(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  Dazed, obedient, Öhman came out of the chair and left the room.

  The second that the door closed, Farelli wheeled towards Garrett. ‘I meant every word I said to him.’

  ‘I know you did,’ said Garrett.

  ‘I could not tell him everything, but to you I can reveal. I know very well what you have thought of me this past week—that I am an egotist, a promoter, a self-seeker who wishes too much credit for himself. It is not so, but it must appear that way to you, who are so quiet and self-effacing, an honest man of the laboratory. I was raised in Milan, Dr. Garrett. It is a busy and prosperous city, but not if you are poor and outside. My father sold spoiled fruit for what you call pennies. My mother scrubbed other people’s dirty clothes. We lived in a shanty, six of us, wearing rags and sick from malnutrition. I robbed and cheated and procured for pimps, as a street boy, to go to school and escape and be better. The whole story is too long—but when you come from that, Dr. Garrett, you are always insecure, you want never to go back, you live in fright, and your body emits the stench of fear. I was so driven that I was made twice the man I was—and by perseverance and fright and a good Lord in the heaven, I made my discovery which is truly ours. But for all of this—and I swear it—I would willingly sink back to the past, if that one old man in that room could be made to live. It is because today I realize, maybe the first time, I am more a healer than an opportunist who wants self-survival above all else. That old man must live—and to devil with this prize and all prizes—because our work must not die. That is how I feel.’

  Garrett tried to smile his understanding but could not. ‘I have stopped thinking of two people—Farelli and Garrett—and begun thinking of only one—Count Ramstedt. My personal concerns have left me. They’ve been made too small to live on a morning like this.’

  ‘But now, what is to be done, Dr. Garrett? I told the Swede I want to fight for that one man. It was bravery without arms. I can think of nothing. I depend on you.’

  Garrett received Farelli’s dependence upon him without feeling superiority, but with all the comfort that collaboration often produced. He had left the butt of his cigar in an ashtray, and now he retrieved it, and lit it, thinking all the while. His head had never been clearer.

  ‘One idea keeps recurring,’ said Garrett, as he slowly circled the room. ‘Even though we have learned to neutralize the rejection mechanism with Anti-reactive Substance S, I have had my secret fears about potential steroid dangers—the side effects, that is. And so I always sought to improve it. I have never written this in a paper, but once, for a period, I experimented on dogs with another version of the serum, an anti-histamine I called Anti-reactive Substance AH—and the early experiments were remarkably effective.’

  ‘Substance AH?’

  ‘Yes. While it’s been somewhat less reliable than the steroid version in blocking phlogistic response, it has been far superior in other respects—more selective—more effective in holding off the rejection, yet permitting immunity, strong immunity, against infection.’

  ‘Would it be possible?’ Farelli wondered.

  ‘I have never tried this mixture on a human being,’ said Garrett. ‘I intended to do more experiments on animal specimens when I returned to—’

  ‘Dr. Garrett, I would be willing to take the chance here, now,’ said Farelli suddenly. ‘Can it be prepared here?’

  ‘Easily,’ said Garrett, but his mind was elsewhere. ‘If only we had some insurance,’ he mused.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If there were something else in the event that this failed.’

  Farelli pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘We could try a modified outside pump, a portable pump—’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘Too impermanent. I am thinking—you know—possibly—’ He halted, privately weighing something.

  ‘Possibly what?’

  ‘Something else is on my mind,’ said Garrett slowly, ‘something more permanent. I hesitated, because it is premature. Still—at a time like this—’

  ‘Please—what is it, Dr. Garrett?’

  ‘In this last year since our discovery, I have gone along on an entirely new offshoot, new tangent, of cardiac grafting. I have not published preliminary data, because I have not gone far—there has not been time—but I must openly confess what I have in mind. As you doubtless know, there is one tissue that can survive the rejection mechanism—I refer to living embryonic tissue. It is virtually nonreactive—it doesn’t have any antigenic specificity. I confirmed this, to my satisfaction, with recent tests on rats. I determined to attempt a pancreas transplantation. I started by transferring a mature pancreas from one adult rat to another, and it wouldn’t grow at all, it was rejected. Then I did something else. I typed a rat’s estrogen cycle to find out when the rat was pregnant, and then—listen to this—at an early stage, I took pancreas tissue out of the fœtus—although pancreatic tissue per se was not the object—and grafted this embryonic tissue into another rat, and, Dr. Farelli, it grew healthy and strong. It was not rejected at all. I kept wondering if the same could be undertaken, successfully, with an embryonic heart.’

  Farelli was staring at Garrett, his mind bounding ahead, his temples corded with concentration. ‘But why not?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Let us say that a pregnant mother miscarries in the first trimester—’

  ‘Remember the obstetrician who looked in on Öhman early this morning? He has a miscarriage he is handling, under this roof, in the fourth week of gestation.’

  Farelli could hardly contain himself. ‘We take this tiny four-week-old heart tissue and hook it up with an external circulation pump, induce speedy growth—even apply the new growth hormone those men down in—’

  ‘Wait, Dr. Farelli, you’ve given me a better idea. Why develop this four-week embryonic heart externally? Why not internally? It won’t be rejected. We graft this embryonic heart into Count Ramstedt’s groin—the way kidney transplants have been placed in the neck—a heterotopic graft. We put the embryonic heart in the inguinal area, because the blood vessels there are twice as big as—don’t you see? We hook it into the arteries and veins—we keep Count Ramstedt on Substance AH as well as Anti-reactive Substance S while the embryonic heart grows. Shortly after, as it develops, we—or Öhman, for that matter—begin to waltz it—move it into the abdominal area where it can work on bigger blood vessels.’

  Garrett flung his cigar aside, and paced a moment.

  ‘Yes, Farelli, it is possible,’ he resumed. ‘There would be no discomfort. A woman’s pelvic site accommodates a large mass in pregnancy, enough to hold a full-grown human heart in her twelfth week. A man with a stomach tumor suffers greater displacement. Why not an embryonic heart? Then we keep injecting the new growth hormone. In four or five months, the embryonic heart, unrejected, is full-grown. It is ready for a final transplantation. Now we have everything in our favour. We keep Ramstedt alive with the anti-reactives and booster pumps. If Anti-reactive Substance AH works, we let Ramstedt go on with the calf’s heart Öhman put in this morning, plus the secondary human heart in his abdomen—they do not have to be synchronized in their beat—but, if Substance AH fails, we have this new heart—raised from an embryo—of sufficient size to transplant into the chest. It gives us our insurance—and a definitive experiment that can open an entire new avenue in the field of—’

  Farelli had his big hands on Garrett’s shoulders, rocking him with love. ‘Dr. Garrett, you are a genius, a genius! When everything is lost, there is nothing more to lose—but now, I can only think of what can be gained. We will work as we have never worked before. I will get hold of Öhman and obtain that embryonic heart tissue from the miscarriage—’

  ‘And I’ll start preparing the new anti-reactive serum.’

  For an instant, Garrett’s mind was not on the serum, but on his recent past. He had the curious feeling that he would never know the end to Mrs. Zane’s amorous dilemma. He was sorry for that—that, and the loss of Dr. Keller, crutch and friend—but suddenly he kne
w he did not care. For the first time in what seemed eternity, he felt released of the genetic shackles that had bound him to shadowed ancestors. He wanted to sing, but he did not, for he could never carry a tune. So he sang inside, ever so briefly, until Farelli’s musical voice blended in to conduct him back to the present.

  ‘We will do this wonderful experiment together,’ Farelli was saying, with enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Garrett, smiling at last, ‘for better or for worse.’

  It would not be until three hours later that the electric duplicating machine in the clerical office of the Caroline Hospital began to revolve, imprinting Öhman’s official release to the press:

  On behalf of His Royal Highness the King, the directors of the Stockholm Caroline Hospital are pleased to announce that a heart transplant has been successfully performed on Count Rolf Ramstedt, seventy-two. The graft was dramatically accomplished by the two current Nobel Prize winners in medicine, Dr. John Garrett, of Pasadena, California, and Dr. Carlo Farelli, of Rome, assisted by Dr. Erik Öhman, of the Caroline staff. Early complications were overcome by the two brilliant visiting laureates, working side by side as a team, through improvisations based on their earlier experiments. As a result of the Ramstedt case, the directors of the Caroline Hospital believe that a new method, to supplement the Garrett-Farelli method that is being honoured in Concert Hall this afternoon, has been found for cases where organ transplantation is rejected by the immunity mechanism which . . .

  It was 11.14 in the morning.

  Andrew Craig, one knee pressing his tan, lightweight valise to his bedroom floor, grunted as he tightened and fastened the straps of his luggage. Tired of awaiting Leah’s return from Dalarna, Craig had begun to empty his drawers and cupboard ten minutes before, throwing his effects helter-skelter, without care or economy, into his luggage. Now the necessary task was finished. What remained was to telephone the portier downstairs and request a boy to move his bag, and the formal evening suit he had left out on its hanger for the afternoon Ceremony, to the single room he had arranged to have for his last night in Stockholm. After that, there were two pieces of writing required of him—the curt, decisive note to Leah, and the speech he must create before five o’clock.

  He lifted himself off the valise, carried it into the sitting-room, and then started back to his bedroom telephone, when the front door buzzer intercepted him. He expected it to be Leah, at last, and he would be spared writing the note to her. But it was a young page, instead, offering him a sealed envelope on a silver tray.

  Somewhat mystified, Craig took the envelope, and told the page to wait a moment. Walking back to his bed, to find a one-krona tip in his sport jacket pocket, he tore open the envelope. On a single sheet of hotel stationery was hastily scrawled a brief message:

  DEAR ANDREW, I have been thinking about everything, and I would like to see you once more, if you want to see me. I have something important to tell you. I’ll be in my room at 12.30 sharp. Ring me then. EMILY.

  Craig came alive with hope. He read the message again, and then reread it a second time. Why had she put a boundary to their reunion—‘would like to see you once more’? And what was the ‘something important’ she had to tell him? His immediate elation now became earth-bound. Was this to be a courtesy farewell, a more sensible explanation as to why she would never see him after Stockholm? But then, he tried to see the brighter side of it. After an emotional breaking-off, she had reconsidered. She would see him. The message was almost affectionate. She would see him, and that was all that mattered, and after that, it would be up to him.

  He remembered the page at the front door, quickly separated a one-krona coin from his copper and silver change, and hurried back to the bearer of good tidings.

  Paying the page, he inquired, ‘Who gave you this note to deliver?’

  ‘A lady, sir.’

  ‘A pretty lady with dark hair and green eyes?’

  ‘I did not notice her eyes, sir, but she was very pretty.’

  ‘Was she coming in or going out?’

  ‘She was going out, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Craig closed the door, read the note a fourth time as he returned to his bedroom, and decided that there would be no use in trying to get in touch with Emily earlier than she had suggested. She was out, probably last-minute shopping, and hope would have to be deferred until 12.30. Then he realized that he had forgotten to ask the page to move his valise and evening clothes.

  Before he could reach the telephone, he heard the front door slam. He stopped short, listening. He heard footsteps. Someone was in the sitting-room. Was it the chambermaid, or was it—?

  He went into the sitting-room.

  Leah Decker was removing her hat and coat before the mirror, and when he emerged from the bedroom, she saw the reflection of him join her in the mirror.

  ‘Andrew—’

  She dropped coat and hat in the nearest chair, and turned towards him, her severely bunned hair glistening from dried flakes, and her face pinker and ruddier from the outdoors than he had ever known it to be.

  She started towards him. ‘Andrew, it was divine up north. You simply haven’t been to Sweden until you’ve seen Lake Siljan in the winter—everyone ice skating and skiing—and tobogganing—like back home—only so much more fun. I think we should—’

  Her eyes had gone past the tan valise, bulging, strapped, travelled back to it, considered it, and then met his own gaze with puzzlement.

  ‘You packed by yourself. Why the hurry? We aren’t leaving until tomorrow night.’

  He knew that he would not be writing the note to her. ‘You are leaving tomorrow night—by yourself. I am leaving when I please—by myself. Starting right now. This is our last time together.’

  ‘Andrew! Have you been drinking or what?’

  ‘Get off it, Lee.’

  Suddenly she made the pretence of understanding his motive. ‘Oh—I bet I know what’s got into you. You tried to see your German girl friend, and she told you I—’

  ‘I won’t even bother about that,’ said Craig. ‘God knows, that was bad enough—but the other thing you’ve done is infinitely worse. You’ve behaved like an unbelievable weekend bitch in an old Broadway play. You’ve saddled me with a lie I never deserved. I won’t forgive you for it, and I never want to set eyes on you again.’

  Leah was a study in confusion. ‘Andrew, I haven’t the faintest idea what’s—’

  ‘You haven’t? You really haven’t? You can’t think of one rotten thing you’ve done to me in the last—’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘How convenient—Instant Amnesia,’ said Craig bitterly. ‘All right, maybe I can help refresh your memory. Ever since Harriet’s death, you’ve led me to believe I was responsible. I had some drinks, and lost control of the car, and I killed my wife. That’s been the story, hasn’t it?’

  Leah’s eyes had widened, and involuntarily her hand had gone to her cheek, elbow extended, as if ready to avert a blow.

  Craig went on relentlessly. ‘All that time, you knew the truth. You had the report from the police. About the tie rod breaking under my car, and swerving us into the skid. All that time, you knew it was an accident, and that you were supposed to have reported it to me, and you didn’t. The police thought you had told me—as any normal human being with compassion would—but you did not. You burdened me with a false guilt instead. You lied to Lucius and you lied to me. Why, Leah? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

  Leah’s face had transformed before his eyes to something lame and hunted. ‘Who says that’s the truth? Where did you hear that cock-and-bull story? It’s not the truth at all. Ask Sheriff Hollinder if you don’t—’

  ‘Sheriff Hollinder,’ he said savagely, ‘Miller’s Dam—what in the hell does he know? But I know who does know. We cracked up just over the line, in Marquette County. The record of the accident is in the police files in Pikestown. A photocopy of the accident report you kept from me is right here i
n Stockholm.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, weakening, not believing herself.

  ‘How could you be so stupid? Couldn’t you know that nothing on earth is ever secret—no truth, no lie—as long as we are born in public, and live and die in public, as long as we are part of a community? And how could you be so vicious? That’s the part I don’t understand. Wasn’t my loss, my grief, enough for one man to bear—without the added guilt you superimposed on these last three years? I might have drunk myself to death, shot myself.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t. You have too much—’ But then she stopped, for she had conceded his truth, and realized it, and had more defence.

  ‘I think I’ve understood you since I’ve learned the truth, but I’ve hated to face this insight into you. You were willing to sacrifice me for yourself. You wanted me in total servitude, didn’t you? You wanted me entirely beholden to you—a prisoner to your commands and whims—or was it something else? Was it that you wanted security?’

  Leah asserted her last claim to self-respect. ‘I didn’t need you. I had Harry Beazley in Chicago all the time, and you know it.’

  ‘Well, you have him now, Leah, and you latch on to him while you still can. You go back to Chicago and marry that poor bastard, and put a ring in his nose and nag him and try to make him what you want him to be and drive him to drink—make him inadequate you to make yourself—’

  The last frame of her composure had crumpled, and she was bared to every thrust. ‘Oh, Andrew, please don’t—’

  He had no more stomach for this one-sided carnage. ‘I’ve taken another room. You can stay for the Ceremony. I’m changing our flight tickets. Your plane stops at Chicago. Don’t bother to come to Miller’s Dam. I’ll send you your things.’

  ‘Andrew—?’

  ‘I’m getting rid of the place—the house, furniture, guilts—one tidy parcel. I’ll miss Harriet, but she’s in my heart, not in Miller’s Dam, and I’ll miss Lucius—and for the rest, to hell with it.’