“I know that,” Sam said, “and I accept it.” He was aware that in any drug company a perpetual tug-of-war existed between sales and manufacturing on the one hand and research on the other. As the sales people expressed it, “Research always wants to be a hundred and ten percent sure of every goddam detail before they’ll say, ‘Okay, let’s go!’” Manufacturing, similarly, was eager to gear up for production and not be caught out by sudden demands when a new drug was required in quantity. But, on the other side of the equation, researchers accused the merchandising arm of “wanting to rush madly onto the market with a product that’s only twenty percent proven, just to beat competitors and have an early lead in sales.”
“What I’ll tell you now, and what isn’t in my reports,” Vincent Lord informed Sam, “is that we’re getting excitingly good results with two compounds—one, a diuretic, the other an anti-inflammatory for rheumatoid arthritis.”
“That’s excellent news.”
“There’s also our application for Derogil pending before the FDA.”
“The new anti-hypertensive.” Sam knew that Derogil, to control high blood pressure, was not a revolutionary drug but might become a good profit maker. He asked, “Is our application getting anywhere?”
Lord said sourly, “Not so you’d notice. Those puffed-up nincompoops in Washington …” He paused. “I’m going there again next week.”
“I still don’t think my statement was wrong,” Sam said. “But since you feel strongly, I’ll modify it when the board meets.”
Vincent Lord nodded as if the concession were no more than his due, then went on, “There’s also my own research on the quenching of free radicals. I know, after all this time, you believe nothing will come of it—”
“I’ve never said that,” Sam protested. “Never once! At times you choose to disbelieve it, Vince, but there are some of us here who have faith in you. We also know that important discoveries don’t come easily or quickly.”
Sam had only a sketchy idea of what the quenching of free radicals involved. He knew the objective was to eliminate toxic effects of drugs generally, and was something Vincent Lord had persevered with for a decade. If successful, there would be strong commercial possibilities. But that was all.
“Nothing you’ve told me,” Sam said, getting up, “changes my opinion that creating a British research center is a good idea.”
“And I’m still opposed because it’s unnecessary.” The research director’s reply was adamant, though as an afterthought he added, “Even if your plan should go ahead, we must have control from here.”
Sam Hawthorne smiled. “We’ll discuss that later, if and when.” But in his mind, Sam knew that letting Vincent Lord have control of the new British research institute was the last thing he would permit to happen.
When Lord was alone, he crossed to the outer door and closed it. Then, returning, he slumped in his chair disconsolately. He sensed that the proposal for a Felding-Roth research institute in Britain would go ahead despite his opposition, and he saw the new development as a threat to himself, a sign that his scientific dominance in the company was slipping. How much farther would it slip, he wondered, before he was eclipsed entirely?
So much would have been different, he reflected gloomily, if his own personal research had progressed better and faster than it had. As it was, he wondered, what did he have to show for his life in science?
He was now forty-eight, no longer the young and brilliant wizard with a newly minted Ph.D. Even some of his own techniques and knowledge, he was aware, were out of date. Oh, yes, he still read extensively and kept himself informed. Yet that kind of knowledge was never quite the same as original involvement in the scientific field in which your expertise developed—organic chemistry in his own case; developed to become an art, so that always and forever after you had instinct and experience to guide you. In the new field of genetic engineering, for example, he was not truly comfortable, not as at home in it as were the new young scientists now pouring from the universities, some of whom he had recruited for Felding-Roth.
And yet, he reasoned—reassured himself—despite the changes and fresh knowledge, the possibility of a titanic breakthrough with the work he had been doing still was possible, still could come at any time. Within the parameters of organic chemistry an answer existed—an answer to his questions posed through countless experiments over ten long years of grinding research.
The quenching of free radicals.
Along with the answer Vincent Lord sought would come enormous therapeutic benefits, plus unlimited commercial possibilities which Sam Hawthorne and others in the company, in their scientific ignorance, had so far failed to grasp.
What would the quenching of free radicals achieve?
The answer: something essentially simple but magnificent.
Like all scientists in his field, Vincent Lord knew that many drugs, when in action in the human body and as part of their metabolism, generated “free radicals.” These were elements harmful to healthy tissue, and the cause of adverse side effects and sometimes death.
Elimination, or “quenching,” of free radicals would mean that beneficial drugs, other drugs, which previously could not be used on humans because of dangerous side effects, could be taken by anyone with impunity. And restricted drugs, hitherto used only at great risk, could be absorbed as casually as aspirin.
No longer need physicians, when prescribing for their patients, worry about toxicity of drugs. No longer need cancer patients suffer agonies from the near-deadly drugs which sometimes kept them alive, but equally often tortured, then killed them from some other cause than cancer. The beneficial effects of those and all other drugs would remain, but the killing effects would be nullified by the quenching of free radicals.
What Vincent Lord hoped to produce was a drug to add to other drugs, to make them totally safe.
And it was all possible. The answer existed. It was there. Hidden, elusive, but waiting to be found.
And Vincent Lord, after ten years’ searching, believed he was close to that elusive answer. He could smell it, sense it, almost taste the nectar of success.
But how much longer? Oh, how much longer would he have to wait?
Abruptly he sat upright in his chair and, with an effort of will, expunged his downcast mood. Opening a drawer of his desk, he selected a key. He would go now—once more—he decided, to the private laboratory, a few steps down the hall, where his research work was done.
8
Vincent Lord’s friend and ally on the Felding-Roth board of directors was Clinton Etheridge, a successful and prominent New York lawyer who had pretensions to scientific knowledge. The pretensions were based on the fact that, for two years as a young man, Etheridge had been a medical student before deciding to switch to law. As an acquaintance cynically described the changeover, “Clint diagnosed where the big money was and prescribed a route to it directly.”
Etheridge was now fifty-three. The fact that his brief, incomplete medical studies had taken place more than a quarter century earlier never deterred him from making confident pronouncements on scientific matters, delivered in his best courtroom manner with an implication that they should be preserved on stone.
It suited Vincent Lord’s purposes to flatter Etheridge by appearing to treat him as a scientific equal. In this way the research director’s own views were often placed before the Felding-Roth board of directors with the bonus, for Vince Lord, of a lawyer’s skilled persuasiveness.
Not surprisingly, at a board meeting called to consider Sam Hawthorne’s proposal for a British research institute, Clinton Etheridge led off for the opposition.
The meeting was at Felding-Roth’s Boonton headquarters. Fourteen of the total complement of sixteen directors—all men—were assembled around the boardroom’s traditional walnut table.
Etheridge, who was tall, slightly stooped and cultivated a Lincolnesque image, began genially. “Were you hoping, Sam, that if this pro-British thing goes through, the
y’ll be so pleased with you over there, you’ll be invited to tea at Buckingham Palace?”
Sam joined in the general laughter, then shot back, “What I’m really after, Clint, is a long weekend at Windsor Castle.”
“Well,” the lawyer said, “I suppose it’s an attainable objective, but in my opinion the only one.” He became serious. “What you’ve proposed seems to me to overlook the tremendous scientific capability and achievements of our own country—your country too.”
Sam had thought about this meeting in advance and had no intention of letting the argument get away from him. “I haven’t overlooked American achievements in science,” he objected. “How could I? They’re all around us. I simply want to supplement them.”
Someone else injected, “Then let’s use our money to supplement them here.”
“The British themselves,” Etheridge persisted, “have fostered a myth about science on their little island somehow being superior. But if that’s true, why does Britain have its so-called ‘brain drain’—with so many of their best people hotfooting it over here, to join in U.S. research?”
“They mostly do it,” Sam answered, “because our facilities are better, and more money is available for staff and equipment. But your question, Clint, supports my argument. This country welcomes British scientists because of their high quality.”
“In your opinion, Sam,” Etheridge asked, “what area of scientific research, relating to this industry, is at present most important?”
“Without question, genetic engineering.”
“Exactly.” The lawyer nodded, satisfied with the answer. “And isn’t it true—and I speak with some scientific knowledge, as you know—that the United States has led the world, and continues to, in this genetic field?”
Sam was tempted to smile, but didn’t. For once, the pseudoscientist had allowed himself to be mis-briefed.
“Actually, Clint,” Sam said, “it isn’t true. As long ago as 1651, in Britain, William Harvey studied the development of the chick in the egg, and so laid the foundations of genetic studies. Also in England, the study of biochemical genetics was begun in 1908. In between there were other discoveries, with a good deal of work by an American geneticist, Dr. Hermann Muller, in the 1920s and onward. But a crowning achievement, sometimes referred to as ‘an explosion in genetic science,’ was also in England—at Cambridge in 1953, when Doctors Watson and Crick discovered the structure of the DNA molecule for which they won a Nobel Prize.” Now Sam smiled. “Dr. Watson, incidentally, was American-born, which shows that basic science is international.”
Several of the directors chuckled and Etheridge had the grace to look rueful. He acknowledged, “As we lawyers say, there are questions you wish you hadn’t asked.” Then, undeterred, he added, “Nothing that’s been said changes my view that American science is second to none; further, that our own research quality will suffer if we spread ourselves too thin by setting up shop in another country.”
There were murmurs of agreement until another director, Owen Norton, rapped his knuckles sharply on the table to command attention. He received it at once.
Norton, a prestigious, authoritarian figure in his mid-seventies, was chairman and major stockholder of a communications empire that included a TV network. It was generally agreed that Felding-Roth was fortunate to have him on its board. Now, having gained attention, he spoke forcefully in a loud, rasping voice.
“May I remind all of you that we are discussing—or should be—the serious and important problems which beset this company. We chose Sam Hawthorne as president, believing he would give leadership, ideas and guidance. So he has come up with a proposal embodying all three, and what is happening here? We are being urged by Clint and others to dismiss it out of hand. Well, I for one, will not.”
Owen Norton glanced at Etheridge, with whom he had clashed at board meetings before, and his voice became sarcastic. “I also believe, Clint, you should save your juvenile, flag-waving polemics for a jury which is less well informed than the members of this board.”
There was a momentary silence during which Sam Hawthorne reflected on how much it might surprise outsiders to discover that corporate board meetings were seldom conducted on the high intellectual level which many might expect. While weighty and sometimes wise decisions could be arrived at, there was often a surprising amount of low-level argument and petty bickering.
“What the hell does it matter, anyway,” Norton continued, “whose science is superior—Britain’s or ours? That isn’t the point.”
A director asked, “Then what is?”
Norton pounded the table with a fist. “Diversification! In any business, including mine, it’s sometimes an advantage to have a second ‘think tank,’ completely separate from and independent of any existing one. And maybe the best way to get that separation is to put an ocean between the two.”
“It’s also a way,” someone else said, “of letting costs get out of hand.”
For nearly an hour the debate continued, with more opposition surfacing and alternative ideas being put forward. But there was support for Sam’s proposal from several directors, support which Owen Norton’s stand had strengthened, and in the end the opposition dissipated. Finally the original proposal was approved by a vote of thirteen to one, Clinton Etheridge the sole dissenter.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Sam acknowledged. “I truly believe that something productive will come from this decision.”
Later the same day he sent for Celia.
“You’re moving on,” he told her without time-wasting preliminaries. “The International Division is now behind you. Your new job is special assistant to the president and you’ll be my right hand in setting up a British research institute.”
“All right,” Celia acknowledged; the news delighted her, but she kept her tone as brisk as Sam’s. He was showing signs, she thought, of some of the pressures which inevitably were crowding him. He was now almost totally bald, only a thin fringe of hair remaining. From her own point of view, Celia reasoned, there would be time for celebration tonight when she shared her news with Andrew.
She asked, “When do I start?” Mentally she was calculating how long it would take to hand over her Latin-American responsibilities. A month should be enough.
“I’d prefer to make it this afternoon,” Sam answered. “But we’ll have to arrange an office for you, so let’s say 9 A.M. tomorrow.”
“This new assignment you have,” Sam explained to Celia next day, “won’t last long. Your main job will be to help get our British research institute established, staffed and operating. I’d like to have that done in a year, though sooner would be better. As soon as possible after that, we’ll find you something else.”
The priorities, Sam continued, were to find and appoint a British scientist who would head the institute, to decide where in Britain it should be located, then to buy or lease a building—preferably an existing one capable of being adapted quickly to its new purpose.
Everything was to be on an urgent basis—which was the reason for pulling Celia so suddenly from International. Sam personally would spearhead the search for a prestigious, capable scientific director, though Celia would help as needed. As to the other matters, Celia would handle those, coming up with recommendations for Sam and others to consider.
Both Sam and Celia would leave for Britain the following week. Before then, however, they would consult with Vincent Lord who, despite his opposition to the project, was well informed about British science and scientists and might have names of candidates to suggest.
The consultation with Dr. Lord took place a few days later in Sam’s office, with Celia present.
To Celia’s surprise, Vince Lord was cooperative, even friendly as far as that capability lay within him. Sam, who understood more of the background than Celia, realized why. With Felding-Roth now committed to research in Britain, Lord wanted to control it. But Sam still was determined not to have that happen.
“I’ve prepared a list,
” Lord informed them, “of people who could be potential candidates. You’ll have to approach them discreetly because they are either professors at universities or are employed by our competitors.”
Sam and Celia examined the list, which contained eight names. “We’ll be discreet,” Sam promised, “but we’ll also move quickly.”
“While you’re over there,” Lord said, “here’s something else you might look into.” From a file he extracted a batch of papers and letters clipped together. “I’ve been corresponding with a young scientist at Cambridge University. He’s been doing some interesting work on mental aging and Alzheimer’s disease, but he’s run out of money and wants a grant.”
“Alzheimer’s,” Celia said. “That’s when the brain stops functioning, isn’t it?”
Lord nodded. “Part of the brain. Memory disappears. The condition starts slowly and gets worse.”
Despite the research director’s earlier aversion to Celia, he had come to accept her as a fixture in the company, and influential; therefore continued antagonism would be pointless. The two had even progressed to using first names—at first a touch awkwardly, but by now with ease.
Sam took the letters from Lord, glanced through them and read aloud, “Dr. Martin Peat-Smith.” Passing them to Celia, he asked Lord, “Do you recommend a grant?”
The research director shrugged. “It’s a long shot. Alzheimer’s has baffled scientists since 1906 when it was first diagnosed. What Peat-Smith is doing is studying the aging process of the brain, hoping to find a cause of Alzheimer’s while he does.”
“What are his chances?”
“Slim.”
“We might put up some money,” Sam said. “If we have time, I’ll talk with him. But other things come first.”
Celia, who had been studying the letters, asked, “Is Dr. Peat-Smith a possible candidate for institute director?”
Lord looked surprised, then answered, “No.”
“Why not?”
Strong Medicine Page 19
