“When I worked on Tony’s patent there was something about therapeutically beneficial pills. I barely remember it. But I don’t think Tony’s development of a new product line for Pharmaceuticals Division was a con.”
“I know nothing about it. Before my time. But we’re up against reality now, Wally. The China–India disagreement. All your fault.”
“How can I possibly be blamed?”
“Power politics, Wally. Both sides put you in the hot seat.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
“This is why I am calling. GBI’s CEO had me in and asked me to talk to you. He wants you to see to it that there is no fallout for GBI. Accept all the blame yourself. Keep the GBI name out of it. Will you do that for your old employer, Wally?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” There was a sudden vision in my head of official investigations. National and international bodies. The Senate Foreign Relations Committee. The UN.
“Of course. Call me. But I expect you’ll come through for us.”
Even as the PR lady vanished from the communicator screen, I knew, yes, I would. I felt grim about it as I returned to my window chair. Isolated. Unprotected. Not even GBI on my side.
One good thing, the fog had lifted. Below my home the sunlit bay scintillated in pristine glory.
One bad thing. My coffee was cold.
What to do, I wondered, to protect myself.
While I was GBI’s patent attorney, I published a few stories based on my experiences with people and their patents. GBI management encouraged me. Good PR, they said.
I had a filing cabinet full of notes for future stories, but I rarely visited it since retiring. Writing fiction is hard work of the kind retirees are entitled to ignore.
But I had notes about Tony Anandas and his patent.
Suppose I pulled the notes out and turned them into a story. Would that do anything for me?
Yes, I thought. If accusers came snarling at me, I could repel them with a presentation of true facts. I could absolve myself of blame.
So, to my basement filing cabinet. I pulled the Anandas file. Brought it upstairs. Sat at my desk. Went through it. Plotted out the story. Set my fingers tapping on my keyboard. Got going.
Here—fact, not fiction—is the story of the Anandas patent.
I became acquainted with Tony Anandas in the spring of 1976. Noonan, GBI’s then CEO, brought us together.
At the time, I was in London, England, deposing witnesses in a patent infringement case. It was sheer boredom.
Late one evening Noonan called me in my hotel room. “I have a little side chore for you, Wally, since you’re in England.” This was typical Noonan. Any traveling corporate person could expect to be saddled with a little side chore.
“Sure,” I said.
“A young biochemist,” Noonan said. “A Ph.D., name of Tony Anandas. Résumé to Sam Burden of Pharmaceuticals Div. Lives in South Wales, Cardiff, or some such. Sam is interested. Will you break away from London for an hour and go interview the young fellow?”
“Certainly.” South Wales, I thought. More than an hour away. A half day’s relief from boredom. Maybe a full day’s relief.
“Soonest, then,” Noonan said. “My secretary now. Anandas’s address, phone number. After you’ve chatted with him, your recommendations to Sam, copy to me.”
Noonan went. His secretary came on. She gave me what I needed, including a runthrough of the Anandas application. That night I slept the happy sleep of a reprieved prisoner.
Before eight next morning I called the Anandas number. A lilting, gentle voice came on. “You have reached the Anandas residence. Tony here.” A Welsh accent, I thought. But somehow not quite.
I said who I was and why I was calling.
“You wish to visit our humble abode, Mr. Mason? Mine and my father’s?”
“Exactly. On behalf of GBI Pharmaceuticals. Sorry to be calling you at such an ungodly morning hour.”
“There is no vestige of a problem, Mr. Mason. No doubt you remain on American time. When will you come to Cardiff?”
“Today?”
“It shall be my sheer delight to welcome you. Let me talk to you of railway times. Or will you drive? Trains will be faster.”
“Train, then.”
“Very good.”
Dr. Anandas then ran me more information than I needed about train times. We settled on a schedule. I thanked him.
“Again, my pleasure, Mr. Mason. Please to take a taxi from Cardiff station. You should be warned that our domicile lies in the city’s Tiger Bay region. Be on the lookout for wallet-stealing varlets. There are many evil persons in this district, some even from my own native India.”
The accent, then. Not Welsh. Indian.
I told Tony I would be careful and rang off.
For my next task, I called my British associate and told him he would have to take over on his own for the day. Let him put up with the boredom, I thought, as I cradled the phone.
With freedom in my heart, I prepared for my day of respite.
Close to eleven that morning a taxi carried me from Cardiff station to the door of the Anandas home. As I paid the driver, I noted a tall, bearded fellow in a green turban crossing the street half a block away, but he went the other way. Evidently not one of the Tiger Bay varlets.
Houses up and down the street had a rundown look to them, but the Anandas house had a white picket fence to it, as if aspiring to suburban gentility. I passed through a small garden of roses to the front door. Above a brass knocker it had a brass plate reading:
ANANDAS
IMPHAL M.M.
I had a vague recollection of Imphal as I rattled the knocker. World War II. India–Burma border. Battlefield. My interview target, Tony, had mentioned his father. Perhaps his father had been there.
The door opened. A young man, presumably my quarry. Wavy black hair. Swarthy complexion. White shirt. Gray flannel pants. He spoke in that lilting voice of his. “So good to see you, Mr. Mason. Please be pleased to come in to our humble abode.”
The young man put his hands together in a namaste—have I got that right?—salute.
The door opened directly on a sparsely furnished living room with a flag of India on one wall. A fireplace was set but unlit. A mantelpiece had coal black elephants on it, and there were hard backed chairs around a table.
My quarry waved me into one of the chairs. He sat across the table from me. I brought a yellow note pad out of my briefcase. I had scribbled notes on it. “One moment, Dr. Anandas, while I refresh my memory.”
Tony sat expectantly while I ran my eye over the notes on the pad, taken from Noonan’s secretary.
I looked up. “So, Dr. Anandas, you have a good doctorate. From Cambridge, no less.”
“The fates were with me, Mr. Mason, as they always have been.”
“Biochemistry. A bit outside my fields of expertise, I am afraid.”
“Pharmacology, really, Mr. Mason. I am particularly interested in the effects of trace chemicals on the human physiology.”
“Homeopathic medicine?” Thanks to an article I had read recently about the therapeutic effects of trace medications, I was able to suggest I knew more than I did.
“A remarkable field of study, Mr. Mason, with great potential. But I do have broader interests.”
“Good.” The article I had read left me unsure of the effectiveness of homeopathy. “What do you know about GBI and our Pharmaceuticals Division?”
Tony told me quite a lot, some of which was new to me. Evidently he had done a good job of research on us.
“But Pharmaceuticals is a mature operation. Sam Burden, the president, likes to restrict his operations to large-scale manufacture of generic drugs, stuff like that. Why would you want to join an operation like his?”
“Where there are matters old and long established, Mr. Mason, it is my belief that a new eye of innovation can bring forth strange, unexpected blossoms.”
“Quite so.” Those
words of his fed right into my professional instincts. A great deal of a patent attorney’s work has to do with the application of new insights into old established activities. “But why come to America? There must be plenty of opportunities here in Britain.”
“The British companies are less rich. I shall do better work if better financed. I am in a hurry. There is so much we do not know about so many things, particularly in President Burden’s operation, which merely totters along, when, with some innovative input, it could establish itself as the finest supplier of generic drugs in the world.”
“I like your logic. I like your attitude. Not sure about your impatience, though.” I recalled a conversation I once had with Sam Burden about new graduates. “Bumptious,” Sam had said. “Sure they can change the whole world overnight. But no sense of costs, no idea that most of the new things have been tried already.”
“There is good reason for it, Mr. Mason. With your permission, I will now bring in my father.”
I felt it was early to bring a third party into our conversation, but before I could say anything, Tony had left the room. He returned almost immediately, escorting a small, wizened individual dressed in Indian garments like those I had, in my childhood, seen on photographs of the great Mahatma Gandhi.
I stood.
“My father—Mr. Mason.”
The senior Anandas extended a bony hand to me. I shook it. “We are honored by your presence here, Mr. Mason.” His English tones, if anything, were more precise than Tony’s.
“My pleasure, Mr. Anandas.”
“My father, in fact, prefers to be Jamandar Anandas, rather than ‘mister.’” Tony guided his father to the chair he had formerly occupied and helped him onto it. “My former Army rank,” the senior said.
I sat. Tony sat.
Senior spoke again. “I hope we can do business, Mr. Mason. It is important for my son to get a good position, where he can do much good.”
“He is well qualified. I am sure he will. You were in the Indian Army, Jamandar? At Imphal?”
“I was indeed. I did a great deal of killing. To kill is evil, Mr. Mason, even when it is done in a good cause. I rely upon my son to do much good, to compensate for the evil I have done.”
Hence the impatience, I thought. Poor Tony.
“The M.M., Jamandar. That’s a Military Medal?”
“It was awarded to me by the King-Emperor George when I was privileged to be one of those representing the Indian Army at the victory parade in London, Mr. Mason. It was earned by a great deal of bloodshed.”
“You remained in this country after the parade?”
“Yes. It was permitted.”
Tony spoke. “My father had many relatives here in Cardiff.”
“Sea-going persons, mostly,” his father said. “Before the war, and I suppose to this day, many of the world’s ocean-going ships were manned by Indian persons, some of whom were our relatives. In every seaport they settled on retirement, including here.”
“But we have other relatives and friends all over the world,” Tony said.
The senior spoke again. “Especially southwest China and southeast Asia, where I ended my war with much liberation.”
“And less bloodshed,” Tony said.
“But still too much of it. You have much to do, my son, to gain absolution for your father.”
“This I know, my father.”
I didn’t care for the direction the conversation had taken. To change it, I said, “You were born here in Cardiff, Tony?”
“My son was born here. My son, it is time we refreshed our guest with hot Indian tea.”
“Yes, my father.”
Tony clapped his hands.
A tall, green-turbaned individual entered the room. He bore a silver tray with cups, teapot, cream jug, sugar. He put it on the table in front of Anandas senior and went away again.
Anandas senior poured.
As we drank tea together, I kept reminding myself that I was here to do a job interview, not to hear the wartime reminiscences of an old man. However, I was unable to wrest the conversation away from the Jamandar.
I learned a lot. Did you know the Indian Army of World War II was two million strong and saved innumerable British and American lives? But I didn’t find out much more about Tony.
However, I left with positive feelings about the young Ph.D. He was presentable. He appeared to be knowledgeable. He did his homework. Above all else, I was sure he would be highly motivated.
When I was back in London—too late to join the day’s depositions—I wrote a positive report on Tony and relayed it to Ms. Lee, my Connecticut secretary for transmission to Noonan and Sam Burden, then rewarded my good day’s work with a roast beef dinner in a Victorian restaurant that featured a blazing log fire.
A few weeks later the corporate grapevine told me my labors had not been in vain. Sam Burden’s Pharmaceutical division in Puerto Rico had hired Tony Anandas. I got a mild sense of pleasure out it. Unless he wrote a lot of patent disclosures, I didn’t expect to hear much about him again.
* * *.
Some three years later, on a dull fall afternoon that threatened snow, Sam Burden turned up unannounced at my corporate tower office in Connecticut. I was surprised. I did very little business with his division.
Sam explained that he was in Connecticut for one of those cross-fertilization meetings between divisions that had become fashionable. “Sorry if I’m intruding, Wally, but can you spare me a few minutes?”
“Surely, Sam. You want to try a cup of Ms. Lee’s famous Oolong tea?”
“Yup,” Sam said.
I checked with Ms. Lee on the intercom. “Tea is already coming, Mr. Mason,” she said.
“How are things in Puerto Rico, Sam?”
“Good, Wally, real good. I do have one small problem.”
“Oh?”
“You remember young Tony Anandas, the Indian laddie you sent me?”
“More or less. Giving you trouble?”
“Not exactly.” Sam thought for a moment, then continued. “When you sent him to us, Wally, you did us a favor. A real bright young fellow. An inspiration to all of us.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Tony was all set on doing good for humanity. Motivated. Not much outlet for that sort of thing, at staid old Pharmaceuticals.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“I gave him freedom to find some new thing for us. A large market, not served now; ready customer acceptance. That sort of thing.”
“Did he find anything?”
“Yup. Placebos. You know, the inert pills that healthcare innovators use to test new drugs, inerts to half their volunteers, the real things to the other half? See if the real things work? Well, there are thousands and thousands of tests going on and not much standardization of the inerts. Tony did a real good job of researching the possibilities. I let him go ahead, do his own marketing and everything. Presently he had a whole new product line. Our placebo line. A new profit center, with Tony heading it up. The market was not as big as I hoped, but that young man sure earned his keep.”
“Did it satisfy his humanitarian ambitions?”
“Seemed to. He said his products were an essential contribution to the research.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Just when we were well into the new line, our inerts suddenly seemed not to work. Researchers discovered GBI placebos were curing people—more effectively than the drugs being tested. Our customers roared thunder at us.”
“I’ve heard of placebo effects—inert pills inspire people to get well without other treatments.”
“This was worse than that. Customers threatened to sue us. Barely a return on investment yet, so we had to put a lot of effort into recovering our markets. Tony went about making speeches about placebo effects and reassuring customers. A persuasive lad. He also worked on his production setup. Customers drifted back, profitability returned. He had saved the situation.”
“Where is
the problem, then?”
“Competitors,” Sam said.
Ms. Lee brought us our tea. Sam sipped. His face, which had held a serious expression, relaxed. Ms. Lee’s tea does that to all my visitors.
Sam continued. “Our little problem got several competitors interested. Not much damage so far, but I want a tool to shut them out. Could you write a patent for us, Wally?”
“What sort of a patent?”
“One that shows what’s special about our placebos. One that will help us with our customers. One that we can shake in the face of the upstart competition to set them floundering. I bet you know exactly what to do, Wally.”
“No promises. There has to be a real invention.”
“Sure.”
There was a sound of wet snow driven by fierce wind gusts splattering on my office window. I thought of Connecticut winter and warm Puerto Rican beaches.
“All right, Sam, I’ll come visit Tony and see what we can do.”
A week later, with a blizzard predicted and frost on the New England pumpkins, I gathered up the little file of arrangements Ms. Lee had made for me and set out on my travels.
The flight south was without incident. I had alerted Tony. He himself picked me up at the airport. Good warm sunshine watched over us as we drove to Pharmaceuticals.
Tony ushered me through my courtesy call on Sam Burden, then we went to his office, passing through his production shop in an assigned wing of the main building. The tap, tap, tap of his pill presses accompanied us.
Sam had done a good job of preparing Tony. Very soon he had me filled in on the salient details of his placebo invention. Verbally. Not written up as a formal disclosure. I had to coach him on that formality.
Analog Science Fiction and Fact 12/01/10 Page 20
