Strong Medicine (46 page)

you mentioned it first, so I'll tell you this now because maybe it's the

only way I can get through to you, to Sam, and others like you."

Celia watched Martin intently, listening carefully, wondering what was

coming.

"Even in what you think of as my scientific remoteness," he said, "I know

that Felding-Roth is in deep trouble. If things don't improve within the

next few years, the company could go under." He asked sharply, "Right or

wrong?"

Celia hesitated, then nodded. "Right."

"What I can do, given a little more time, is save your company. Not only

save it, but make it productive, acclaimed and enormously rich. That's

because, at the end of my research, there will be important medication-a

drug." Martin grimaced before going on. "Not that I care about any

commercial outcome. I don't. I'm also embarrassed to be talking about it

now. But when it happens, what I want accomplished will happen too."

The statement, Celia thought, had the same impressive effect as another

made b Martin in his Cambridge lab the day of their first Y

meeting. At that time, Sam had felt that effect too. But the earlier

statement, made more than two years ago, had not been fulfilled. Why, she

asked herself, should today's be different?

Celia shook her head. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"Dammit, I know mine is the right judgment!" May-tin's voice rose. "We're

close-so closel-to finding a means to improve the quality of aging and

retard brain deterioration, and maybe prevent

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Alzheimer's disease as well." He gulped what remained of the drink in his

hand and slammed down the glass. "How in hell can I convince you?"

"You can try again over dinner." Celia glanced at her watch. "I believe

we should go now."

The food at the Churchgate Hotel, while good, ran to large portions-too

large for Celia. After a while she toyed with what remained on her plate,

moving it around without eating, while she considered what to say next.

Whatever it was would be important. Knowing it, she held back,

hesitating, preparing her words carefully.

Meanwhile the ambience was pleasant.

More than six centuries before the Churchgate existed as a hotel, its

site had been occupied by a chantry house-a priest's dwellingwhich, in

Jacobean times, became a private home. Some portions of the Jacobean

structure still remained in the charming hotel building, enlarged and

refurbished when Harlow changed from a village to a town after World War

IL The dining room was one of the historic holdovers.

Celia liked the room's atmosphere-its low ceiling, upholstered window

benches, white and red napery and pleasant service, including the

placement of food at each table before diners were called in from an

adjoining lounge-bar where earlier they had received menus and placed

their orders.

Tonight, Celia had one of the window benches. Martin sat facing her.

Through the meal they continued the conversation begun at Martin's house,

Celia listening, interjecting an occasional question, as Martin talked

science confidently. But fresh in her memory were the words of Nigel

Bentley, spoken yesterday. "Dr. Peat-Smith is a leader and, as with any

leader, it would be a mistakefor him to show weakness or exhibit doubts

. . . "

Did Martin, despite that persistent outward confidence, have an inward,

private uncertainty? Celia considered a tactic to help her find out. It

was an idea developed from the book she had read last night, after its

delivery to the hotel-a promise fulfilled by Nigel Bentley.

Having calculated and weighed her words, she looked at him directly and

said, "An hour ago, when we were talking at the house, you said you had

scientific arrogance."

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He riposted, "Don't misunderstand that. It's positive, not negative-a

combination of knowledge, willingness to criticize one's own work, yet

conviction also-something a successful scientist must have to 3urvive."

As he said it, Celia wondered if for the first time there was the

slightest crack, a hint of weakness, in the confident faqade. She wasn't

sure, but pressed on.

"Is it possible," she insisted, "that scientific arrogance, or whatever

else you call it, can go too far; that someone can become so convinced

of what they want to believe that they indulge in wishful thinking which

becomes unshakable?"

"Everything's possible," Martin answered. "Though not in this case."

But his voice was flat, with less conviction than previously. Now she was

sure. She had probed his weakness, and he was close to concession,

perhaps to breaking point.

"I read something last night," Celia said. "I wrote it down, even though

I think you may know of it." Her purse was beside her. From it she

extracted a sheet of hotel stationery and read aloud:

"Error is aot a fault of our knowledge, but a mistake of our

judgment . . . Those who cannot carry a train of conse-

quences in their heads; nor weigh exactly the preponderancy of

contrary proofs and testimonies . . . may be easily misled to

assent to positions that are not probable."

There was a silence which, after a moment, Celia filled, aware she was

being relentless, even cruel. "It's from An Essay Concerning Human

Understanding by John Locke. The man you believe in and revere."

"Yes," he said, "I know."

"So isn't it likely," she persisted, "that you are not weighing those

'contrary proofs' and you are holding to 'positions that are not

probable'just the way Locke said?"

Niartin turned toward her, in his eyes a mute appeal. "Do you think I

am?"

Celia said quietly, "Yes, I do."

"I'm sorry you . . ." He choked on the words and she scarcely recognized

his voice. Now he said faintly, "Then . . . I give up."

Martin had broken. The quotation from Locke, his idol-turned against him

by Celia-had pierced him to the heart. More than that, like a suddenly

failing machine that turns inward, devouring

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itself, he had lost control. His face was ashen, his mouth hung open, and

his jaw sagged. Disconnected words emerged. ". . . tell your people to end

it . . . let them close down . . . I do believe, but maybe I'm not good

enough, not alone . . . What we've looked for will he found . . . it will

happen, must happen . . . but somewhere else . . ."

Celia was aghast. What had she done? She had sought to shock Martin into

what she perceived as reality, but had neither intended, nor wanted, to

go this far. Clearly the accumulated strain over more than two years, the

lonely and awesome responsibility he had carried, had exacted its toll,

which was visible now.

Again Martin's voice. ". . . tired, so tired . . ."

Hearing the defeated phrases, Celia had an overwhelming desire to take

him in her arms and comfort him. Then, with the suddenness of a

revelation, she knew what would happen next. "Martin," she said

decisively, "let's get out of here."

A passing waitress glanced toward them curiously. Celia, standing, told

her, "Put the meal on my bill. My friend isn't well."

"Certainly, Mrs. Jordan." The girl eased their table outward. "Do you

need help?"

"No, thank you. I'll manage." She took Martin's arm and propelled him

toward the lounge-bar outside. From there a stairway ascended to a series

of guest rooms. Celia's room was near the head of the stairway. She used

her key to open it. They went inside.

This portion of the building, too, had been preserved from Jacobean days.

The rectangular bedroom had a low strapwork ceiling, oak-paneled walls

and a fireplace framed in stone. Leaded-light windows were small, their

smallness a reminder that in the seventeenth century glass was an

expensive luxury.

The bed was a roomy four-poster with a canopy. During the dinner hours

a maid had been here, neatly turning down the bedsheets and leaving a

negligee of Celia's draped across a pillow.

Celia wondered how much history-of ancient families: their births and

deaths, illnesses, loving passions, joys and sorrows, quarrels,

assignations-this room had seen. Well, she thought, tonight there would

be something more to add.

Martin was standing, still dazed and suffering, regarding her un-

certainly. She picked up the negligee and, turning toward the bathroom,

told him softly, "Get undressed. Get into bed. I'll join you."

As he continued to look at her, still unmoving, she came close and

whispered, "You want this too, don't you?"

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His body heaved with a groaning, gasping sigh. "Oh my God, yes1l,

While they held each other, she comforted him as she would a child. But not

for long.

She felt Martin's passion rise, and her own accompanied it. Just as Martin

had wanted this moment, Celia knew that she had sought it too. In a way, it

had been inevitable, ever since their first meeting at Cambridge when

something far stronger than instant, mutual liking had flashed between

them. From then on, Celia realized, the question had never been "if", but

merely "when?"

The choice of consummation here and now had, in one sense, been accidental.

It had happened because of Martin's sudden breakdown and despair, his

obvious, urgent need to draw on outside strength and solace. Yet, if what

was occurring now had not occurred tonight, some other time would have seen

the same conclusion, with each of their meetings bringing the fateful

moment closer.

As Martin kissed her ardently, and she responded, feeling his rigid

masculinity against her, she knew in a crevice of her mind that sooner or

later moral issues must be faced and consequences weighed. But not nowl

There was no strength left in Celia for anything but the fulfillment of

desire. Her own desire, all-encompassing, burning, blissful, overwhelming,

coalesced with Martin's.

Moments later they cried out to each other, lovingly, and with exquisite

joy.

Afterward they slept, Martin-it seemed to Celia--deeply, and no longer

troubled. In the early morning hours they awakened and, this time more

tenderly but with equal pleasure, made love again.

When next Celia awoke, daylight was streaming in through the old-fashioned

windows.

Martin had gone. She found the note soon after.

Dearest:

You have been, and are, an inspiration.

Early this morning while you were sleeping--oh, so beauti-

fullyt-an idea, a "perhaps" solution to our research impasse,

came to me. I am going to the lab, even though I know I don't

have long, to see if it has promise.

Either way I shall keep the faith, carrying on until the evic-

tion order comes.

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What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory.

Don't worry about anything. I know that Paradise Found 6nly happens

once.

I suggest you do not preserve this note.

Yours always,

Martin

Celia showered, ordered breakfast, and began packing for the journey