Strong Medicine

by Arthur Hailey

After working patiently, using larger quantities of brains from young rats, they achieved partial purification. Then the new, enriched mix—of fewer peptides—was injected into older rats.

  Almost at once there was a startling improvement in the ability of the elderly rats to learn and to remember. Maze tests showed this clearly.

  Smiling as he remembered, Martin thought of the laboratory maze.

  It was a miniature of the mazes in which humans for centuries had amused themselves by entering, attempting to get out, then becoming lost or blocked by dead ends before the exit was attained. Probably the world’s most famous maze, created in the seventeenth century, supposedly for Britain’s King William III, was at Hampton Court Palace, west of London.

  The plywood maze in the Harlow labs was a small-scale version of Hampton Court’s, remarkably accurate in detail, and had been built by an institute scientist in his spare time. Unlike Hampton Court, however, it was used exclusively by rats.

  The rats, one at a time, were placed in the maze entrance, prodded if necessary but otherwise left to find their own way out. At the end a reward of food awaited them, and their ability to reach the food was observed and timed.

  Until the most recent series of tests, results had been predictable. Young and old rats introduced to the maze for the first time had trouble finding the exit, but eventually did. However, a second time around the young rats got out and reached the reward faster, a third time faster still, and so on.

  The young rats clearly learned from each experience, remembering which turnings to take or not take.

  In contrast, the old rats either failed to learn or were much slower than the younger animals.

  Until the injection of the latest peptide solution.

  After that, the improvement was extraordinary. When in the maze for the third or fourth time, the old rats literally raced through it, for the most part without hesitation or errors. There was now little difference in performance between the young rats and the old.

  As tests continued with the same results, excitement among the watching scientists became intense. One or two, after a spectacular performance by an elderly, fat rat, shouted with joy. At one point Rao Sastri wrung Martin’s hand. “My goodness! All along you were right. It entitles you to say to the rest of us, ‘O ye of little faith.’”

  Martin shook his head. “I was beginning to lose faith too.”

  “I do not believe that,” Sastri said. “Like the gentleman you are, you are attempting to make your humbled colleagues feel better.”

  “Either way,” Martin said, delighted himself, “I think we have something worth reporting to America.”

  This report reached Felding-Roth in New Jersey at the time when preparations for launching Montayne were in high gear, and shortly before Celia’s doubts about the wisdom of proceeding with that drug.

  Yet even while the report was being reviewed in New Jersey, at Harlow a new problem was having to be faced.

  Despite favorable signals, the latest peptide mix presented difficulties. Like its predecessor, it was available only in limited amounts. For the work of further refining, and to identify and isolate the single, critical memory peptide, larger quantities were essential.

  The route Martin chose to greater supplies was through the production of antibodies. These would bind with the desired peptide and isolate it. For that purpose rabbits would be used, since they produced antibodies in large amounts, more so than rats.

  Enter Gertrude Tilwick.

  The institute’s supervisor of animals, a technician, was a severe, tight-lipped woman in her forties. She had been hired, fairly recently, by Nigel Bentley, and until the incident that brought them together, she and Martin had had little to do with each other directly.

  At Martin’s request, Miss Tilwick brought several rabbits in cages to his personal lab. He had previously explained to her that the crude peptide mixture in an oily solution—an “adjuvant”—would have to be injected into the rabbits’ paws—a painful process. Therefore each animal must be held securely while it was done.

  Along with the rabbits, Tilwick brought a small flat board with four straps fastened to it. Opening a cage, she seized a rabbit and placed it on the board, belly up. Then, with the creature spread-eagled, she swiftly strapped each of its legs to the board’s four corners.

  Throughout, her movements were rough and careless, her attitude indifferently callous. While Martin watched with horror, the terrified animal screamed—he had not realized before that a rabbit could scream; the sound was awful. Then there was silence and, by the time the fourth leg was secured, the animal was dead. Clearly, it had died from fright and shock.

  Once again, over an animal, Martin’s rare anger surfaced and he ordered Tilwick from the lab.

  Exit Miss Tilwick.

  Martin then sent for Nigel Bentley and informed the administrator that no one as insensitive to suffering as the animals’ supervisor could continue working at the institute.

  “Of course,” Bentley agreed. “Tilwick must go, and I’m sorry about what happened. Her technical qualifications were good, but I didn’t check her for TLC.”

  “Yes, tender loving care is what we need,” Martin said. “Can you send me someone else?”

  “I’ll send Tilwick’s assistant. If she’s satisfactory we’ll promote her.”

  Enter Yvonne Evans.

  Yvonne was twenty-five, slightly overweight but cheerful and attractive, with long blond hair, innocent blue eyes and a milk-and-roses skin. She came from a small country town in the Black Mountains of Wales called Brecon, the locale reflected in her lilting voice. Yvonne also had stunning breasts and, quite obviously, she wore no brassiere.

  Martin was fascinated by Yvonne’s ample bosom from the beginning, and especially when the series of injections began.

  “Give me a minute or two first,” Yvonne told him. She ignored the strap board brought to the lab by Gertrude Tilwick and, while Martin waited with a hypodermic syringe ready, she lifted a rabbit gently from a cage, held it close to her face and began crooning to it, comforting it, murmuring soft words. Finally she pillowed the rabbit’s head in her bosom and, holding the lower paws toward Martin, said, “Go ahead.”

  In a remarkably short time six rabbits had been injected with the oily solution—one injection going into each toe pad. Though distracted by the closeness of those breasts, and though at moments Martin found himself wishing his own head were there instead of a rabbit’s, he worked carefully and in unison with Yvonne.

  The animals were clearly soothed by her loving care, but there was some suffering, and after a while she asked, “Does it have to be the toe pads?”

  Martin grimaced. “I don’t like it either, but that’s a good site for making antibodies. Though the injection’s painful, and it continues to irritate, the irritation attracts antibody-producing cells.”

  The explanation seemed to satisfy Yvonne. When they had finished he said, “You care about animals.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Of course.”

  “Not everyone does.”

  “You mean Tilly?” A frown crossed Yvonne’s face. “She doesn’t even like herself.”

  “Miss Tilwick doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “I know. Mr. Bentley told me. He also said to tell you that my qualifications are okay, and if you like me I can do the supervisor’s job.”

  “I like you,” Martin said, then surprised himself by adding, “I like you very much.”

  Yvonne giggled. “Goes both ways, Doctor.”

  Although, after their first encounter, others took over the animal injections, Martin continued to see Yvonne around the labs. Once, with his mind more on her than on the question, he asked, “If you love animals so much, why didn’t you go to veterinary college?”

  She hesitated, then with unusual terseness said, “I wanted to.”

  “What happened?”

  “I failed an exam.”

  “Just one?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “Couldn’t you take the exam again?”

  “I couldn’t afford the waiting time.” She looked at him directly and he had no choice but to move his eyes upward, meeting hers.

  Yvonne continued, “My parents didn’t have money to support me and I had to start earning. So I became an animal technician—the next best thing.” Then she smiled softly and he knew she was aware of where his eyes had been lingering.

  That was several weeks ago, and in between, Martin had become preoccupied with other matters.

  One was a computer analysis of continued tests in the rat maze; it showed that the earlier performances were no fluke and had remained consistent over intervening months. That alone was excellent news but, to top it, there had been a successful refinement of the peptide mix, eventually allowing isolation of a single active peptide. This—the much-sought-after peptide—proved to be the seventh band on the original chromatogram films and was immediately referred to as Peptide 7.

  Both successes were reported by telex to New Jersey and a congratulatory message came back promptly from Sam Hawthorne. Martin wished he could have communicated also with Celia, but news of her resignation from Felding-Roth had reached him a short time earlier. Though he had no idea what prompted her departure, the fact of it saddened him. Celia had been so much a part of the research project and the Harlow institute, it seemed unfair she would not share in the fruits of what she helped to begin. He knew, too, that he had lost a friend and an ally and wondered if the two of them would ever meet again. It seemed unlikely.

  Scientifically, only one factor troubled Martin as he lay in bed reviewing these events. It concerned the older rats that had been receiving regular peptide injections over several months.

  While the rats’ memories had improved, their general health had apparently deteriorated. The animals had lost weight noticeably, becoming lean, almost emaciated. After so much recent success, certain newer possibilities were alarming.

  Could it be that Peptide 7, while beneficial to the mind, was harmful to the body? Would the peptide-treated rats continue to suffer weight loss, become enfeebled, and fade away? If so, Peptide 7 would be unusable, either by animals or humans, and all the scientific work so far—four years of it at Harlow, plus Martin’s earlier labors at Cambridge—were tragically in vain.

  While the specter haunted Martin, he had tried to put it from his mind, at least for a few hours over the weekend.

  Now, on this Saturday night … No! It had just become Sunday morning … he shifted his thoughts back to Yvonne, returning to the question he had asked a short time earlier: So why haven’t you done something?

  He could telephone her, he supposed, and wished he had considered it sooner. It was too late now. Or was it? Hell! Why not?

  To his surprise, the call was answered on the first ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Yvonne?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is …”

  “I know who it is.”

  “Well,” he said, “I was lying here, couldn’t sleep, and just thought …”

  “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  “I wondered if we might meet tomorrow.”

  She pointed out, “Tomorrow’s Monday.”

  “So it is. Then how about today?”

  “All right.”

  “What time would be best?”

  “Why not now?”

  He could hardly believe his good luck as he asked, “Shall I drive over to get you?”

  “I know where you live. I’ll come to you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course.”

  He felt he had to say something else.

  “Yvonne.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you’re coming.”

  “So am I.” He heard her soft laugh. “I thought you’d never get around to asking.”

  15

  In the words of a book title Martin recalled, it was a night to remember.

  Yvonne’s arrival was at once delightful and uncomplicated. After she and Martin kissed warmly, and she had petted the several animals surrounding them in the hallway, she asked, “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “I’ll show you,” he said, and she followed him upstairs, bringing with her a small overnight bag.

  In the softly lighted bedroom, Yvonne quickly removed all her clothing, revealing her nakedness while Martin watched, his pulse racing, admiring what he saw—especially those marvelous breasts.

  When she joined him in bed, they came to each other uninhibitedly, joyously, lovingly. Martin sensed within Yvonne a guileless and generous physical love, seeming to arise from some wellspring of her nature. Perhaps it was a love of life itself, and of all living creatures, but it expressed itself now in her warm tongue, which seemed everywhere, and in her soft, moving lips which ceaselessly explored him, and in pressures and rhythms of her body, prompting him to respond in kind and in ways which had been alien until this night, but were suddenly instinctive.

  She murmured, “Don’t hurry! Make it last.”

  He whispered back, “I’ll try.”

  Despite the wish, before too long their mutual hunger swept them to a climax. Then the urgency receded, and a sense of peace and comfort came to Martin such as he had seldom known before.

  Even then his questioning, scientist’s mind sought causes for the exceptional serenity. Perhaps, he reasoned, what he felt was simply a relief from built-up tensions. Yet instincts which were non-scientific told him it was something more: that Yvonne was a rare woman blessed with inner peace transmittable to others … and with that thought, soon afterward, he fell asleep.

  He slept deeply and awoke to the sight of daylight and sounds of activity from his kitchen below. Moments later Yvonne appeared, wearing a dressing gown of Martin’s and carrying a tray with a teapot, cups and saucers, and toasted crumpets with honey. Surrounding her was the house collection of two dogs and three cats, who seemed to recognize a newfound friend.

  Yvonne put the tray on the bed where Martin had just sat up.

  Smiling, she touched the dressing gown. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It looks better on you than me.”

  She sat on the bed and began pouring. “You like milk in your tea, but no sugar.”

  “Yes, but how did you—”

  “I asked at the lab. In case I needed to know. By the way, your kitchen is a mess.” She passed him the tea.

  “Thank you. Sorry about the kitchen. It’s because I live alone.”

  “Before I go today, I’ll clean it.”

  The dressing gown had fallen open and Martin said, “About going. I hope you’re not in any hurry.”

  Allowing the garment to stay the way it was, she smiled again. “Mind your fingers on the plate; it’s hot.”

  He told her, “I’m not sure I believe all this. Breakfast in bed is a luxury I haven’t had in years.”

  “You should have it often. You deserve it.”

  “But you’re the guest. I should have done this for you.”

  She assured him, “I like it this way. More tea?”

  “Maybe later.” He put down his cup and reached out for her.

  Yvonne shrugged off the dressing gown, let it slide to the floor, and came to him. Holding her, and this time unhurriedly, he moved his hands, exploring, over her breasts and thighs.

  Kissing her, he said, “You have a beautiful body.”

  “Too much of it.” She laughed. “I need to take off weight.” Reaching downward, she pinched a thigh and held a roll of creamy flesh between her thumb and forefinger. “What I need is some of your Peptide 7. Then I could be thin, the way those rats are.”

  “Not necessary.” Martin’s face was in her hair. “I like everything you have, just the way it is.”

  As the minutes passed, their passion of the night before rekindled and grew. Martin was erect, Yvonne eagerly clasping him to her as he prepared to enter her.

  She urged, “Go on! Do it!” />
  But instead he stopped abruptly, his arms loosening. Then he grasped Yvonne’s shoulders and held her away.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, do it!”

  “No. Before that.”

  She pleaded, “Martin, don’t torture me! I want you now.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, shit!” Frustrated, the mood between them shattered, she let herself fall back. “Why did you do that?”

  “I want to know what you said. About Peptide 7.”

  She answered petulantly, “Peptide 7? Oh, I said that if I took some, maybe I could be thin like the rats. But what …”

  “That’s what I thought.” He leaped from the bed. “Hurry up! Get dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to the lab.”

  She asked incredulously, “Now?”

  Martin had thrown on a shirt and was pulling on trousers.

  “Yes. Right now.”

  Could it be true, he asked himself. Could it possibly be true?

  Martin stood, looking down from above, at a dozen rats that had taken turns in running through the maze. At his request, Yvonne had brought them from the animal room. They were a group which, for several months, had been injected with the partially purified peptide mix, and more recently with Peptide 7. All of the rats were thin—far thinner than when the injections had begun. Now Yvonne was returning the last rat to its cage.

  It was still early Sunday morning. Apart from the two of them and a watchman they had spoken to on the way in, the institute was silent and deserted.

  Like the other animals that preceded it, the twelfth rat began eating from a container in its cage.

  Martin observed, “They still feed well.”

  “They all do,” Yvonne agreed. “Now, will you tell me what this is about?”

  “All right. Because the rats we gave peptides to have lost weight, got thin, and some of them are gaunt, all of us here assumed their general health is poorer.” He added ruefully, “It wasn’t very scientific.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Possibly a lot. Supposing their health hasn’t worsened. Suppose they’re all perfectly well? Maybe more so than before. Suppose Peptide 7, as well as improving memory, caused a healthy weight loss.”