We’re in business, after all.”

  “Exactly. But here there are no commercial considerations. Just pure science, a search for knowledge. For myself, I want to keep it that way. Will you have more tea?”

  “Thank you, no,” Celia said. Sam shoo
k his head. They rose to go.

  Outside, on Tennis Court Road and standing by the rented Jaguar, Martin told Sam, “Thank you for everything, including the job offer. And you too, Celia. But I’ll stay at Cambridge which, apart from this building”—he glanced behind him and grimaced—“is a beautiful place.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” Sam said. “And about working for us, though I regret your decision, I understand it.”

  He got into the car.

  From the seat beside him, with the window down, Celia told Martin, “Cambridge is a beautiful place. I’ve never been here until today. I wish I had time to see more.”

  “Hey, hold it!” Martin said. “How long are you staying in Britain?”

  She considered. “Oh, probably another two weeks.”

  “Then why not come back for a day? It’s easy to get here. I’d be happy to show you around.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Celia said.

  While Sam started the car, they arranged the visit for ten days later—the Sunday after next.

  In the Jaguar, driving back to London, Celia and Sam were silent, busy with their own thoughts, until they were clear of Cambridge and on the A10, headed south.

  Then Celia said quietly, “You want him, don’t you? You want him to head our research institute.”

  “Of course.” Sam answered tersely, frustration in his voice. “He’s outstanding, my guess is a genius, and he’s the best I’ve seen since coming here. But dammit, Celia, we won’t get him! He’s an academic, and he’ll stay one. You heard what he said, and it’s obvious nothing will change his mind.”

  “I wonder,” Celia said thoughtfully. “I just wonder about that.”

  10

  The days that followed were filled, for Sam and Celia, with more arrangements for the physical aspects of the Felding-Roth research institute at Harlow. But the activity, while necessary, was unsatisfying. The frustration they shared—a conviction that Dr. Martin Peat-Smith would be the best possible choice as the institute’s director, but Sam’s equal certainty that Martin would never agree to move from the academic world to industry—hung over them as a pervasive disappointment.

  During the week after their journey to Cambridge, Sam declared, “I’ve seen several other candidates, but none are of the caliber of Peat-Smith. Unfortunately, he’s spoiled me for everyone else.”

  When Celia reminded Sam that she would be seeing Martin for a second time the following Sunday, for her conducted tour of Cambridge, Sam nodded gloomily. “Of course, do what you can, but I’m not optimistic. He’s a dedicated, determined young man who knows his own mind.”

  Then Sam cautioned Celia, “Whatever you do when you talk to Martin, don’t bring up the subject of money—I mean the kind of salary we’d pay if he came to work for us. He knows, without our saying so, that it would be big, compared with what he’s getting now. But if you talk about it, and make it sound as if we believe he can be bought, he’ll think we’re just two more brash Americans, convinced that everything in this world can be had with dollars.”

  “But Sam,” Celia objected, “if Martin came to work for Felding-Roth, you’d have to discuss salary at some point.”

  “At some point, yes. But not initially, because money would never be the key issue. Believe me, Celia, I know how sensitive these academic types can be, and if—as you believe—there’s a chance Martin might change his mind, let’s not blow it by being crass!”

  “As a matter of interest,” Celia queried, “what are the figures?”

  Sam considered. “According to information I have, Martin is earning about two thousand four hundred pounds a year; that’s six thousand dollars, more or less. To begin, we’d pay him four or five times that amount—say, twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars, plus bonuses.”

  Celia whistled softly. “I didn’t know the gap was so wide.”

  “But academic people know. And, knowing it, they still choose academia, believing there’s more intellectual freedom, and for scientific people more ‘purity of research’ in a college environment. You heard Martin when he talked about ‘commercial pressures,’ and how he would resent them.”

  “Yes, I did,” Celia said. “But you argued with him, and said the pressures weren’t great.”

  “That’s because I’m on the industry side of the fence and it’s my job to think that way. But in private, between you and me, I’ll admit that maybe Martin’s right.”

  Celia said doubtfully, “I agree with you about most things. But I’m less sure about all that.”

  It was an unsatisfactory conversation, she felt, and brooded about it afterward. She also resolved, as she put it to herself, to get a “second opinion.”

  On Saturday, the day before she was due to go to Cambridge, Celia talked by telephone with Andrew and the children, as she had done at least twice weekly during her month-long stay in Britain. Both they and she were excited by her impending homecoming, now less than a week away. After the usual family talk, Celia told Andrew about Dr. Peat-Smith, the disappointment concerning him, and her exchanges on the subject with Sam.

  She also informed Andrew that she was meeting Martin the following day.

  “Do you think he might change his mind?” Andrew inquired.

  “I’ve an instinct it could happen,” Celia answered. “Perhaps under certain circumstances, though I’ve no idea what they might be. What I don’t want to do, when we talk tomorrow, is handle things badly.”

  There was a silence on the telephone and she could sense her husband ruminating, turning things over in his mind. Then he said, “Sam’s partly right in what he’s said, but maybe not altogether. In my experience you’ll never insult anyone by letting them know they have a high monetary value. In fact, most of us rather like it, even if we have no intention of accepting the money offered.”

  “Keep talking,” Celia said. She respected Andrew’s wisdom, his knack of going directly to the nub of any situation.

  He continued, “From what you tell me, Peat-Smith is a straightforward person.”

  “Very much so.”

  “In that case, I suggest you deal with him the same way. By being complicated, trying to outguess him, you could defeat your own purpose. Besides, deviousness isn’t your style, Celia. Be yourself. That way, if it seems natural to talk money—or anything else—just do it.”

  “Andrew darling,” she responded, “what would I do without you?”

  “Nothing important, I hope.” Then he added, “Now that you’ve told me about tomorrow, I’ll admit to feeling a mite jealous about you and Peat-Smith.”

  Celia laughed. “It’s strictly business. It will stay that way.”

  Now it was Sunday.

  Alone, in a first class no-smoking compartment aboard an early morning London-to-Cambridge train, Celia allowed her head to fall back against the cushion behind her. Relaxing, she began using the hour-and-a-quarter journey to order her thoughts.

  Earlier, she had taken a taxi from her hotel to Liverpool Street Station—a grim, cast-iron-and-brick Victorian legacy, frenetically busy from Mondays through Fridays but quieter at weekends. The quietness meant that few people were aboard the diesel-electric train as it rumbled from the station, and Celia was glad of her solitude.

  Mentally she reconstructed the past two weeks’ events and conversations, wondering once more whose advice she should take today—Andrew’s or Sam’s. The meeting with Martin, while outwardly social, could be important for Felding-Roth as well as for herself. Sam’s warning came back to her: “Let’s not blow it by being crass!”

  The rhythmic sound of wheels over rails lulled her, and the journey passed swiftly. As the train slowed and pulled into Cambridge, Martin Peat-Smith—his welcome expressed in that broad, cheerful smile—was waiting on the station platform.

  At age forty-one, Celia knew she looked good. She also felt it. Her soft brown hair was trimmed short, her figure slim and firm, her high-cheekboned face tanned and healthy from recent weeks out of doors an
d the unusually benevolent British summer, which was continuing today.

  Nowadays her hair held beginning strands of gray. This reminder of time passing rarely bothered her, though occasionally she camouflaged the gray with a color rinse. She had used the rinse the night before.

  She was dressed for a summer’s day in a cotton voile dress of green and white, with a lacy petticoat beneath. She had on white, high-heeled sandals and a broad-brimmed white straw hat. The entire outfit had been bought in London’s West End the preceding week because, when packing in New Jersey, it had not occurred to her she would need such warm-weather clothes in Britain.

  As she stepped down from the train she was aware of Martin’s admiring gaze. For a moment he seemed lost for words, then, taking her extended hand, he said, “Hello! You look wonderful, and I’m glad you came.”

  “You look pretty good yourself.”

  Martin laughed and flashed a boyish smile. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, white flannels and an open-necked shirt. “I promised you I’d wear my suit,” he said. “But I found this old outfit which I haven’t had on for years. It seemed less formal.”

  As they walked from the station, Celia linked her arm in his. “Where are we going?”

  “My car’s outside. I thought we’d drive around a bit, then walk through some colleges, and later we’ll have a picnic.”

  “It all sounds great.”

  “While you’re here, is there anything else you’d like to do or see?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Yes, there is one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to meet your mother.”

  Martin, surprised, turned his head to look at her. “I can take you to my parents’ home right after we’ve done our tour. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s what I want.”

  Martin’s car was a Morris Mini Minor of indeterminate age. After they squeezed themselves in, he drove circuitously through old Cambridge streets and parked on Queen’s Road by the “Backs.” He told Celia, “We walk from here.” Leaving the car, they followed a footpath to King’s Bridge over the River Cam.