“I know it’s selfish,” Celia said, “but all I can think of is, thank heaven it finished before Brucie was old enough to go!”
A week or two later, the hierarchy of Felding-Roth was cheered by news from France that the drug Montayne had been approved for manufacture and sale in that country. It meant that under the licensing agreement between Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals and Laboratoires Gironde-Chimie, American testing of Montayne would now begin.
As to the drug’s purpose, Celia had suffered some unease on first learning that it was intended for pregnant women, to be taken early in their pregnancy when nausea and morning sickness were most prevalent—conditions which Montayne would banish. Celia, like others, had strong memories of Thalidomide and its awful aftermath. She also remembered how glad in retrospect she had been that during both of her own pregnancies Andrew had insisted she take no drugs at all.
She had confided her concern to Sam, who was understanding and sympathetic. “When I first heard about Montayne,” he admitted, “my reaction was the same as yours. But since then I’ve learned more about it, convincing me it’s a splendidly effective, yet totally safe drug.” Since Thalidomide, Sam pointed out, fifteen years had passed during which time there had been enormous progress in pharmaceutical research, including scientific testing of new drugs. As well, government regulations in 1975 were stricter by far than in the 1950s.
“Many things change,” Sam insisted. “For example, there was a time when the idea of using anesthetics during childbirth was fiercely opposed by some who believed it would be dangerous and destructive. In the same way there can, and must, be safe drugs for use during pregnancy. Montayne is simply one whose time has come.”
He urged Celia to keep an open mind until she had examined all the data. She promised that she would.
The importance of Montayne to Felding-Roth was underlined soon afterward when the vice president and comptroller, Seth Feingold, confided to Celia, “Sam has promised the board that Montayne will give us a big boost moneywise, which we sure as hell need. This year our balance sheet looks like we’re candidates for a welfare handout.”
Feingold, a sprightly, white-haired company veteran, was past retirement age, but was retained because of his encyclopedic knowledge of Felding-Roth finances and an ability to juggle money in tight situations. Over the past two years he and Celia had become friends, their closeness aided by the fact that Andrew had successfully treated Feingold’s wife for arthritis. The treatment freed Mrs. Feingold from pain she had suffered over several years.
“My wife thinks your husband could change water into wine,” the comptroller had informed Celia one day. “Now that I know you better, I’ve a similar feeling about his wife.”
Continuing to discuss Montayne, he said, “I’ve talked with Gironde-Chimie’s financial people, and the Frenchies believe their drug will be an enormous profit builder for them.”
“Even though it’s early, all of us in sales are gearing up for the same thing here,” Celia assured him. “But especially for you, Seth, we’ll try a little harder.”
“Attagirl! Speaking of trying harder, some of us are wondering how hard those Brits are working in our research center over there. Or are they loafing, spending most of their time having tea breaks?”
“I haven’t heard much lately …” Celia began.
“I haven’t heard anything,” Feingold said. “Except it’s costing us millions, like the money’s going in a bathtub with the plug out. That’s one reason why our balance sheet is a disaster area. I’m telling you, Celia, a lot of people around here, including some members of the board, are worried about that British caper. Ask Sam.”
As it turned out, Celia did not need to ask Sam because he sent for her a few days later. “You may have heard,” he said, “that I’m taking a lot of flak about Harlow and Martin Peat-Smith.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Seth Feingold told me.”
Sam nodded. “Seth is one of the doubters. For financial reasons he’d like to see Harlow shut down. So would a growing number on the board, and I’m expecting tough questions from shareholders at the annual meeting.” He added moodily, “Some days I feel like letting it happen.”
Celia reminded him, “It’s not much more than two years since the Harlow research started. You had faith in Martin.”
“Martin predicted at least some positive result within two years,” Sam answered. “Also there are limits to faith when we’re hemorrhaging dollars and I have the board and shareholders on my back. Another thing—Martin’s been obstinate about progress reports. He just won’t make any. So I need some assurance there really is progress and that it’s worthwhile going on.”
“Why not go to see for yourself?”
“I would, except that right now I can’t take the time. So I want you to go, Celia. As soon as you can, and then report back to me.”
She said doubtfully, “Don’t you think Vince Lord is better qualified?”
“Scientifically, yes. But Vince is too prejudiced. He opposed doing research in Britain, so if Harlow closed it would prove him right, and he couldn’t resist recommending it.”
Celia laughed. “How well you know us all!”
Sam said seriously, “I know you, Celia, and I’ve learned to trust your judgment and your instincts. Just the same, I urge you—no matter how much you like Martin Peat-Smith—if you need to be tough and ruthless in your recommendation, do it! How soon can you go?”
“I’ll try for tomorrow,” Celia said.
4
When Celia arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport in the early morning for a two-day visit, no time was wasted. A waiting limousine transported her directly to the Felding-Roth Research Institute where she would review with Martin Peat-Smith and others what she now thought of mentally as “the Harlow equation.”
After that, having reached a decision about what to recommend to Sam, she would fly home.
During her first day at Harlow she was made pointedly aware that the mood, with almost everyone she met, was upbeat. From Martin downward, Celia was assured how well the research on mental aging was progressing, how much had been learned already, and how hard—and as a coordinated team—all concerned were working. Only occasionally were there flashes—like fleeting, accidental glimpses through the doorway of a private donjon—of what seemed to her like doubt or hesitancy. Then they were gone, or instantly denied, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined them after all.
To begin, on that first day Martin walked with her through the labs, explaining work in progress. Since their last meeting, he explained, he and others working with him had fulfilled their initial objective of “discovering and isolating an mRNA which is different in the brains of young animals compared with old ones.” He added, “This will probably, in time, be found equally true of human beings.”
The scientific jargon flowed.
“… extracted mRNA from the brains of rats of varying ages … afterward the extraction incubated with ‘broken cell’ preparations of yeast with radioactive amino acids added … the yeast system manufactures the animal brain peptides which become mildly radioactive also … next, separate them by means of their electric charge, on special gels … following that, use an X-ray film and, where bands appear, we have a peptide …”
Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat—voilà!—Martin slid several eight-by-ten negatives across a lab bench where he and Celia had paused. “These are films of the chromatograms.”
As Celia picked them up, they seemed to be almost clear, transparent films, but Martin commanded, “Look closely and you’ll see two columns of dark lines. One is from the young rat, the other from the old. Notice …” He pointed with a finger. “Here and here on the young rat column are at least nine peptides no longer being produced in the older animal’s brain.” His voice rose with excitement as he declared, “Now we have positive evidence that the brain RNA, and probably the DNA, change during the aging process. This is terribly important.”
“Yes,” C
elia said, but wondered silently: was it really a triumph justifying more than two years of combined effort here at enormous expense?
A reminder of the expense was all around—the spacious labs and modern offices, all with modular dividers permitting rearrangement when desired; the unobstructed corridors; a cozy conference room; and, in the elaborately equipped labs, a wealth of stainless steel and modern benches, the latter manufactured from synthetics—no wood allowed because, in scientific terms, wood was dirty. Air conditioning removed airborne impurities. Lighting was bright without glare. A pair of incubation rooms housed massive glass-faced incubators, specially designed to hold racks of petri dishes containing bacteria and yeast. Still other rooms had double-entry doors with “Danger: Radiation Hazard” signs outside.
The contrast to the Cambridge laboratories that Celia had visited with Martin was startling, though a few familiar things remained. One was paper—a prodigious quantity piled high and untidily on desks, Martin’s in particular. You could change a scientist’s background, she thought, but not his work habits.
As they moved away from the bench and the chromatograms, Martin continued explanations.
“Now that we have the RNA, we can make the corresponding DNA … then we must insert it into the DNA of living bacteria … try to ‘fool’ the bacteria into making the required brain peptide.”
Celia attempted to absorb as much as she could at high speed.
Near the end of their inspection, Martin opened a door to a small laboratory where a white-coated, elderly male technician was confronting a half-dozen rats in cages. The technician was wizened and slightly stooped, with only a fringe of hair surrounding his head, and wore old-fashioned pince-nez secured by a black cord worn around the neck. Martin announced, “This is Mr. Yates, who is about to do some animal dissections.”
“Mickey Yates.” He extended his hand. “I know who you are. Everybody does.”
Martin laughed. “That’s right, they do.” He asked Celia, “May I leave you here for a few minutes? I have to make a phone call.”
“Of course.” When Martin had gone, closing the door behind him, she told Yates, “If it won’t bother you, I’d like to watch.”
“Won’t bother me at all. First, though, I have to kill one of these little buggers.” He motioned to the rats.
With quick, deft movements, the technician opened a refrigerator and, from the freezing compartment, took out a smallish, clear plastic box with a hinged lid. Inside was a slightly raised platform with a tray beneath containing crystalline material from which wisps of evaporation rose. “Dry ice,” Yates said. “Put it in there just before you came.”
Opening one of the cages, he reached in and expertly grasped a large, squirming white-gray rat which he transferred to the plastic box, then closed the lid. Celia could now see the rat, on the small platform inside.
“Because of the dry ice, in there it’s a CO2 environment,” Yates said. “You know what that means?”
Celia smiled at the elementary question. “Yes. Carbon dioxide is what we all breathe out after we’ve used the air’s oxygen. We couldn’t live on it.”
“Nor can chummy there. He’s just about a goner.”
While they watched, the rat jerked twice, then was still. A minute passed. “He’s stopped breathing,” Yates said cheerfully. After another thirty seconds he opened the plastic box, removed the unmoving creature and pronounced, “Dead as a doornail. But it’s a slow way to do it.”
“Slow? It seemed quick to me.” Celia was trying to remember how rats were killed during her own laboratory days, but couldn’t.
“It’s slow when you’ve got a lot to do. Dr. Peat-Smith likes us to use the CO2 box, but there’s another way that’s faster. This one.” Yates reached down. Opening a cupboard beneath the lab bench, he produced a second box, this time metal. The design differed from the first in that one end of the box had a small round aperture cut into it while immediately above was a hinged, sharp knife. “This here’s a guillotine,” Yates said, still cheerfully. “The French know how to do things.”
“But messily,” Celia responded. Now she remembered; she had seen rats killed in a similar kind of device.
“Oh, it ain’t that bad. And it’s fast.” Yates glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then, before Celia could object, he took a fresh rat from a cage and swiftly thrust it in the second box, its head protruding through the round hole. As if slicing bread, he pushed the hinged knife down.
There was a soft crunching sound, another which might have been a cry, then the rat’s head fell forward as blood spurted from arteries in the severed neck. Celia, despite her familiarity with laboratories and research, felt sick.
Yates casually tossed the rat’s body, still bleeding and twitching, into a trash receptacle and picked up the head. “All I have to do now is remove the brain. Fast and painless!” The technician laughed. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
Angry and disgusted at once, Celia said, “You did not have to do that for me!”
“Do what?” It was Martin’s voice behind her. He had come in quietly, and now took in the scene. After a moment, and with equal quietness, he instructed, “Celia, please wait outside.”
As Celia left, Martin was glaring at Yates and breathing heavily.
While she waited, through the intervening door she heard Martin’s angrily raised voice. “Don’t ever again! … not if you want to go on working here … my orders, always to use the CO2 box which is painless, no other way! … get that other monstrosity out of here or break it up … I will not have cruelty, do you understand?”
She heard the voice of Yates saying weakly, “Yessir.”
When Martin emerged, he took Celia’s arm and escorted her to the conference room where they were alone, a thermos jug of coffee between them, from which Martin poured.
“I’m sorry that happened; it shouldn’t have,” he told her. “Yates got carried away, probably because he isn’t used to having an attractive woman watch him at work—at which he’s very good, incidentally, and it’s the reason I brought him here from Cambridge. He can dissect a rat’s brain the way a surgeon would.”
Celia said, her mild annoyance past, “It was a small thing. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
She said curiously, “You care about animals, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Martin sipped coffee, then said, “It’s impossible to do research without inflicting some pain on animals. Human needs come first, and even animal lovers have to accept that. But the pain should be kept to a minimum, which you ensure by an attitude of caring; otherwise it’s all too easy to become callous. I’ve reminded Yates of that. I don’t think he’ll forget.”
The incident made Celia like and respect Martin even more than before. But, she reminded herself, likes or dislikes must not affect her purpose here.
“Let’s get back to your progress,” she said briskly. “You’ve talked about differences in the brains of young and old animals, also your plans to synthesize a DNA. But you haven’t yet isolated a protein—the peptide you’re looking for, the one that counts. Correct?”
“Correct.” Martin gave his swift, warm smile, then continued confidently. “What you just described is the next step, also the toughest. We’re working on it, and it will happen, though of course it all takes time.”
She reminded him, “When the institute opened, you said, ‘Allow me two years.’ You expected to have something positive by then. That was two years and four months ago.”
He seemed surprised. “Did I really say that?”
“You certainly did. Sam remembers. So do I.”
“Then it was reckless of me. Working, as we are here, at the frontier of science, timetables can’t apply.” Again Martin seemed untroubled, yet Celia detected strain beneath the surface. Physically, too, Martin seemed out of condition. His face was pale; his eyes suggested fatigue, probably from long hours of work; and there were lines on his face which had not been
there two years ago.
“Martin,” Celia said, “why won’t you send progress reports? Sam has a board of directors he must satisfy, and shareholders …”
The scientist shook his head, for the first time impatiently. “It’s more important that I concentrate on research. Reports, so much writing and paperwork, take up valuable time.” He asked abruptly, “Have you read John Locke?”
“At college, a little.”
“He wrote that man makes discoveries by ‘steadily intending his mind in a given direction.’ A scientific researcher must remember that.”
Celia abandoned the subject for the time being, but raised it later that day with the administrator, ex-Squadron Leader Bentley, who suggested a different reason for the absence of reports.
“You should understand, Mrs. Jordan,” Nigel Bentley said, “that Dr. Peat-Smith finds it excruciatingly difficult to put anything in writing. A reason is that his mind moves forward so quickly that what was important to him yesterday may be out of date today, and even more so tomorrow. He is actually embarrassed by things that he wrote earlier—two years ago, for example. He sees them as naïve even though, at the time, they may have been incredibly perceptive. If he could have his way, he’d wipe out everything he’s written in the past. It’s a trait not uncommon in scientists. I’ve encountered it before.”
Celia said, “Tell me some more things I should know about the scientific mind.” They were sharing the privacy of Bentley’s modest but neatly organized office where Celia was having increasing respect for this competent, sparrowlike man she had chosen to run the research institute’s business side.
Nigel Bentley considered, then began, “Perhaps the most important thing is that scientists stay so long in the educational process, become so involved in their chosen, sometimes narrow, specialties, that they come to the realities of everyday life much later than the rest of us. Indeed, some great scholars never come to grips with those realities at all.”
“I’ve heard it said that they stay, in some ways, childlike.”
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