Strong Medicine (35 page)

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,

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"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

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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 comer for his group.

"Is it always )ike 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.

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"There'd be commercial factors to consider. Tell me honestlywouldn'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 shook 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."

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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 he 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 FeldingRoth, 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

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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 anti she were

excited by her impending homecoming, now less than a week away. After the