A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  At that moment, three young sailors approached the girls, their naval uniforms no doubt giving them courage. “Hey, ladies, what’re ya doin’?” one called. He was short and stocky. Claire couldn’t see his face.

  In their own uniforms of red, white, and blue spangles, the girls had courage, too. “Hey, sailors, want your pictures in Life magazine?”

  “You bet!” the man said. He pulled his buddies along. One was taller and so thin he looked unhealthy, the other was blond and looked lost, a farm boy dropped into Manhattan.

  Three girls matched themselves to three sailors, climbing the ladders to join them on the balustrade of the upper plaza. The girls took the sailors’ hats and put them on their own heads, sexily covering one eye. Three and three, they posed themselves as couples across the balustrade, Claire working fast to capture the evolving scene. Finding their own choreography, they moved from pose to pose. The scene came alive in front of the cameras. All six stretched out across the balustrade. The girls each lifted a leg into the air, and the three sailors followed their lead—lissome legs in tights contrasted with white Naval uniform trousers falling to reveal socks and a few inches of hairy shin. They all looked eighteen, nineteen at the most.

  Which they probably were. They were just kids, playing around. Any Life reader looking at the photos would know that the three sailors would soon be on ships bound for the Pacific. They might never come home.

  Claire turned and saw Mr. Luce, surrounded by a phalanx of dark-suited men, staring at the scene. The sailors and the girls were teasing one another now, laughing, relaxed, the girls refusing to give the sailors back their hats. Perhaps Luce was on his way to lunch in the private Rockefeller Center Club, part of the Rainbow Room complex in the RCA building across the plaza. Luce was a big man, clad in a warm, well-tailored overcoat, hat, and leather gloves. From his somber expression, Claire thought he caught the underlying sadness of the scene. He shifted his gaze to Claire, and their eyes met. Luce nodded, tersely, and he strode away before she could nod in return.

  “All right, finished here,” Claire called. “Aurora, we’ll do the crystal star next. Everyone else, thank you very much. Let’s take five minutes.”

  During the break, Aurora joined her parents on the side of the plaza. Mrs. Rasmussen reached up to wrap a blue coat over Aurora’s shoulders, holding the coat tightly closed in front to keep her daughter warm. Claire photographed them through the long lens. Mr. and Mrs. Rasmussen were both overweight, bundled up in thick wool coats and hats that made them look even rounder. In her high heels, Aurora was a foot taller at least than her mother and almost as tall as her father. She was a magical, otherworldly creature who’d somehow been bred by these two graying, ordinary-looking Americans.

  Her lovely face filled with gratitude, Aurora leaned down to kiss her mother’s cheek.

  Another smoke-filled room, this one with a clattering of coffee cups.

  While Claire organized the Rockettes in the cold, Jamie began a fourth day of meetings in Washington, D.C. Today’s was a mass meeting with the heads of the pharmaceutical companies as well as noncommercial research groups from around the country. Merck, Pfizer, Lederle, Hanover, Wyeth, Squibb, Lilly, they were all here.

  His friend Nick Catalano was also here. On Tuesday, Bush had decided that Jamie needed an associate coordinator. David Hoskins would have been the ideal choice in terms of knowledge, but he was a British citizen and this was an American project, so Dr. Bush declared Hoskins out of the running. Dr. Rivers recommended Nick, even though Nick had expressed doubts about the entire line of research. Rivers said this was an advantage: Nick would be objective.

  Jamie didn’t care about the reason Nick was chosen; he was simply glad to be working with his friend, someone he could trust and share ideas with. He also appreciated that in this particular setup, Jamie was definitely the one in charge, since Nick had no penicillin experience. However, Nick had a Ph.D. in chemistry as well as a medical degree, so he understood those niceties. Furthermore, bureaucratic work didn’t drive Nick crazy. And Nick was always thinking ahead: he’d already picked out a bar for them to visit later, one where young government secretaries, filling the city en masse to serve the new bureaucracies of the war, were rumored to gather, on the lookout for naval officers. Nick and Jamie were naval officers, so they’d have the inside track with these young ladies, Nick said. Nick claimed he was looking for someone to fall in love with; he said the war had made him realize what was important in life. Picking women up in bars didn’t seem, to Jamie, the best way to go about finding someone to fall in love with, but he was happy to accompany Nick on his escapades, if only for the pleasure of seeing him in action. Jamie could simultaneously relax with a drink. Jamie’s own, still private romantic thoughts were more focused on Claire Shipley than on twenty-year-old secretaries. He suspected, however, that Nick didn’t know any other way. Nick had become a victim of his own reputation.

  “We’ve got factories already under construction, preparing for mass production,” Vannevar Bush said from the head of the table. Bush was slim, and he wore a suit with a bow tie. His gray hair spiked upward. He cultivated a New England Yankee bluntness, which apparently he came by honestly: he’d grown up in Massachusetts and spent much of his career at MIT. “In Indiana, Wisconsin, Missouri—away from the coasts, I’m sure you can figure out why.”

  Jamie already knew. In case of bombing raids and invasion, the factories would be safer inland.

  “Nothing to fill them with, however. Nothing yet, that is.”

  They’d gathered at the opulent Hay-Adams Hotel, across from Lafayette Park and the White House. Not surprisingly, Bush had positioned himself so that the White House was visible through the long window behind him. In four days of working together, Jamie had learned that Vannevar Bush left little to chance.

  “As you know,” Bush was saying, “we have two options here: mass production from chemical synthesis of the penicillin molecule, and mass production using the living mold. Let’s go around the table and you’ll tell me the progress you’re making. By the way, kindly remember that whatever we discuss here is top secret.”

  Was that supposed to impress everyone? Jamie wondered. Within the scientific community, the push for penicillin production was no secret at all, judging from the number of old friends and acquaintances who’d contacted him about job opportunities in the past week. His own so-called security check had been cursory. Here at the Hay-Adams, secretaries and assistants entered and departed freely, delivering whispered messages, offering carefully folded notes. Waiters circulated, refilling coffee cups, distributing platters of cookies, emptying ashtrays, and refolding the starched napkins of anyone who slipped out to the restroom.

  “Chemical synthesis first.”

  If penicillin could be synthesized in a laboratory, it would be simple to mass-produce and distribute. No one would have to deal with the notoriously uncooperative Penicillium mold.

  “You start,” Bush nodded to the man on his left. The Squibb representative, according to the wooden plaque on the table before him.

  The Squibb man was stoop-shouldered, balding, and nervous. His ashtray was overflowing. He looked everywhere around the room except at Dr. Bush. “We’ve got ten chemists on this problem. The difficulty is…” He slipped into chemistry terminology. Jamie couldn’t follow the details. But although he wasn’t a chemist, Jamie understood the problem. Penicillin had an unusual chemical structure, which, so far, no one had been able to replicate.

  Somewhere in the hotel, bacon was being cooked. The scent had to be coming in through the air vents. If he were given the choice, Jamie would order a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on dark toast for lunch. Probably he wouldn’t be given a choice. Dr. Bush held working lunches, and all week chicken salad sandwiches had been the only option.

  The synthesis review made its way around the table, finishing with the Eli Lilly company representative on Bush’s right.

  “Thank you,” Bush said to the table
at large. He paused for a moment, sucking on his pipe. Then, “On to our second option: naturally occurring penicillin.”

  Jamie reflected that because he was staying into next week, he was going to have to do laundry and locate some extra elements of his uniform. Trousers, jackets…was there a depot where naval lieutenants bought such things? Was he allotted a certain number for free? If so, how many pairs of trousers? How many jackets? These questions were becoming crucial matters.

  “Let’s start with Pfizer. Mr. Smith?”

  John L. Smith, senior vice president of Pfizer, was big and bluff, the phrase “hale and hearty” made for him. “As you may know, Dr. Bush, Pfizer has been at the forefront of this research, helped by our vast experience in fermentation. We are the leader in American production of citric acid, and therefore reasonably expect to be the leader in penicillin production.” He made this bluster sound generous and gracious.

  “Mr. Smith, your progress?” Dr. Bush pressed.

  “None,” Mr. Smith said.

  And so it went, along the table. Of course the pharmaceutical companies could be concealing their progress, protecting their discoveries in order to achieve commercial gain. This industry was ferociously competitive. The word cutthroat could have been invented for it. For example, Lederle could work on a new product for years, but if Squibb stole the product before Lederle had received a patent on it, Lederle was left with nothing. Even if Lederle had a patent, Squibb could change the product slightly, get its own patent, and undercut Lederle’s price in the marketplace. The companies operated on a basis of secrecy, and they weren’t about to change their approach now.

  At any rate, John Smith was right about this: the mass production of penicillin was essentially a fermentation problem. Like making beer, Jamie thought. He’d love a beer with lunch, but probably that was too much to hope for.

  On the far side of the room, a shy voice spoke up. “Excuse me, Dr. Bush. I’m John O’Donnell, from Peoria, sir.” Jamie turned to read the man’s identification plaque, as did everyone else in the room. The Northern Regional Research Laboratory of the United States Department of Agriculture, Peoria, Illinois. This was a branch of the government, so the philosophy of research would be different from that of the pharmaceutical industry. It would be more like that of the Rockefeller Institute. O’Donnell wouldn’t be focused on protecting commercial secrets. On the contrary, he’d feel a responsibility to share his discoveries. “Through trial and error, we’ve landed on an exceptionally successful new food for Penicillium. It’s called corn steep liquor.”

  “Corn steep liquor?” Bush asked skeptically.

  “It’s not a beverage, sir.”

  Minor laughter from around the table. Probably Jamie wasn’t the only one who wanted a drink, even though it was only 11:00 AM.

  “Corn steep liquor is what’s left over from the process of making corn starch. The purpose of the agricultural lab in Peoria is to investigate alternate uses for the products of corn, so this is our area of expertise.”

  What a remarkable lab that must be, thought Jamie. It was probably fully staffed with obsessives like Tia.

  “We’ve had another breakthrough, too, from one of our girls.”

  Not for the first time, Jamie wondered about the definition of girl. Even though she was a brilliant scientist, Tia would probably be referred to as a girl by the men gathered around this table.

  “Our girl went to a local food market and found a rotten cantaloupe. This cantaloupe was covered with a strain of mold that turned out to be Penicillium crysogenum. This strain of mold loves to eat corn steep liquor. As a result, our production levels for penicillin fluid have gone way up, far surpassing our expectations.”

  Corn steep liquor, rotten cantaloupes. How serendipitous scientific research could be, Jamie reflected. Tia could work with Penicillium for years and never chance upon its favorite food, corn steep liquor.

  “We’re having a problem, though. Corn steep liquor used to be cheap. In fact, it was considered almost worthless. Now the manufacturers are wising up, and the cost is going through the roof.”

  “We’ll get you price controls.” Bush turned to his secretary, who sat directly behind him. Tracey Dodd was nearer to sixty than sixteen. Dressed in a utilitarian wool suit, her thinning gray hair fashioned in a simple, straight cut, she was as far from “a girl” as anyone could be.

  “Price controls will certainly keep the idea secret,” said Nick Catalano. The group turned to him. Jamie envied Nick’s ability to state unpleasant facts in humorous ways that made others pay attention without becoming defensive.

  “I’m sure there are many uses for corn steep liquor,” Dr. Bush said.

  Sheepishly O’Donnell said, “No, there aren’t.”

  “Then we’ll create some.” Bush flashed a grin. “We’ll put out some false information. Have a little fun.” He turned to whisper to Andrew Barnett, the security man. Barnett was youthful and dapper, and like his boss, he wore bow ties.

  Jamie looked at Nick, to gauge his opinion on the false information issue, but Nick was taking notes. Typical of Nick, to take notes instead of letting the meeting wash over him the way Jamie did. Jamie could spend hours taking notes on every detail in a patient’s reaction to an experiment, but he couldn’t keep his mind on meetings. He was bored the moment he sat down at a conference table.

  Nick took his notes, however, not because he enjoyed writing things down, but because it was the only way he knew to keep up. Although he didn’t talk much about his background—what was the point? He’d been an adult for over twenty years now, responsible for himself—he wasn’t born into the world of the Hay-Adams Hotel or the Rockefeller Institute. On the surface, yes, people might think he was born to it: Cornell for undergraduate work, Harvard for medical and graduate school. All done on scholarships, so through the beneficence of others. Sometimes, a voice inside him said, at the mercy of others. The scholarships had covered only tuition. He’d worked hard, in college cafeterias and medical school animal labs, to earn his room and board. His parents would have felt blessed to be able to help him, but they were getting by on factory jobs. Receiving this assignment to be associate coordinator of scientific research on the government’s penicillin project was an honor Nick didn’t want to lose.

  “More coffee, sir?” said a waiter at Nick’s elbow. Nick looked up at the man. EBENEZER, his name tag said. A white-haired black man, impeccable in his uniform.

  “Yes.” Nick moved the cup closer to the edge of the table for easier access. “Thank you.” Ebenezer poured and gave a half-bow before moving on to the next man.

  “Does corn steep liquor travel?” asked Mr. Smith of Pfizer. “Not on its own, I mean.” The wisecrack elicited brief laughter from the executives. “Is it easy to work with? Maybe one of my fellas can pay you a visit in Peoria and find out about it.”

  Mr. O’Donnell looked to Dr. Bush for approval.

  “Smith will send one of his men from Pfizer out to Peoria to take a look at what you’re up to. And O’Donnell, you’ll go to Brooklyn tomorrow to take a look at what Pfizer’s up to.”

  Smith appeared less than pleased at this turn of events.

  Inwardly Nick laughed as he imagined O’Donnell’s upcoming tour of Pfizer: no doubt Smith would figure out a way to show his visitor the cafeteria, the mailroom, maybe even the citric acid production facility, but never, ever, anything relating to penicillin. Meanwhile when the Pfizer representative went out to Peoria, O’Donnell would show him everything they had.

  George Merck ostentatiously stacked his papers on the polished table and cleared his throat. “One question, if I may, Dr. Bush. Sorry to interrupt.” George Merck was over six feet tall, blond and blue-eyed. Something stolid and overprosperous about him prevented Nick from landing on the word handsome to describe him. “Each of us at this table is putting time and resources into penicillin development, with almost nothing to show for it. In this context, I must bring up, on behalf of my colleagues in the indu
stry, the question of patent protection.”

  “Glad you mentioned it, George.” Bush’s use of Merck’s first name was not a friendly gesture. It was patronizing, a bid to show who was in charge. “This topic is next on my list. First I remind all of you that penicillin is a naturally occurring substance.”

  Bush’s voice turned soft. The others had to lean forward, straining to hear. Nick had to admire Dr. Bush’s ability to take charge; something he could learn from.

  “You and your colleagues know very well that you can’t patent a naturally occurring substance. You’re not making a new airplane engine here. Penicillin isn’t a new type of radio transmitter. So I presume what you’re hoping to patent are your individually developed means of production. Which leads me to a small announcement.”

  Bush paused. “Don’t let my apparent…jocularity fool you, gentlemen. These issues are of the utmost urgency. Our troops need penicillin now. Immediately. They’re dying without it. Therefore, for the duration, I expect you to share your discoveries with one another, pool your data, and in general behave like upstanding citizens in a nation at war. I will arrange for the Department of Justice to waive all applicable antitrust laws. To codify the formula, the government will take the patents on penicillin’s means of production, when you’ve got some means of production to be patented. This way, I’m glad to remind you, no company will profit from them. I’ll cover your production costs, and the military will buy your penicillin at a fair price when it’s ready. Now that must make you boys happy, doesn’t it?” He leaned back, smoking his pipe, a self-satisfied look on his face.

  Jamie thought, Bush can order them to pool their data, he can tell them there won’t be any commercial patents, but they’ll try to find a way around his edicts. In the long run, they’d get what they wanted. Sure, they might make some wartime concessions, but overall the companies would do exactly as they pleased, as they always had. Bush had little or no real enforcement power over them.