Strangely, not only did Martin not object to hearing all this, at times he found it refreshing and a change and, at other times, like background music.
The point was, he decided when he thought about it, he was surrounded so much of the time by intellectuals whose conversation was on a serious scientific plane, with trivia excluded, that he grew weary of it. When he listened to Yvonne he could coast contentedly, leaving his brain in neutral.
One of Yvonne’s interests—a near-passion—was the Prince of Wales. His much-publicized romances fascinated, though sometimes worried her. She discussed them endlessly. A name linked with Charles’s at the time was Princess Marie-Astrid of Luxembourg. Yvonne refused to take the gossip seriously. “A marriage would never work,” she assured Martin. “Besides being a Catholic, Marie-Astrid isn’t right.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I just do.”
Another touted candidate, Lady Amanda Knatchbull, found more favor. “She could be okay,” Yvonne conceded. “But if only Charles will be patient, I’m sure someone else will come along who’s more right for him, even perfect.”
“He’s probably worrying himself, so why not write and tell him?” Martin suggested.
As if she hadn’t heard, Yvonne declared thoughtfully and with a touch of poetry, “What he needs is an English rose.”
One night after Yvonne and Martin had made love, he teased her, “Were you pretending I was the Prince of Wales?”
She answered mischievously, “How did you know?”
Despite her penchant for chitchat, Yvonne was no birdbrain, Martin discovered. She showed interest in other things, including the theory behind the mental aging project, which Martin patiently explained and which she seemed to understand. She was curious about his devotion to the writings of John Locke, and several times he found her with an open copy of Locke’s Essay, her forehead creased in concentration.
“It isn’t easy to understand,” Yvonne admitted.
“No, not for anyone,” he said. “You have to work at it.”
As to their liaison and possible gossip, Martin was sure that some was circulating—Harlow was too small a place for that not to happen. But at the research institute he and Yvonne were discreet, never communicating with each other unless their work required it. Apart from that, Martin took the view that his private life was his own affair.
He had given no thought as to how long the relationship between himself and Yvonne would continue, but from their casual remarks it was clear that neither saw it as demanding, or more than temporary.
An enthusiasm they shared was the progress of the Harlow research.
As Martin wrote in one of his rare reports to New Jersey: “The structure of Peptide 7 is now known. The gene has been made, inserted into bacteria, and large amounts have been prepared.” The process, he noted, was “much like the preparation of human insulin.”
At the same time, tests for Peptide 7’s safety and effectiveness continued via injections into animals. A vast amount of animal data was accumulating, to the point where permission for human trials would be sought within the next few months.
Perhaps inevitably, rumors about the institute’s research leaked out and reached the press. Though Martin declined requests to give interviews, arguing that anything printed would be premature, reporters found other sources and newspaper accounts appeared anyway. On the whole they were accurate. Speculation about a “wonder drug to delay growing old, now being tried on animals” was given prominence, as well as “the drug’s remarkable weight-reducing effect.” All of this aroused Martin’s anger because clearly someone on the scientific staff had been indiscreet.
On Martin’s instruction, Nigel Bentley attempted to find out who had talked, but without success.
“Actually,” the administrator pointed out, “the publicity hasn’t done much harm, if any. The scientific world already has a good idea of what you’re doing—remember those two consultants you had in. And titillating the public now could help sales of Peptide 7 later on.”
Martin was unconvinced, but let the matter drop.
One unwelcome effect of the publicity was a flood of letters, pamphlets and petitions from “animal-rights” crusaders—extremists who objected to experiments of any kind on animals. Some described Martin and his Harlow staff as “sadists,” “torturers,” “barbarians” and “heartless criminals.”
As Martin told Yvonne after reading samples of the more vituperative mail at home, “All countries have their anti-experimentation kooks, but Britain is the worst.” He picked up another letter, then put it down in disgust. “These people don’t just want animal suffering kept to a minimum—which I’m in favor of, and I believe in laws to enforce it. But they want our kind of science, which has to use animals, to come to a screeching halt.”
Yvonne asked, “Do you think there’ll be a time when research won’t need animals at all?”
“Someday perhaps, yes. Even now, in places where we used to use animals we’re using methods like tissue cultures, quantum pharmacology, and computers instead. But doing without animals entirely …” Martin shook his head. “It could happen, but not for a long time.”
“Well, don’t let it get to you.” Yvonne collected the protest letters and stuffed them back into a briefcase. “Besides, think of our animals. Because of Peptide 7, they’re healthier and smarter.”
But her words failed to change Martin’s mood. The recent mail influx had depressed him.
Overall at the institute, however, the contrast to the early days of groping—when there was so little progress and only negative results—was so great that Martin confided to Rao Sastri, “I’m worried. When anything goes this well, a major setback can be just around the corner.”
His words proved prophetic—and sooner than expected.
It was the following weekend—early Sunday morning, shortly after 1 A.M—when a telephone call awakened Martin. Yvonne was still asleep beside him.
When Martin answered, the caller was Nigel Bentley.
“I’m at the institute,” the administrator said. “The police called me. I think you’d better come.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s bad news, I’m afraid.” Bentley’s voice sounded grim. “But I’d rather you see for yourself. Can you get here quickly?”
“I’m on my way.”
By now, Yvonne was awake. As Martin began to throw on clothes, she hurriedly dressed too.
They went together, in Martin’s car. At the institute, other vehicles were outside, two of them police cars with blue lights flashing. A third flashing light was on a fire engine, just leaving. The institute’s front doors were open.
Bentley met them inside. A uniformed police inspector was with him. If Bentley was surprised to see Yvonne, he effectively concealed it.
“We’ve been raided,” he announced. “By animal lovers.”
Martin’s brow creased. “Animal lovers?”
“Actually, sir,” the policeman said, “the people who did it call themselves the Animal Rescue Army. They’ve given us trouble before.” The inspector, approaching middle age, had the resigned, sardonic manner of one who had watched many human follies and expected to see more.
Martin said impatiently, “Did what? What’s happened?”
“They broke in,” Bentley answered. “And then they released all the animals. Some are still loose in the building, but most were taken outside, the cages opened, and of course they’re gone. Then they collected all the files and records they could find, carried them outside, and poured petrol on.”
“They started a fire, Doctor,” the inspector said. “Someone in another building saw it and phoned in an alarm. When the fire brigade came and put it out is when we got here too. We were in time to catch two suspects, a woman and a man. The man’s been in prison, he admits, for another similar offense.”
“The two the police caught are being held in my office,” Bentley continued. “There seems to have been a ga
ng of six. They overpowered our watchman and locked him in a cupboard. They also knew how to deactivate the burglar alarm.”
“The whole operation was carefully planned,” the police inspector said. “That’s one of the hallmarks of these people.”
Martin scarcely heard. His eyes were on four rats which had scampered into a corner of the reception area and were huddled there. Now, frightened by voices, the rats ran through another open door. Martin followed, heading for the laboratories and animal rooms.
Mess and confusion confronted him. Animal cages had either been removed or were open and empty. Loose-leaf reference books were gone. File drawers had been pulled out, some of their contents scattered on the floor. Many files were missing. Presumably they had been burned outside.
Bentley, the inspector, and Yvonne had followed Martin.
Yvonne murmured, “Oh, my God!”
Martin, emotional, despairing, could only ask, “Why? Oh, why?”
The inspector suggested, “Maybe you should put that question to the pair we’ve arrested, Doctor.”
Martin nodded without speaking, and the policeman led the way to the administrator’s office. Inside, a young police constable was guarding a man and a woman.
The woman, in her mid-thirties, was tall and slim. She had aquiline, haughty features and her hair was trimmed short. A lighted cigarette drooped from her lips. She wore tight jeans, a lumberjack shirt, and plastic, thigh-length boots. As the inspector and the others came in, she regarded them disdainfully, seemingly unconcerned about her capture.
The man, of about the same age, was slight and in other circumstances could have been thought of as meek and mild. He looked like a clerk, was balding, slightly stooped, and wore steel-rimmed spectacles. He smiled thinly at the newcomers—and defiantly.
“These are the pretty pair,” the inspector said. “They’ve been cautioned legally, but they seem to want to talk. Real proud of themselves, they are.”
“And so we should be,” the man said. His voice was reedy and unsteady; he coughed nervously to clear it. “We’ve done a noble deed.”
Martin exploded, his voice close to shouting. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? How much important work you’ve wrecked and wasted?”
“What we do know,” the woman said, “is that we’ve saved some fellow creatures from the vivisectionists—tyrants like you who exploit animals for your selfish ends.”
“If you think that, you’re ignorant fools.” Martin wanted to lash out physically at the two in front of him, but restrained himself. “All the animals you released were born in captivity. Those outside can’t survive. They’ll die horribly. And those inside will have to be destroyed.”
“Better that,” the woman said, “than suffer your inhumane cruelty.”
“He isn’t inhumane! He isn’t cruel!” It was Yvonne, her face flushed, her voice pitched high. “Dr. Peat-Smith is one of the kindest men who ever lived. He loves animals.”
The man sneered. “As pets, I suppose.”
“We don’t approve of animals as pets,” the woman said. “That’s a master-slave relationship. We believe animal rights are equal to human rights. Furthermore, animals should not be restricted, confined, or have to suffer, merely to make humans happier or healthier.” Her voice, measured and assured, had the tone of one blessed with total moral certainty.
The man said, “Something else we believe is that the human species has no superiority over other species.”
“In your case,” the inspector said, “I’d say that’s true.”
Martin addressed the woman. “You and your fellow lunatics have just destroyed scientific research which will take years to repeat. And for all that time you’ll have deprived thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of decent, deserving people of a medicine to make their lives better, more bearable …”
“Well, good for the Animal Rescue Army!” Scornfully, the woman interrupted, spitting words at Martin. “I’m delighted to hear our effort was successful. And if what you call scientific research, and I call barbarous atrocities, is repeated, I hope you die in agony doing it.”
“You maniac!” The words were a scream, spoken as Yvonne dived forward, hands extended. There was a second’s stillness in which no one else realized what was happening, then Yvonne was attacking the woman fiercely, fingernails raking her face.
Martin and the inspector between them pulled Yvonne away.
Now the Animal Rescue woman screamed. “That was an assault! A criminal assault.” As two long red weals, one of them bleeding, flared on her face, she demanded of the two policemen, “Arrest that bitch! She must be criminally charged.”
“Arrest this lady?” The inspector seemed pained. He glanced toward Yvonne who was trembling and seemed in shock. “Arrest her for what? I didn’t see any assault.” He looked toward the constable. “Did you?”
The other policeman answered, “No, sir. I reckon the prisoner got those marks on her face from the animals when she was opening some of those cages.”
Martin put his arm around Yvonne. “Let’s get out of here. There’s nothing to be gained by talking to these people.”
As they left, they heard the inspector ask, “Now how about being reasonable, and giving me the names of those others with you?”
“Go screw yourself, copper,” the woman said.
Bentley had followed Martin and Yvonne. He told them, “Those two will go to jail.”
Yvonne said, “Oh, I hope so.”
“They will,” the administrator assured her. “And they’ll join others from that Animal Rescue Army who are there already because of other raids like this. The whole bunch see themselves as martyrs. I’ve read a lot about them. Supposedly they have hundreds of followers around the country.” He added, glumly, “I’m sorry. I should have foreseen this.”
“None of us could have,” Martin said. He sighed. “Tomorrow we’ll start cleaning up and see what’s left.”
7
The dispiriting task of assessing damage at the Harlow research institute took several days. At the end, Martin estimated that the “animal-rights” raid had caused a two-year setback.
From the ashes of a burned pile of papers and other records outside the building, some assorted material was salvaged, but not much. Later, Nigel Bentley reported to Martin, “Those nut cases apparently knew what they were looking for, and where everything was. That means they had inside help which, according to the police, fits the pattern of other raids they’ve made. What they do, I’m told, is persuade people like cleaners and maintenance staff to become informers. I’ll try to find out who were our Judases, though I haven’t much hope.”
Bentley was also putting into effect strong and expensive security precautions for the future. As he expressed it, “In a way, it’s an exercise in stable-door shutting, but those self-righteous people don’t give up easily and could be back.”
Martin, in turn, reported to New Jersey by telephone the day after the raid. He talked with Celia Jordan. A few days earlier Martin had been delighted to learn of Celia’s return to the company; now he expressed regret that their first conversation should involve bad news.
Celia was shocked to learn of the Harlow devastation—so much in contrast to the recent heady progress reports concerning Peptide 7. She questioned Martin sharply about his estimate of delay.
“What we’ll have to do,” he advised her, “is repeat all the animal experiments to recover our data, which will be needed, of course, to accompany any drug application the company eventually makes. It’s a terrible time waste and cost, but there isn’t any choice.”
“Are you sure about two years?”
“That’s the worst case. If we can shave a few months from that time, we will. We know a great deal more than we did two years ago, and some shortcuts may appear. We’ll all do our best.”
“I want you to know,” Celia said, “that Peptide 7 has become tremendously important to us here. Do you remember a conversation you and I had at your h
ome? When you said that given more time, you’d produce an important medication which could make Felding-Roth enormously rich? Those last two words were yours.”
At the Harlow end of the line, Martin grimaced. “I’m afraid I do remember. I wasn’t behaving like a scientist, and I hope that conversation doesn’t go further than the two of us.”
“It won’t. But I remind you of it because the first part of your prediction came true. Now we desperately need the rest.”
“Two years to get back where we were,” Martin repeated. “Shortcuts or no, it won’t be much less.”
But the conversation spurred him to hasten reorganizing. Replacement animals were ordered promptly from supply houses, and as they arrived the institute staff commenced the tiresome rote of repeating work begun long ago. As a result, within three weeks the data recovery process was moving at full speed.
Through the entire ordeal, from the night of the raid onward, Yvonne sustained Martin in body and spirit. She took total charge of his domestic life, asking him nothing, doing everything, so that neither his attention nor energy was diverted from the institute. At other times she comforted him, seeming to know instinctively when to be silently attentive or, at other moments, to amuse him with cheerful chatter. Once, after an especially grueling day, she told him at bedtime to lie face down, and when he did, gave him a slow Swedish massage which sent him into a deep sleep that lasted until morning.
When Martin asked next day how she learned to do such things, she answered, “I once roomed with a friend who was a masseuse. She taught me.”
“I’ve noticed something about you,” he said. “You never miss a chance to learn. The same way you did by working at John Locke. Have you read any more from him lately?”
“Yes.” Yvonne hesitated, then said, “I found something he wrote which kind of fits those ‘animal-rights’ people. About enthusiasm.”
Martin said curiously, “I’m not sure I remember. Can you find the passage?”
Locke’s Essay was across the room, but without bothering to get it, Yvonne began:
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