Strong Medicine

ONE 1957-1963

Dr. Jordan said quietly, "Your wife is dying, John. She has a few hours more, that's all.”

He added, conscious of the pale, anguished face of the slight young man before him, still dressed in his factory work clothes, "I wish I could tell you something else. But I thought you'd want the truth.”

They were in St. Bede's Hospital in Morristown, New Jersey. Early evening noises from outside-small- town noises-filtered in, barely disturbing the silence between them. In the dimmed light of the hospital room, Andrew watched the Adam's apple of the patient's husband bob twice convulsively before he managed to get out, "I just can't believe it. We're just beginning. Getting started. You know we have a baby.”

"Yes, I know.”

"It's so..." "Unfair?" The young man nodded. A good, decent man, hardworking from the look of him. John Rowe. He was twenty-five, only four years younger than Dr. Jordan himself, and he was taking this badly not surprisingly. Andrew wished he could comfort the other man more. Though Andrew encountered death often enough and was trained to know the signs of death's approach, he still was uncertain about communicating with a dying person's friends or family. Should a doctor be blunt, direct, or was there some subtler way? It was something they didn't teach in medical school, or afterward either. "Viruses are unfair," he said, "though mostly they don't act the way this has with Mary. Usually they'll respond to treatment.”

"Isn't there anything? Some drug which could... T' Andrew shook his head. No point in going into details by answering: Not yet. So far, no drug for the acute coma of advanced infectious hepatitis Nor would anything be gained by saying that, earlier today, he had consulted his senior partner in practice, Dr. Noah Townsend, who also happened to be the hospital's chief of medicine. An hour earlier Townsend had told Andrew, "You've done all you can. There's nothing I'd have done differently.”

It was then that Andrew sent a message to the factory, in the nearby town of Boonton where John Rowe was working on the swing shift. Goddam! Andrew's eyes glanced at the elevated metal bed with the still figure. It was the only bed in the room because of the prominent "ISOLATION" notice in the corridor outside. The I.V. bottle on its stand stood behind the bed, dripping its contentsdextrose, normal saline, B-complex vitamins-into Mary Rowe through a needle in a forearm vein. It was already dark outside; occasionally there were rumblings from a storm and it was raining heavily. A lousy night. And the last night of living for this young wife and mother who had been healthy and active only a week ago. Goddam! It was unfair.

Today was Friday. Last Monday Mary Rowe, petite and pretty, though clearly unwell, had appeared in Andrew's office. She complained of feeling sick, weak, and she couldn't eat. Her temperature was 100.5. Four days earlier, Mrs. Rowe told him, she had had the same symptoms plus some vomiting, then the next day felt better and believed the trouble, whatever it was, was going away. But now it had returned. She was feeling terrible, even worse than before. Andrew checked the whites of Mary Rowe's eyes; they showed a tinge of yellow. Already areas of her skin were showing jaundice too. He palpated the liver, which was tender and enlarged. Questioning elicited that she had been to Mexico with her husband for a brief vacation the previous month. Yes, they had stayed in a small, offbeat hotel because it was cheap. Yes, she had eaten local food and drunk the water. "I'm admitting you to the hospital immediately," Andrew told her.”We need a blood test to confirm, but I'm as certain as I can be that you have infectious hepatitis.”

Then, because Mary Rowe had seemed frightened, he explained that most likely she had consumed contaminated food or water in Mexico, the contamination probably from an infected food handler. It happened frequently in countries where sanitation was poor. As to treatment, it would be mostly supportive, with adequate fluid intake into the body given intravenously. Complete recovery for ninety-five percent of people, Andrew added, took three to four months, though Mary should be able to go home from the hospital in a matter of days. With a wan smile, Mary had asked: What about the other five percent? Andrew laughed and told her, "Forget it! That's a statistic you won't be part of.”

Which was where he had been wrong. Instead of improving, Mary Rowe's condition worsened. The bihrubin in her blood went up and up, indicating increased jaundice, which was obvious from the alarming yellow of her skin. Even more critical, by Wednesday tests revealed a dangerous level of ammonia in the blood. It was ammonia, originating in the intestines, which the deteriorating liver could no longer handle. Then yesterday her mental state had deteriorated. She was confused, disoriented, didn't know where she was or why, and failed to recognize either Andrew or her husband. That was when Andrew warned John Rowe that his wife was gravely ill. The frustration at being able to do nothing to help gnawed at Andrew all day Thursday and, in between seeing patients in his office, he kept thinking about the problem, but to no effect. An obstacle to recovery, he realized, was that accumulation of ammonia. How to clear it? He knew that, given the present state of medicine, there was no effective way. Finally, and unfairly he supposed now, he had taken out his frustration by blowing his stack at the damned drug company saleswoman who had come into his office late in the afternoon. She was a "detail man.”

Or should it be "detail woman"? Not that he cared. He didn't even remember her name or her appearance, except that she wore glasses and was young, just a kid, and probably inexperienced. The saleswoman was from Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals. Afterward Andrew wondered why he had agreed to see her when the receptionist announced that she was waiting, but he had, thinking perhaps he might learn something, though when she started talking about the latest antibiotic her company had just put on the market, his thoughts began wandering until she said, "You're not even listening to me, Doctor," and that had made him mad. "Maybe it's because I've something better to think about and you're wasting my time.”

It was rude, and usually he wouldn't have been that way. But his intense worry about Mary Rowe was coupled with a long dislike of drug companies and their high-pressure selling. Sure, there were some good drugs which the big firms produced, but their huckstering, including sucking up to doctors, was something Andrew found offensive. He had encountered it first in medical school where students-future prescribers, as the drug companies well knew-were sought after, flattered and pandered to by drug firm representatives. Among other things, the drug reps gave away stethoscopes and medical bags which some students accepted gladly. Andrew wasn't one of them. Though he had little money, he preferred to keep his independence and buy his own. "Maybe you'll tell me, Doctor," the Felding-Roth saleswoman had said yesterday, "what it is that's so all-fired important.,' It was then he had let her have it, telling her about Mary Rowe who was critical with ammonia intoxication, and adding caustically that he wished companies like Felding-Roth, instead of coming up with some "me-too" antibiotic which was probably no better or worse than half a dozen others already available, would work on a drug to stop excess ammonia production... He had stopped then, already ashamed of the outburst, and would probably have apologized except that the saleswoman, having gathered up her papers and samples, was on the way out, saying simply as she left, "Good afternoon, Doctor.”

So much for yesterday, and Andrew was no closer to being able to help his patient, Mary Rowe. This morning he had taken a phone call from the head floor nurse, Mrs. Ludlow. "Dr. Jordan, I'm worried about your patient, Rowe. She's becoming comatose, not responding at all.”

Andrew hurried to the hospital. A resident was with Mary Rowe who, by now, was in a deep coma. Although hurrying over was the thing to do, Andrew had known before arriving that no heroic measures were possible. All they could do was keep the intravenous fluids flowing. That, and hope. Now, near the end of the day, it was clear that hope had been in vain. Mary Rowe's condition seemed irreversible. Fighting back tears, John Rowe asked, "Will she be conscious again, Doctor? Will Mary know I'm here?" "I'm sorry," Andrew said.”It isn't likely.”

"I'll stay with her, just the same.”

"Of course. The nurses will be close by, and I'll instruct the resident.”

"Thank you, Doctor.”

Leaving, Andrew wondered: Thanks for what? He felt the need for coffee and headed for where he knew some would be brewing.

The doctors' lounge was a boxlike place, sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a mail rack, a TV, a small desk, and lockers for attending physicians. But it had the advantages of privacy and constant coffee. No one else was there when Andrew arrived. He poured himself coffee and slipped into an old, well-worn armchair. No need to stay at the hospital any longer, but he instinctively put off departure for his bachelor apartment-Noah Townsend's wife, Hilda, had found it for him-which was comfortable though sometimes lonely. The coffee was hot. While letting it cool, Andrew glanced at a Newark Star-Ledger. Prominent on the newspaper's front page was a report about something called "Sputnik"-an earth satellite, whatever that might be, which the Russians had recently shot into outer space amid fanfare heralding "the dawn of a new space age.”

While President Eisenhower, according to the news story, was expected to order speedup of a U.S. space program, American scientists were "shocked and humiliated" by the Russians' technological lead. Andrew hoped some of the shock would spill over into medical science. Though good progress had been made during the twelve years since World War II, there were still so many depressing gaps, unanswered questions. Discarding the newspaper, he picked up a copy of Medical Economics, a magazine that alternately amused and fascinated him. It was said to be the publication read most avidly by doctors, who gave it more attention than even the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine. Medical Economics had a basic function-to instruct doctors in ways to earn the maximum amount of money and, when they had it, how to invest or spend it. Andrew began reading an article: "Eight Ways to Minimize Your Taxes in Private Practice.”

He supposed he should try to understand such things because handling money, when a doctor finally got to earn some after years of training, was something else they didn't teach in medical school. Since joining Dr. Townsend's practice a year and a half ago, Andrew had been startled at how much cash flowed monthly into his bank account. It was a new and not unpleasant experience. Although he had no intention of letting money dominate him, just the same... "Excuse me, Doctor.”

A woman's voice. Andrew turned his head. "I went to your office, Dr. Jordan. When you weren't there, I decided to try the hospital.”

Dammit! It was the same drug company saleswoman who had been in his office yesterday. She was wearing a raincoat, which was soaked. Her brownish hair hung dripping wet, and her glasses were steamed. Of all the gall-to barge in here! "You seem to be unaware," he said, "that this is a private lounge. Also I don't see salespeople-" She interrupted.”At the hospital. Yes, I know. But I thought this was important enough.”

With a series of quick movements she put down an attache case, removed her glasses to wipe them, and began taking off the raincoat. "It's miserable out. I got soaked crossing the parking lot.”

"What's important?" The saleswoman-he observed again that she was young, probably no more than twenty-four-tossed the raincoat onto a chair. She spoke slowly and carefully. ~Ammonia, Doctor. Yesterday you told me you had a hepatitis patient who was dying from ammonia intoxication. You said you wished-" "I know what I said.”

The saleswoman regarded him levelly with clear gray-green eyes. Andrew was aware of a strong personality. She wasn't what you'd call pretty, he thought, though she had a pleasing, high-cheekboned face; with her hair dried and combed she would probably look good. And with the raincoat Off, her figure wasn't bad. "No doubt you do, Doctor, and I'm sure your memory is better than your manners.”

As he started to say something, she stopped him with an impatient gesture.”What I didn't-couldn't-tell you yesterday is that my company, Felding-Roth, has been working for four years on a drug to reduce ammonia production by intestinal bacteria, a drug that would be useful in a crisis situation like your patient's. I knew about it, but not how far our research people had gone.”

"I'm glad to hear someone's trying," Andrew said, "but I still don't see-" "You will if you listen.” The saleswoman pushed back several strands of wet hair which had fallen forward on her face.”What they've developed-it's called Lotrcrmycin-has been used successfully on animals. Now it's ready for human testing. I was able to get some Lotromycin. I've brought it with me.”

Andrew rose from the armchair.”Do I understand you, Miss?“

He couldn't remember her name and, for the first time, felt uncomfortable. "I didn't expect you to remember.”

Again the impatience.”I'm Celia de Grey.”

"Are you suggesting, Miss de Grey, that I give my patient an unknown, experimental drug which has only been tried on animals?" "With any drug, there has to be one first human being to use it.”

"If you don't mind," Andrew said, "I prefer not to be the pioneering doctor.”

The saleswoman raised an eyebrow skeptically; her voice sharpened.”Not even if your patient is dying and there isn't anything else? How is your patient, Doctor? The one you told me about.”

"Worse than yesterday.”

He hesitated.”She's gone into a coma.”

"Then she is dying?" "Look," Andrew said, "I know you mean well, Miss de Grey, and I'm sorry about the way I spoke when you came in here. But the unfortunate fact is, it's too late. Too late to start experimental drugs and, even if I wanted to, do you have any idea of all the procedures, protocols, all the rest, we would have to go through?" "Yes," the saleswoman said; now her eyes were blazing, riveting Andrew, and it occurred to him he was beginning to like this forthright, spunky girl-woman. She continued, "Yes, I know exactly what procedures and protocols are needed. In fact, since I left you yesterday I've done little else but find out about them-that, and twist the arm of our director of research to let me have a supply of Lotromycin of which, so far, there's very little. But I got it-three hours ago at our labs downstate, in Camden, and I've driven here without stopping, through this lousy weather.”

Andrew began, "I'm grateful," but the saleswoman shook her head impatiently. "What's more, Dr. Jordan, all the necessary paperwork is taken care of. To use the drug, you would have to get permission from this hospital and the next of kin. But that's all.”

He could only stare at her.”I'll be damned!" "We're wasting time," Celia de Grey said. She had the attaché case open and was pulling out papers.”Please begin by reading this. It's a description of Lotromycin prepared for you by Felding-Rotb's research department. And this is a memorandum from our medical director-instructions on how the drug should be administered.”

Andrew took the two papers, which seemed to be the first of many. As he began reading, he was immediately absorbed.

Almost two hours had gone by. "With your patient in extremis, Andrew, what have we got to lose?" The voice on the telephone was Noah Townsend's. Andrew had located the chief of medicine at a private dinner party and had described the offer of the experimental drug Lotromycin. Townsend went on, "You say the husband has already given permission?" "Yes, in writing. I got the administrator at home. He came to the hospital and had the form typed up. It's signed and witnessed.”

Before the signing, Andrew had talked with John Rowe in the corridor outside his wife's room and the young husband reacted eagerly. So eagerly, in fact, that Andrew warned him not to build great hopes or expect too much. The signature on the form was wavery because of John Rowe's shaking band. But it was there, and legal. Now Andrew told Noah Townsend, "The administrator is satisfied that the other papers sent by Felding-Roth are in order. Apparently it makes it easier that the drug didn't cross a state line.”

"You'll be sure to record all those details on the patient's chart.”

"I already have.”

"So all you need is my permission?" "For the hospital. Yes.”

"I give it," Dr. Townsend said.”Not that I hold out much hope, Andrew. I think your patient's too far gone, but let's give it the old college try. Now, do you mind if I go back to a delicious roast pheasant?" As Andrew hung up the phone at the nurses' station from where he had been calling, he asked, "Is everything ready?" The head night nurse, an elderly R.N. who worked part time, had prepared a tray with a hypodermic. She opened a refrigerator and added a clear glass drug container which the Felding-Roth saleswoman had brought.”Yes, it is.”

"Then let's go.”

The same resident who had been with Mary Rowe this morning, Dr. Overton, was at her bedside when Andrew and the nurse arrived. John Rowe hovered in the background. Andrew explained Lotromycin to the resident, a burly Texan extrovert, who drawled, "You expectin' a damn miracle?" "No," Andrew answered curtly. He turned to Mary Rowe's husband.”I want to emphasize again, John, this is a long shot, a very long shot. It's simply that in the circumstances...”

"I understand.”

The voice was low, emotion-charged. The nurse prepared the unconscious Mary Rowe for an injection, which would be intramuscular into the buttocks, as Andrew told the resident, "The drug company says the dose should be repeated every four hours. I've left a written order but I'd like you to - - .”

"I'll be here, chief And okay, q-4.”

The resident lowered his voice.”Say, how about a bet? I'll give you even odds against-" Andrew silenced him with a glare. The Texan had been in the hospital training program for a year, during which time he had proven himself highly competent as a doctor, but his lack of sensitivity was notorious. The nurse completed the injection and checked the patient's pulse and blood pressure. She reported, "No reaction, Doctor. No change in vital signs.”

Andrew nodded, for the moment relieved. He had not expected any positive effect, but an adverse reaction had been a possibility, particularly with an experimental drug. He still doubted, though, that Mary Rowe would survive until morning. "Phone me at home if she's worse," he ordered. Then, with a quiet, "Good night, John," to the husband, he went out. It was not until he was in his apartment that Andrew remembered he had failed to report back to the Felding-Roth saleswoman, whom he had left in the doctors' lounge. This time he remembered her name-de Grey. Was it Cindy? No, Celia. He was about to telephone, then supposed that by now she would have found out what had happened. He would talk with her tomorrow.

Normally on Saturday mornings Andrew saw patients in his office from 10 A.M., then dropped into the hospital around midday. Today he reversed the procedure and was at St. Bede's by 9 A.M. Last night's storm and rain had been replaced by a fresh, clear morning, cold but sunny. Andrew was ascending the hospital front steps when, ahead of him, the main door slammed open and Dr. Overton, the resident, appeared to hurl himself out. Overton seemed agitated. His hair was disordered as if he had gotten out of bed in a hurry and forgotten about it. His voice was breathless. He grabbed Andrew's arm. "Tried to call you. You'd already left. Janitor at your apartment said you were coming. I just had to catch you first.”

Andrew pulled his arm away.”What is this?" The resident swallowed hard.”Never mind. Just come on.”

Overton, hurrying, preceded Andrew down a corridor and into an elevator. fie refused to speak or even look Andrew in the eye as they rode to the fourth floor. The resident hastened from the elevator, Andrew following. They stopped outside the hospital room where, last night, Andrew had left the unconscious Mary Rowe, her husband, the nurse and the resident. "In!" Overton motioned impatiently.”Go on in!" Andrew entered. And stopped. Staring. From behind him the resident said, "Should've taken my bet, Dr. Jordan.”

He added, "If I hadn't seen, I wouldn't have believed.”

Andrew said softly, "I'm not sure I believe it either.”

Mary Rowe, fully conscious, propped up in bed and wearing a blue lacy nightgown, smiled at him. Though the smile was weak, and clearly so was Mary Rowe, her condition was so much in contrast to the deep coma of last night, it seemed a miracle. She had been sipping water; a plastic cup was in her hand. The yellow skin tone, which had deepened yesterday, was noticeably lighter. As Andrew came in her husband stood up, smiling broadly, his hands outstretched. "Thank you, Doctor! Oh, thank you!" That Adam's apple of John Rowe's bobbed up and down as Andrew took his hand. From the bed Mary Rowe added a soft but fervent, "Bless you, Doctor!" It was the resident's turn. Overton pumped Andrew's hand. "Congratulations!" He added, uncharacteristically, "sir.”

Andrew was surprised to see tears brimming in the burly Texan's eyes. The head floor nurse, Mrs. Ludlow, bustled in. Normally preoccupied and serious, she was beaming.”It's all around the hospital, Dr. Jordan. Everybody's talking about you.”

"Look," Andrew said, "there was an experimental drug, Lotromycin. It was brought to me. I didn't-" "Around here," the nurse said, "you're a hero. If I were you I wouldn’t fight it.”

- "I ordered a blood test, stat," the resident reported.”It showed ammonia below toxic level. Also, the bilirubin isn't rising, so the rest of the cure will be routine.”

He added to himself, "Unbelievable!" Andrew told his patient, "I'm happy for you, Mary.”

A thought occurred to him.”Has anyone seen that girl from Felding-Roth? Miss de Grey.”

"She was around here earlier," Nurse Ludlow said.”She may be at the nursing station.”

"Excuse me," Andrew said, and went outside. Celia de Grey was waiting in the corridor. She had changed her clothes from last night. A soft smile played around her face. As they regarded each other, Andrew was conscious of a constraint between them. "You look a lot better with your hair dry," he said. "And you're not as stern and fierce as yesterday.”

There was a pause before he said, "You heard?" "Yes.”

"In there Andrew motioned toward the hospital room.”In there they've been thanking me. But the one we should all thank is you.”

She said, smiling, "You're the doctor.”

Then suddenly, all barriers down, they were laughing and crying together. A moment later, to his own surprise, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Over coffee and a shared Danish in the hospital cafeteria Celia de Grey removed her glasses and said, "I telephoned our company medical director and told him what happened. He's talked with some of our research people. They're all happy.”

"They have a right to be," Andrew said.”They made a good drug.”

"I was also told to ask: Will you write up a case report, including your use of Lotromycin, for publication in a medical journal?" He answered, "Gladly.”

"Naturally, it would be good for Felding-Roth.”

The saleswoman's tone was businesslike.”That's because we expect Lotromycin to be an important drug and a big seller. But it won't do you any harm either.”

Andrew acknowledged with a smile, "Probably not.”

He was thoughtful as be sipped his coffee. He knew that through mere chance, a fluke engineered by what he now saw as this remarkable and delightful young woman seated opposite, he had participated in a piece of medical history. Few physicians ever had that opportunity. "Look," Andrew said, "there's something I want to say. Yesterday, Celia, you told me I had bad manners and you were right. I was rude to you. I apologize.”

"Not necessary," she told him briskly.”I liked the way you were. You were worried about your patient and you didn't care about anything else. Your caring showed. But then you're always that way.”

The remark surprised him.”How do you know?" "Because people have told me.”

Again the swift, warm smile. She had her glasses on again; removing and replacing them seemed a habit. Celia continued, "I know a lot about you, Andrew Jordan. Partly because it's my job to get to know doctors and partly... well, I'll get to that later.”

This unusual girl, he thought, had many facets. He asked, "What do you know?" "Well, for one thing you were at the top of your medical school class at Johns Hopkins. For another, you did your internship and residency at Massachusetts General-I know only the best get in there. Then Dr. Townsend chose you out of fifty applicants and took you into his practice because he knew you were good. Do you want more?"

He laughed aloud.”Is there any?" "Only that you're a nice man, Andrew. Everybody says so. Of course, there are some negatives about you I've discovered.”

"I'm shocked," he told her.”Are you suggesting I'm not perfect after all?" "You have some blind spots," Celia said.”For instance, about drug companies. You're very prejudiced against us. Oh, I'll agree that some things-" "Stop right there!" Andrew raised a hand.”I admit the prejudice. But I'll also tell you, this morning I'm in a mood to change my mind.”

"That's good, but don't change it altogether.”

Celia's businesslike tone was back.”There are lots of good things about our industry; and you just saw one of them at work. But there are also things that aren't so good, some that I don't like and hope to alter.”

"You hope to alter.”

He raised his eyebrows.”Personally?" "I know what you're thinking-that I'm a woman.”

"Since you mention it, yes, I'd noticed.”

Celia said seriously, "The time is coming, in fact it's already here, when women will do many things they haven't done before.”

"Right now I'm ready to believe that too, especially about YOU.”

Andrew added, "You said there was something else to tell me, that you'd get to later.”

For the first time Celia de Grey hesitated. "Yes, there is.”

Her strong gray-green eyes met Andrew's directly.”I was going to wait until another time we met, but I may as well tell you now. I've decided to marry you.”

This extraordinary girl! So full of life and character, to say nothing of surprises. He had never met anyone like her. Andrew started to laugh, then abruptly changed his mind.

One month later, in the presence of a few close friends and relatives, Dr. Andrew Jordan and Celia de Grey were married in a quiet civil ceremony.

On the second day of their honeymoon Celia told Andrew, "Ours will be a good marriage. We're going to make it work.”

"If you ask me...”

Andrew rolled over on the beach towel they were sharing, managing to kiss the nape of his wife's neck as he did.”If you ask me, it's working already.”

They were on the island of Eleuthera in the Bahamas. Above them was a warm midmorning sun and a few small wispy clouds. A white-sand beach, of which they were the only occupants, appeared to stretch into infinity. An offshore breeze stirred palm fronds and, immediately ahead, cast ripples on a calm, translucent sea. "If you're talking about sex," Celia said, "we're not bad together, are we?" Andrew raised himself on an elbow.”Not bad? You're dynamite. Where did you ever learn-T' He stopped.”No, don't tell me.”

"I could ask you the same question," she teased. Her hand stroked his thigh as her tongue lightly traced the outline of his mouth. He reached for her and whispered, "Come on! Let's go back to the bungalow.”

"Why not fight here? Or in those tall grasses over there?" "And shock the natives?" She laughed as he pulled her up and they ran across the beach.”You're a prude! A real prude. Who would have guessed?" Andrew led her into the picturesque thatched bungalow they had moved into the day before and which was to be theirs for ten days more. "I don't want to share you with the ants and land crabs, and if that makes me a prude, okay.”

He slipped off his swim trunks as he spoke. But Celia was ahead of him. She had shed her bikini and was already lying naked on the bed, still laughing. An hour later, back on the beach, Celia said, "As I was saying about our marriage...”

"It will be a good one," Andrew finished for her.”I agree.”

"And to make it work, we must both be fulfilled people.”

Andrew was lying back contentedly, hands intertwined behind his head. "Still agree.”

"So we must have children.”

"If there's any way I can help with that, just let me-" "Andrew! Please be serious.”

"Can't. I'm too happy.”

"Then I'll be serious for both of us.”

"How many children?" he asked.”And when?" "I've thought about it," Celia said, "and I believe we should have two-the first child as soon as possible, the second two years later. That way, I'll have childbearing done before I'm thirty.”

"That's nice," he said.”Tidy, too. As a matter of interest, do you have any plans for your old age-after thirty, I mean?" "I'm going to have a career. Didn't I ever mention that?" "Not that I remember. But if you'll recall, my love, the way we leaped into this marriage caper didn't allow much time for discussion or philosophy.”

"Well," Celia said, "I did mention my plan about children to Sam Hawthorne. He thought it would work out fine.”

"Bully for Sam!-whoever he is.”

Andrew wrinkled his brow.”Wait. Wasn't he the one at our wedding, from Felding-Roth?" "That's right. Sam Hawthorne's my boss, the regional sales manager. He was with his wife, Lilian.”

"Got it. Everything's coming back.”

Andrew remembered Sam Hawthome now-a tall, friendly fellow, perhaps in his mid-thirties but prematurely balding, and with craggy, strong features that reminded Andrew of the carved faces on Mount Rushmore. Hawthorne's wife, Lilian, was a striking brunette. Reliving, mentally, the events of three days earlier, Andrew said, "You'll have to make allowance for my having been a little dazed at the time.”

One reason, he remembered, was the vision of Celia as she had appeared, in white, with a short veil, in the reception room of a local hotel where they had elected to be married. The ceremony was to be performed by a friendly judge who was also a member of St. Bede's Hospital board. Dr. Townsend had escorted Celia in on his arm. Noah Townsend was fully up to the occasion, the epitome of a seasoned family physician. Dignified and graying, he looked a lot like the British prime minister, Harold Macmillan, who was so often in the news these days smoothing U.S.-British relations after the preceding year's discords over the Suez Canal. Celia's mother, a small, self-effacing widow who lived in Philadelphia, was at the wedding. Celia's father had died in World War 11; hence Townsend's role. Under the Bahamas sun, Andrew closed his eyes, partly as relief against the brightness, but mostly to re-create that moment when Townsend brought Celia in... In the month since Celia, on that memorable morning in the hospital cafeteria, had announced her intention to marry him, Andrew had fallen increasingly under what he thought of as no less than her magic spell. He supposed love was the word, yet it seemed more and different-the abandonment of a singleness which Andrew had always pursued, and the total intertwining of two lives and personalities in ways that at once bewildered and delighted him. There was no one quite like Celia. No moment with her was ever dull. She remained full of surprises, knowledge, intellect, ideas, plans, all bubbling from that wellspring of her forceful, colorful, independent nature. Almost from the beginning he had a sense of extreme good fortune as if he, through some machinery of chance, had won a jackpot, a prize coveted by others. And he sensed that others coveted Celia as he introduced her to his colleagues. Andrew had had other women in his life, but none for any length of time, and there had been no one he seriously considered marrying. Which made it all the more remarkable that from the moment when Celia-to put it conventionally-proposed," he had never had the slightest doubt, hesitation, or inclination to turn back. And yet... it was not until that incredible moment when he saw Celia in her white wedding dress-radiant, lovely, young, desirable, all that any man could ask of a woman and more, far more -it was not until then that, with a flash which seemed an exploding ball of fire within him, Andrew truly fell in love and knew, with the positive certainty that happens few times in any life, that he was incredibly fortunate, that what was happening was for always, and that, despite the cynicism of the times, for himself and Celia there would never be separation or divorce. It was that word "divorce," Andrew told himself when thinking about it afterward, that had kept him unattached at a time when many of his contemporaries were marrying in their early twenties. Of course, his own parents had provided that rationale, and his mother, who represented (as Andrew saw it) the divorce non grata, was at the wedding. She had flown in from Los Angeles like an aging butterfly, announcing to anyone who would listen that she had interrupted the shedding of her fourth husband to be present at her son's "first marriage.”

Andrew's father had been her second husband, and when Andrew had inquired about him he was told, "Oh, my dear boy, I hardly remember what he looked like. I haven't seen him in twenty years, and the last I heard, he was an old rou6 living with a seventeen-year-old whore in Paris.”

Over the years Andrew had tried to understand his mother and rationalize her behaviour. Sadly, though, he always came to the same conclusion: she was an empty-headed, shallow, selfish beauty who attracted a similar kind of man. He had invited his mother to the wedding-though he later wished he hadn't--out of a sense of duty and a conviction that everyone should have some feeling for a natural parent. He had also sent a letter about the wedding to the last known address of his father, but there had been no reply, and Andrew doubted if there ever would be. Every three years or so he and his father managed to exchange Christmas cards, and that was all. Andrew had been the only child of his briefly married parents, and the one other family member he would have liked Celia to meet had died two years earlier. She was a maiden aunt with whom Andrew had lived through most of his boyhood and who, though not well off, had somehow scraped together-without help from either of his parents-the money to sustain Andrew through college and medical school. It was only after her death, when the pathetic remnants of her estate, worth a few hundred dollars, lay exposed in a lawyer's office, that he realized how great the sacrifice had been. As it was, at the wedding Celia had taken Andrew's mother in stride. Assessing the situation without anything's having to be explained, Celia had been cordial, even warm, though not phonily effusive. Afterward, when Andrew expressed regret about his mother's bizarre behavior, Celia responded, "We married each other, darling, not our families.”

Then she added, "I'm your family now, and you’ll get more love from me than you've ever had in your life before.” Today on the beach Andrew was already realizing this was true. "What I'd like to do, if you agree," Celia said, continuing their conversation, "is go on working through most of my first pregnancy, then take off a year to be a full-time mother. After that I'll go back to work until the second pregnancy, and so on.”

"Sure, I agree," he told her.”And in between being loved and getting you pregnant, I plan to practice a little medicine.”

"You'll practice lots of medicine, and go on being a fine, caring doctor.”

"I hope so.”

Andrew sighed happily, and a few minutes later fell asleep. They spent the next few days learning things about each other which they had not had time for previously.

One morning over breakfast, which each day was delivered to their bungalow by a cheerful, motherly black woman named Remona, Celia said, "I love this place. The island, its people, and the quietness. I'm glad you chose it, Andrew, and I'll never forget it.”

"I'm glad too," he said. Andrew's first suggestion for their honeymoon had been Hawaii. But he had sensed a reluctance on Celia's part and switched to what was originally a second choice. Now Celia said, "I didn't tell you this, but going to Hawaii would have made me sad.”

When he asked her why, one more piece of geometry from the past slipped into place. On December 7, 1941, when Celia was ten years old and with her mother in Philadelphia, her father, a U.S. Navy non-commissioned officer-Chief Petty Officer Willis de Grey-was in Hawaii, aboard the battleship USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor. During the Japanese attack that day, the Arizona was sunk and 1, 102 sailors on the ship were lost. Most died below decks; their bodies were never recovered. One was Willis de Grey. "Oh yes, I remember him," Celia said, answering Andrew's question.”Of course, he was away a lot of the time, at sea. But when he was home on leave the house was always noisy, full of fun. When he was expected it was exciting. Even my little sister Janet felt it, though she doesn't remember him the way I do.”

Andrew asked, "What was he like?" Celia thought before answering.”Big, and with a booming voice, and he made people laugh, and he loved children. Also he was strong-not just physically, though he was that as well, but mentally. My mother isn't; you probably saw that. She relied on my father totally. Even when he wasn't there he'd tell her what to do in letters.”

"And now she relies on you?" "It seemed to work out that way. In fact, almost at once after my father died.”

Celia smiled.”Of course, I was horribly precocious. I probably still am.”

"A little," Andrew said, "But I've decided I can live with it.”

Later he said gently, "I can understand about the honeymoon, why you wouldn't choose Hawaii. But have you ever been thereto Pearl Harbor?" Celia shook her head.”My mother never wanted to go and though I'm not sure why-I'm not ready yet.”

She paused before continuing.”I'm told you can get close to where the Arizona sank, and look down and see the ship, though they were never able to raise it. You'll think this strange, Andrew, but one day I'd like to go to where my father died, though not alone. I'd like to take my children.”

There was a silence, then Andrew said, "No, I don't think it's strange at all. And I'll make you a promise. One day, when we have our children and they can understand, then I'll arrange it.”

On another day, in a leaky, weather beaten dinghy, while Andrew struggled inexpertly with the oars, they talked about Celia's work. "I always thought," he commented, "that drug company detail men were always, well, men.”

"Don't go too far from shore. I've a feeling this wreck is about to sink," Celia said.”Yes, you're right-mostly men, though there are a few women; some were military nurses. But I'm the first, and still the only, detail woman at Felding-Roth.”

"That's an achievement. How did you manage it?" "Deviously.”

In 1952, Celia reminisced, she graduated from Penn State College with a B.S. in chemistry. She had financed her way through

college in part with a scholarship and partly from working nights and weekends in a drugstore. "The drugstore time-passing out prescription drugs with one hand and hair rollers or deodorant with the other-taught me a lot that proved useful later. Oh yes, and sometimes I sold from under the counter too.”

She explained. Men, mostly young, would come into the store and loiter uneasily, trying to get the attention of the male druggist. Celia always recognized the signs. She would ask, "Can I help you?" to which the reply was usually, "When will he be free?" "If you want condoms," Celia would say sweetly, "we have a good selection.”

She would then bring various brands from under the counter, piling the boxes on top. The men, red-faced, would make their purchases and hurriedly leave. Occasionally someone brash would ask if Celia would help him try the product out. To which she had a stock answer.”All right. Whenever you say. I think I'm over my syphilis by now.”

While some may have realized it was a joke, clearly no one wanted to take a chance because in each instance she never saw the questioner again. Andrew laughed, gave up rowing, and let the boat drift. Armed with her-B.S. degree, Celia explained, she applied for a job with Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals as a junior chemist. She was accepted and worked in the labs for two years. "I learned some things there-mostly that unless you're a dedicated scientist, lab work is dull and repetitious. Sales and marketing were what interested me. They still do.”

She added, "It's also where some big decisions are made.”

But making a change from lab work to selling proved difficult. Celia tried the conventional route of applying and was turned down.”I was told it was company policy that the only women employed in sales were secretaries.”

Refusing to accept the decision, she planned a campaign. "I found out that the person who would have to recommend a change in policy, if it happened at all, was Sam Hawthorne. You met him at our wedding.”

"Your boss, the regional sales maestro," Andrew said.”The one who's stamped approval on our having two kids.”

"Yes-so I can keep on working. Anyway, I decided the only way to influence Hawthorne was through his wife. It was risky. It almost didn’t work.”

Mrs. Lilian Hawthorne, Celia discovered, was active in several women's groups and thus, it seemed, might be sympathetic to another woman's career ambitions. Therefore, in the daytime when Sam Hawthorne was at Felding-Roth, Celia went to see his wife at home. "I'd never met her," Celia told Andrew.”I had no appointment. I just rang the bell and barged in.”

The reception was hostile. Mrs. Hawthorne, in her early thirties and seven years older than Celia, was a strong, no-nonsense person with long, raven-black hair which she pushed back impatiently as Celia explained her objective. At the end Lilian Hawthorne said, "This is ridiculous. I have nothing to do with my husband's work. What's more, he'll be furious when he learns you came here.”

"I know," Celia said.”It will probably cost me my job.”

"You should have thought of that beforehand.”

"Oh, I did, Mrs. Hawthorne. But I took a chance on your being up-to-date in your thinking, and believing in equal treatment for women, also that they shouldn't be penalized unfairly on account of their sex.”

For a moment it looked as if Lilian Hawthorne would explode. She snapped at Celia, "You have a nerve!" "Exactly," Celia said.”It's why I'll make a great saleswoman.”

The other woman stared at her, then suddenly burst out laughing.”My God!" she said.”I do believe you deserve it.”

And a moment later: "I was about to make coffee, Miss de Grey. Come in the kitchen and we'll talk.”

It was the beginning of a friendship which would last across the years. "Even then," Celia told Andrew, "Sam took some persuading. But he interviewed me, and I guess he liked what he saw, and Lilian kept working on him. Then he had to get the approval of his bosses. In the end, though, it all worked out.”

She looked down at the water in the dinghy; it was now above their ankles.”Andrew, I was right! This thing is sinking!" Laughing, they jumped overboard and swam ashore, pulling the boat behind them.

"When I began work in sales, as a detail woman," Celia told Andrew over dinner that night, "I realized I didn't have to be as good as a man in my job. I had to be better.”

"I remember a recent experience," her husband said, "when you were not only better than a man, you were better than this doctor.”

She flashed a brilliant smile, removed her glasses, and touched his hand across the table.”I got lucky there, and not just with Lotromycin.”

"You take your glasses off a lot," Andrew commented.”Why?" "I'm short-sighted, so I need them. But I know I look better without glasses. That's why.”

"You took good either way," he said.”But if the glasses bother you, you should consider contact lenses. A lot of people are beginning to have them.”

"I'll find out about them when we get back," Celia said.”Anything else while I'm at it? Any other changes?" "I like everything the way it is.”

To get where they were, they had walked a mile from their bungalow, hand in hand down a winding, crudely paved road where traffic was a rarity. The night air was warm, the only sounds the chirrup of insects and a cascading of waves on an offshore reef. Now, in a tiny, roughly furnished caf6 called Travellers Rest, they were eating the local standard fare-fried grouper, peas and rice. While Travellers Rest would not have qualified for the Michelin Guide, it served tasty food for the hungry, the fish freshly caught and prepared in an ancient skillet over a wood fire by their host, a wiry, wizened Bahamian named Cleophas Moss. He had seated Andrew and Celia at a table overlooking the sea. A candle stuck in a beer bottle was between them. Directly ahead were scattered clouds and a near-full moon.”In New Jersey," Celia reminded Andrew, "it's probably cold and rainy.”

"We'll be there soon enough. Tell me some more about you and selling drugs.”

Her first assignment as a detail woman, Celia related, was to Nebraska where, until then, Felding-Roth had had no sales representation. "In a way it was good for me. I knew exactly where I stood because I was starting from nothing. There was no organization, few records, no one to tell me whom to call on or where.”

"Did your friend Sam do that deliberately-as some kind of test?"

"He may have. I never asked him.”

Instead of asking, Celia got down to work. In Omaha she found a small apartment and with that as a base she drove through the state, city by city. In each place she tore out the "Physicians & Surgeons" section from the yellow pages of a phone book, then typed up record sheets and began making calls. There were 1,500 doctors, she discovered, in her territory; later she decided to concentrate on 200 whom she estimated were the biggest prescribers of drugs. "You were a long way from home," Andrew said, "Were you lonely?" "Didn't have time. I was too busy.”

One early discovery was how difficult it was to get to see doctors.”I'd spend hours sitting in waiting rooms. Then, when I'd finally get in, a doctor might give me five minutes, no more. Finally a doctor in North Platte threw me out of his office, but he did me a big favor at the same time.”

"How?" Celia tasted some fried grouper and pronounced, "Loaded with fat! I shouldn't eat it, ' but it's too good to pass up.”

She put down her fork and sat back, remembering. "He was an internist, like you, Andrew. I'd say about forty, and I think he'd had a bad day. Anyway, I'd just started my sales talk and he stopped me. 'Young lady,' he said, 'you're trying to talk professional medicine with me, so let me tell you something. I spent four years in medical school, another five being an intern and resident, I've been in practice ten years, and while I don't know everything, I know so much more than you it isn't funny. What you're trying to tell me, with your inadequate knowledge, I could read in twenty seconds on an advertising page of any medical magazine. So get out!' " Andrew grimaced.”Cruel.”

"But good for me," Celia said, "even though I went out feeling like something scraped off the floor. Because he was right.”

"Hadn't the drug company-Felding-Roth-given you any training?" "Oh, a little. But short and superficial, a series of sales spiels, mostly. My chemistry background helped, though not much. I simply wasn't equipped to talk with busy, highly qualified doctors.”

"Since you mention it," Andrew said, "that's a reason why some doctors won't see drug detail men. Apart from having to listen to a canned sales pitch, you can get incorrect information that is dangerous. Some detail men will tell you anything, even mislead you, to get you to prescribe their product.”

"Andrew dear, I want you to do something for me about that. I'll tell you later.”

"Okay-if I can. So what happened after North Platte?" "I realized two things. First, I must stop thinking. like a salesman and not do any kind of pushy selling. Second, despite doctors knowing more than I did, I needed to find out specific things about drugs that they didn't know, which might be helpful to them. In that way I'd become useful. Incidentally, while attempting all that, I discovered something else. Doctors learn a lot about disease, but they're not well informed about drugs.”

"True," Andrew agreed.”What you're taught in medical school about drugs isn't worth a damn, and in practice it's hard enough to keep up with medical developments, never mind drugs. So where prescribing is concerned, it's sometimes trial and error.”

"Then there was something else," Celia said.”I realized I must always tell doctors the exact truth, and never exaggerate, never conceal. And if I was asked about a competitor's product and it was better than ours, I'd say so.”

"How did you make this big change?" "For quite a while I had four hours' sleep a night.”

Celia described how, after a regular day's work, she would spend evenings and weekends reading every drug manual she could get her hands on. She studied each in detail, making notes and memorizing. If there were unanswered questions, she sought answers in libraries. She made a trip back to Felding-Roth headquarters in New Jersey and badgered former colleagues on the scientific side to tell her more than the manuals did, also what was being developed and would be available soon. Before long her presentations to doctors improved; some doctors asked her to obtain specific information, which she did. After a while she saw that she was getting results. Orders for Felding-Roth drugs from her territory increased. Andrew said admiringly, "Celia, you're one of a kind. Unique.”

She laughed.”And you're prejudiced, though I love it. Anyway, in just over a year the company tripled its business in Nebraska.”

"That's when they brought you in from the outfield?" "They gave someone else who was newer, a man, the Nebraska territory and me a more important one in New Jersey.”

"Just think," Andrew said, "if they'd sent you to some other place like Illinois or California we'd never have met.”

"No," she said confidently, "we'd have met. One way or another we were destined to. 'Wedding is destiny.'" He finished the quotation.”'And hanging likewise.'" They both laughed. "Fancy that!" Celia said, delighted.”A stuffy head-in -textbook physician who can recite John Heywood.”

"The same Heywood, a sixteenth-century writer, who also sang and played music for Henry the Eighth," Andrew boasted, equally pleased. They got up from the table and their host called over from his wood burning stove, "Dat good fish, you young honeymooners? Everything okay?" "Everything's very okay," Celia assured him.”With the fish and the honeymoon.”

Andrew said, amused, "No secrets on a small island.”

He paid for their meal with a ten-shilling Bahamian note-a modest sum when translated into dollars-and waved away change. Outside, where it was cooler now, and with the sea breeze freshening, they happily linked arms and walked back up the quiet, winding road.

It was their last day. As if in keeping with the sadness of departure, the Bahamas weather had turned gloomy. A stratocumulus overcast was accompanied by morning showers while a strong northeast wind whipped whitecaps on the sea and set waves beating heavily onshore. Andrew and Celia were to leave at midday by Bahamas Airways from Rock Sound, connecting at Nassau with a northbound Pan Am flight which would get them to New York that night. They were due in Morristown the following day where, until they found a suitable house, Andrew's apartment on South Street would be home. Celia, who had been living in furnished rooms in Boonton, had already moved out from there, putting some of her things in storage. In the honeymoon bungalow which they would leave in less than an hour Celia was packing, her clothes spread out on the double bed. She called to Andrew, who was in the bathroom shaving, "It's been so wonderful here. And this is just the beginning.”

Through the open doorway he answered, "A spectacular beginning! Even so, I'm ready to get back to work.”

"You know something, Andrew? I think you and I thrive on work. We have that in common, and we're both ambitious. We'll always be that way.”

"Uh-huh.”

He emerged from the bathroom naked, wiping his face with a towel. "No reason not to stop work once in a while, though. Provided there's a good reason.”

Celia started to say, "Do we have time?" but was unable to finish because Andrew was kissing her. Moments later he murmured, "Could you please clear that bed?" Reaching behind, without looking and with one arm around Andrew, Celia began to throw clothes on the floor. "That's better," he said as they lay down where the clothes had been.”This is what beds are for.”

She giggled.”We could be late for our flight.”

"Who cares?" Soon after, she said contentedly, "You're right. Who cares?" And later, tenderly and happily, "I care and then, "Oh, Andrew, I love you so!"

Aboard Pan American Flight 206 to New York were copies of that day's New York Times. Leafing through the newspaper, Celia observed, "Nothing much changed while we were away.”

A dispatch from Moscow quoted Nikita Khrushchev as challenging the United States to a "missile-shooting match.”

A future world war, the Soviet leader boasted, would be fought on the American continent, and he predicted "the death of capitalism and the universal triumph of communism.”

President Eisenhower, on the other hand, assured Americans that U.S. defense spending would keep pace with Soviet challenges. And an investigation into the gangland slaying of Mafia boss

Albert Anastasia, gunned down while in a barber's chair at New York's Park-Sheraton Hotel, was continuing, so far without result. Andrew, too, skimmed the newspaper, then put it away. It would be a four-hour flight aboard the propeller-driven DC-713 and dinner was served soon after takeoff. After dinner Andrew reminded his wife, "You said there was something you wanted me to do. Something about drug company detail men.”

"Yes, there is.”

Celia Jordan settled back comfortably in her seat, then reached for Andrew's hand and held it.”it goes back to that talk we had the day after you used Lotromycin, and your patient recovered. You told me you were changing your mind about the drug industry, feeling more favorable, and I said don't change it too much because there are things which are wrong and which I hope to alter. Remember?" "How could I forget?" He laughed.”Every detail of that day is engraved on my soul.”

"Good! So let me fill in some background.”

Looking sideways at his wife, Andrew marveled again at how much drive and intelligence was contained in such a small, attractive package. In the years ahead, he reflected, he would need to stay alert and informed just to keep up with Celia mentally. Now, he concentrated on listening. The pharmaceutical industry in 1957, Celia began, was in some ways still too close to its roots, its early origins. "We started off, not all that long ago, selling snake oil at country fairs, and fertility potions, and a pill to cure everything from headache to cancer. The salesmen who sold those things didn't care what they claimed or promised. All they wanted was sales. They'd guarantee any result to get them.”

Often, Celia went on, such nostrums and folk remedies were marketed by families. It was some of the same families who opened early drugstores. Later still, their descendants continued the family tradition and built drug manufacturing firms which, as years went by, became big, scientific and respectable. As it all happened, the crude early selling methods changed and became more respectable too. "But sometimes not respectable enough. One reason was that family control persisted, and the old snake-oil, hard-sell tradition was in the blood.”

"Surely," Andrew observed, "there can't be many families left that control big drug companies.”

"Not many, though some of the original families control large blocks of stock. But what has persisted, even with paid executives running the companies, is the out-of-date, less-than-ethical hard sell. Much of it happens when some detail men call on doctors to tell them about new drugs.”

Celia continued, "As you know, some detail men-not all, but still too many-will say anything, even lie, to get doctors to prescribe the drugs they're selling. And although drug companies will tell you officially they don't condone it, they know it goes on.”

They were interrupted by a stewardess announcing they would land in New York in forty minutes, the bar would be closed soon, and meanwhile would they like drinks? Celia ordered her favorite, a daiquiri, Andrew scotch and soda. When the drinks were served and they had settled down again Andrew said, "Sure, I've seen examples of what you were talking about. Also I've heard stories from other doctors-about patients being ill or even dying after taking drugs, all because detail men gave false information which the doctors believed.”

He sipped his scotch, then went on, "Then there's drug company advertising. Doctors are deluged with it, but a lot of the advertising doesn't tell a physician what he ought to know--especially about side effects of drugs, including dangerous ones. The thing is, when you're busy, with patients to see and a lot of other problems on your mind, it's hard to believe that someone from a drug company, or the company itself, is deliberately deceiving you.”

"But it happens," Celia said.”And afterward it's swept under the rug and nobody will talk about it. I know, because I've tried to talk about it at Felding-Roth.”

"So what's your plan?" "To build a record. A record no one can argue with. Then, at the proper time, I'll use it.”

She went on to explain. "I won't be calling on you any more, Andrew; that's company policy, so someone else from Felding-Roth will be covering your office and Dr. Townsend's. But whenever you have a detail manor woman-visit you, from our company or any other, and you discover you're being given wrong information, or not warned about side effects of a drug or anything else you should be told, I want you to write a report and give it to me. I have some other doctors doing the same thing, doctors who trust me, in Nebraska as well as New Jersey, and my file is getting thick.”

Andrew whistled softly.”You're taking on something pretty big. Also some risks.”

"Someone has to take risks if it's. to improve a bad situation. And I'm not afraid.”

"No," he said, "I don't believe you ever would be.”

"I'll tell you something, Andrew. If the big drug companies don't clean house themselves, and soon, I believe the government will do it for them. There are rumblings in Congress now. If the drug industry waits for congressional hearings, and then new laws with tough restrictions, they'll wish they'd acted first on their own.”

Andrew was silent, absorbing what he had just learned and mulling other thoughts. At length he said, "I haven't asked you this before, Celia, but maybe now is a good time for me to understand something about you.”

His wife's eyes were fixed on him, her expression serious. Andrew chose his words carefully. "You've talked about having a career, which is fine by me, and I'm sure you wouldn't be happy without it. But I've had the impression, while we've been together these past weeks, that you want more out of a career than what you're doing now-being a saleswoman.”

Celia said quietly.”Yes, I do. I'm going to the top.”

"Right to the top?" Andrew was startled.”You mean head up a big drug company?" "If I can. And even if I don't get all the way to the top, I intend to be close enough to have real influence and power.”

He said doubtfully, "And that's what you want? Power?" "I know what you're thinking, Andrew-that power can be obsessive and corrupting. I don't intend to let it be either. I simply want a full life, with marriage and children, but also something more, some solid achievement.”

"That day in the cafeteria...”

Andrew stopped, correcting himself.”That memorable day. You said it was time for women to do things they haven't done before. Well, I believe that too; it's already happening in a lot of places, including medicine. But I wonder about your industry-pharmaceuticals. That whole business is conservative and male-oriented-you've said so yourself.”

Celia smiled.”Horribly so.”

"Then is it ready yet-for someone like you? The reason I'm asking, Celia, is that I don't want to watch, and see you hurt or unhappy, while you throw everything into the effort and then maybe it doesn't work out.”

"I won't be unhappy. I'll promise you that.”

She squeezed Andrew's arm. "It's new for me to have someone care as much as you do, darling, and I like it. And as for your question-no, the industry isn't ready yet, for me or any other women with strong ambition. But I have a plan.”

"I should have known you'd have it all figured out.”

"First," Celia told him, "I intend to make myself so good at my job that Felding-Roth will discover they can't afford not to promote me.,,

"I'd bet on that. But you said 'first.' Isn't that enough?" Celia shook her head.”I've studied other companies, their histories, the people who run them, and discovered one thing. Most of those who make it to the top get there on someone else's coattails. Oh, don't misunderstand me-they have to work hard, and be excellent. But early on they select some individual-a little higher up, usually a bit older-who they believe is en route to the top ahead of them. Then they make themselves useful to that person, give him their loyalty, and follow along behind. The point is: when a senior executive gets promoted, he likes someone he's used to, who is capable and whom he can trust, coming up behind.”

"At this point," Andrew asked, "have you picked someone to follow?" "I decided some time ago," Celia said.”It's Sam Hawthorne.”

"Well, well!" Her husband raised his eyebrows.”One way or another, Sam seems to loom large in our lives.”

"In business matters only. So you've no need to be jealous.”

"All right. But does Sam know about this decision-that you're hitching to his star?" "Of course not. Lilian Hawthorne does, though. We've discussed it confidentially and Lilian approves.”

"It seems to me," Andrew said, "there's been some womanly plotting going on.”

"And why not?" For a moment the inner steel 'of Celia flashed.”Someday all that may not be needed. But right now the corporate business world is like a private men's club. So a woman must use whatever means she can to become a member and get ahead.”

Andrew was silent, considering, then he said, "Until now I hadn't thought about it a lot; I guess most men don't. But what you say makes sense. So okay, Celia, while you're making your way to the top-and I truly believe you just might-I'll be behind you, all the way.”

His wife leaned over in her seat and kissed him.”I knew that all along. It's one of the reasons I married you.”

They felt the airplane's engines moderate in tempo and the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign came on. Through windows on the port side the lights of Manhattan shimmered in early evening darkness.”In a few minutes," a stewardess announced, "we will be landing at Idlewild International Airport.”

Again Celia reached for Andrew's hand. "And we'll be starting our life together," she said.”How can we miss?"

On returning to their separate jobs, Andrew and Celia discovered they had each, in differing ways, achieved celebrity status. Like many important medical developments, the news about Andrew's successful use of Lotromycin took time to circulate but now, some six weeks after Mary Rowe's remarkable recovery, it had been picked up by the national press. Morristown's tiny Daily Record had carried the story first under a heading:

Local Medic Uses Wonder Drug Patient's "Miracle" Recovery

The Newark Star-Ledger, which clearly scanned the local papers in its bailiwick, repeated the item which, in turn, came to the attention of science writers at the New York Times and Time. When Andrew returned he discovered that urgent phone messages had been left for him to call both publications, which he did. Still more publicity resulted, with Time, the more romantically inclined, adding to its report the fact of Andrew and Celia's marriage. As well as all this, the New England Journal of Medicine informed Andrew that, subject to certain revisions, his article on Lotromycin would be published in due course. The suggested revisions were minor and Andrew agreed to them at once. "I don't mind admitting I'm consumed with envy," Dr. Noah Townsend observed when Andrew told him about the New England Journal. Then Andrew's senior partner added, "But I console myself with the luster it's already bringing to our practice.”

Later, Townsend's wife Hilda, attractive in her early fifties, confided to Andrew, "Noah won't tell you this, but he's so proud of you that nowadays he's thinking of you like a son-the son we'd both have liked but never had.”

Celia, while receiving less personal publicity, found her status at Felding-Roth changed in not-so-subtle ways. Previously she had been an anachronism, to some a source of curiosity and amusement-the firm's sole saleswoman who, despite an initial and unexpected accomplishment in Nebraska, still had to prove herself over the long term. Not any more. Her handling of Lotromycin, and the continuing publicity which delighted FeldingRoth, had put both the drug and Celia squarely on the road to success. Within the company her name was now well known to top executives, including Felding-Roth's president, Eli Camperdown, who sent for Celia a day after her return to work. Mr. Camperdown, a lanky, cadaverous industry veteran in his mid-sixties, who always dressed impeccably and was never seen without a red rose in his buttonhole, received Celia in his ornate office suite on the eleventh floor-executive country-of the Felding-Roth building in Boonton. He attended to the amenities first. "My congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Jordan. I hope you'll be happy.”

He added with a smile, "I also trust that from now on your husband will prescribe nothing but Felding-Roth products.”

Celia thanked him and decided the remark about Andrew was merely facetious, so let it go without pointing up her husband's independence where drugs and medicine were concerned. "You have become something of a legend, young lady," the president continued.”Living proof that an outstanding woman, occasionally, can be every bit as good as a man.”

"I hope, sir.”

Celia said sweetly, "that someday you won't feel the need for that 'occasionally.' I believe you'll see many more women in this business, and some may be even better than the men.” For a moment Camperdown seemed taken aback and frowned. Then, recovering his geniality, he said, "I suppose stranger things have happened. We'll see. We'll see.”

They continued talking, Camperdown asking questions of Celia about her merchandising experiences. He seemed impressed by her informed, straightforward answers. Then, pulling a watch from a vest pocket, the president glanced at it and announced, "I'm about to hold a meeting here, Mrs. Jordan. It concerns a new drug we intend to market soon after Lotromycin. Perhaps you'd care to stay.” When she agreed that she would, the president called in a half-dozen male staff members who had been waiting outside in a secretary's office. After introductions they all moved to a conference area of the office suite, seating themselves around a table with Camperdown at the head. The newcomers included the director of research, Dr. Vincent Lord, a recently recruited, youngish scientist; an elderly vice president of sales who was shortly to retire; and four others, including Sam Hawthorne. With the exception of Sam-the only one Celia had met previously-the others regarded her with frank curiosity. The new drug under consideration, Camperdown explained for Celia's benefit, was not a product developed by Felding-Roth, but had been obtained under license from a West German company, Chemie-Grinenthal. "It is a sedative, one of the safest ever discovered," the president declared, "and it produces a normal, refreshing sleep without unpleasant morning-after grogginess.”

The product had no significant side effects, he continued, and was so safe it could be given to small children. The sedative was already on sale, and popular, in almost every major country except the United States. Now, Felding-Roth was fortunate in having the American rights. The name of the drug, Mr. Camperdown added, was Thalidomide. Despite Thalidomide's proven safety record, trials of the drug on humans were required in the United States before its sale would be approved by the Food and Drug Administration.”In the circumstances, with all that first-rate foreign data," Camperdown grumbled, "it's a silly, bureaucratic requirement, but we have to live with it.”

A discussion followed about where and how the U.S. trials of Thalidomide would be carried out. The director of research, Dr. Lord, favored recruitment of fifty or so physicians in private practice who would g1ve the drug to patients, then report results which Felding-Roth would submit to FDA.”There should be a mix of general practitioners, internists, psychiatrists, and obstetricians," he declared. The vice president of sales demanded, "How long will all that ngmarole take?" "Probably three months.”

"Could you make it two? We need this product on the market.”

"I think so.”

Someone else, though, expressed concern about the trials being so widespread. Wouldn't they be simpler and reporting be faster in a concentrated environment such as a hospital? After several minutes of discussion Camperdown interjected with a smile, "Perhaps our young lady guest has some thoughts on the subject.”

"Yes, I have," Celia said. All heads turned toward her. She spoke carefully, aware that her presence here was unusual, even privileged; therefore it would be foolish to spoil the opportunity by seeming too assured or brash. "One thing that could be worrisome," Celia said, "is the suggestion that obstetricians prescribe this drug. This means pregnant women would be taking it, and it's usually advised that pregnancy is not a time for experimenting in any way.”

Dr. Lord interrupted testily.”In this case that doesn't apply. Thalidomide has been widely used in Europe and elsewhere, and those taking it have included pregnant women.”

"Just the same," Sam Hawthorne put in quietly, "Mrs. Jordan has a point.”

Celia continued, "A question which might be asked is this: Who are the people who have the most trouble sleeping, and therefore need a sleeping pill? Well, based on my experience in detailingvisiting hospitals and institutions, as well as doctors-I'd say old people, especially geriatric patients.”

She had the group's attention. Several around the table nodded agreement at the last remark. Dr. Lord, his face set stiffly, did not. "So what I'd recommend," Celia said, "is that our testing of Thalidomide be done in one or two old people's homes. If it's of any use, I know of two of them--one in Lincoln, Nebraska, the other outside Plainfield in this state. Both are well run and efficient, and would keep good records. In both places I've met the doctors in charge and would be glad to contact them.”

When Celia had finished there was an uncertain silence. Eli Camperdown broke it. The Felding-Roth president sounded surprised. "I don't know what the rest of you think, but what Mrs. Jordan has just suggested sounds to me like very good sense.”

Having been shown the way, others added their agreement, though Dr. Lord remained silent. Celia immediately sensed an antagonism between herself and the director of research which would persist into the future. Soon after, a decision was made that Celia would telephone her institutional acquaintances next day and, if they seemed cooperative, the Research Department would take it from there. As the meeting broke up, Celia left first, amid smiles and friendly handshakes. A week or so later, having done what was asked, Celia learned through Sam Hawthorne that trials of Thalidomide at both of the old people's homes would soon be under way. At the time, it seemed the end of a minor incident.

Amid the pressures of their professional lives Andrew and Celia found time to look at houses for sale. One, which Celia found and liked, was at Convent Station, a residential suburb in Morris township, where homes were spaced widely apart and lawns and trees proliferated. As she pointed out when she called Andrew, the house was only two miles from his office and even closer to St. Bede's Hospital.”That's important," Celia declared, "because I don't want you to have to drive a long way, especially when you have night calls and may be tired.”

The location would mean a ten-mile commute for Celia on the days she went to Felding-Roth at Boonton, but since most of her sales calls were in other parts of New Jersey, the distance was not important. But the house, which was a large, unoccupied, neglected, whiteframe colonial, shocked Andrew when he saw it. He protested, "Celia, this broken-down old barn isn't for us! Even if we patched it up, which looks impossible, what would we do with five bedrooms?" "There'd be. one for us," his wife explained patiently, "then one each for the children, and after they're born we'll want live-in help, so that's one more.”

The fifth bedroom, she added, would be for guests.”My mother will be coming to us occasionally, and maybe yours.”

Celia also envisaged "a downstairs study-den which the two of us can share, and be together when we bring work home.”

Though he had no intention of agreeing to such a wildly impractical idea, Andrew laughed.”You certainly look ahead.”

"What neither of us will want," Celia argued, "is the interruption and nuisance of changing homes every few years just because we need more space and didn't plan for it.”

She looked around her, surveying the cobwebbed, dirt-encrusted lower floor of the house through which they had walked on a Sunday afternoon in January, with pale sunshine glinting through grimy windows.”This place needs scouring, painting, organizing, but it can be beautiful-the kind of home we won't want to leave unless we have to.”

"I'm leaving right now," Andrew said, "because what this place needs most is a bulldozer.”

He added, with rare impatience, "You've been right about a lot of things, but not this time.”

Celia seemed undeterred. Putting her arms around Andrew, she stood on tiptoes to kiss him.”I still think I'm right. Let's go home and talk about it.”

Later that night, reluctantly, Andrew gave in and next day Celia negotiated the purchase at a bargain price and arranged a mortgage. The down payment created no difficulty. Both she and Andrew had saved money from their earnings over the preceding few years and their combined current incomes were strong. They moved in near the end of April, and almost at once Andrew conceded he had been wrong about the house.”I already like it," he said on their first day; "I may even get to love it.”

The renovation had cost less than he expected and results were impressive, even beautiful. It was a happy time for them both, not least because Celia was, by now, five months pregnant.The birth of Celia and Andrew's first child occurred-as Andrew was apt to tell his hospital colleagues-"precisely according to Celia's schedule.”

It happened in August 1958, nine months and one week after their marriage, and the child was a girl, healthy, weighing seven and a half pounds. She was a contented baby who cried hardly at all. They named her Lisa. During her pregnancy Celia had been firm about birth procedures, which caused an early clash with her obstetrician, Dr. Paul Keating, a fellow staff member of Andrew's at St. Bede's Hospital. Keating, a fussy, middle-aged man who inclined to pomposity, told Andrew at one point, "Your wife is really quite impossible.”

"I know what you mean," Andrew sympathized, "but it sure makes life interesting. The funny thing is, what's impossible for some people becomes possible for Celia.”

A day or two earlier Celia had informed Dr. Keating, "I've been studying natural childbirth and have begun the exercises which go with it.”

When the obstetrician smiled indulgently she added, "I'll want to participate actively in labor and be fully aware at the moment of birth. That means no anesthesia. Also, I want no episiotomy.”

Keating's smile changed to a frown.”My dear Mrs. Jordan, both those decisions must be taken by your obstetrician during delivery.” "I disagree," Celia said quietly and calmly.”If I concede that, I'm likely to be overruled at a moment when I'm not at my best.”

"What if there's an emergency?"

"That's entirely different. If it happened, obviously you'd have to exercise judgment and do what was needed. But afterward you would have to satisfy me, and also Andrew, that an emergency had existed.”

Dr. Keating grunted noncommittally, then said, "Concerning an episiotomy. You may not realize that cutting the perineurn with surgical scissors just before birth prevents a tear when the baby's head emerges-a tear that is painful and heals less easily than a clean surgical cut.”

"Oh, I do realize that," Celia said.”And I'm sure you're equally aware of the increasing number of doctors and nurse-midwives who disagree with that view.”

Ignoring the obstetrician's growing disapproval, Celia added, "There are plenty of recorded cases where natural tears have healed quickly, whereas episiotomies have not, and have produced infections or months of postpartum pain, or both.”

Dr. Keating regarded her dourly.”You seem to know all the answers.”

"Not at all," Celia assured him.”It's just that it's my body and my baby.”

"Speaking of your body," the obstetrician said, "I'll point out that although it is not the purpose of an episiotomy, the sewing up afterward does maintain vaginal tightness.”

"Yes," Celia acknowledged, "I'm aware that vaginal tightness is for the pleasure of my future sex partner. Well, doctor, I don't want any complaints from my husband about a loose vagina, so after my baby is born I'll do exercises to tighten the pelvic muscles.”

Soon after, by mutual consent, Celia changed obstetricians and became the patient of Dr. Eunice Nashman, who was older than Dr. Keating but young enough in mind to share many of Celia's ideas. Subsequent to Lisa's birth Eunice Nashman confided to Andrew, "Your wife is a remarkable woman. There were moments when she was in great pain and I asked if she wanted to change her mind about anesthesia.”

Andrew, who had intended to be present at the birth but was called away by a medical emergency involving one of his own patients, asked curiously, "What did she say?" Dr. Nashman answered, "She just said, 'No, but someone please hold me.' So one of the nurses put her arms around your wife and comforted her, and that was all she needed. "Then, when your daughter was born, we didn't take the baby away, as usually happens, but just left her lying with Celia, and the two of them together were so at peace it was beautiful to sec.” As she had said she would, Celia took a year off from work to give her attention and love to Lisa. She also used the time to continue organizing their Convent Station house, which proved to be everything she had foreseen and promised.”I do love it," Andrew observed glowingly one day. ' At the same time Celia kept in touch with Felding-Roth. Sam Hawthorne had moved upward to become assistant national sales manager and had promised Celia a job when she was ready to return. The year was a good one for Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals, Inc. A few months after the publicity concerning Dr. Andrew Jordan's dramatic use of Lotromycin, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration approved the drug for marketing. Lotromycin went on to become successful and praised worldwide, and one of the more profitable products in Felding-Roth's history. Celia's own contribution to the Lotromycin launch caused executives of the company to endorse Sam Hawthorne's willingness to have her return. Beyond the company, in terms of history, 1959 was not a spectacular year. Alaska became a state in January, Hawaii in July, To the north, during April, the St. Lawrence Seaway opened. In May, Israel's Premier David Ben-Gurion promised the world that his country would seek peace with its Arab neighbors. Later the same month two monkeys made a 300-mile-high space flight aboard a U.S. army missile, and survived. It was hoped that humans might someday do the same. One outside event which aroused Celia's attention was a series of hearings, begun during December, by a U.S. Senate subcommittee chaired by Senator Estes Kefauver. During earlier hearings about crime the senator, a Tennessee democrat with presidential ambitions, had gained wide attention and was hungry for more of the same. The target at the new hearings was the pharmaceutical industry. Most industry officials dismissed Kefauver as a nuisance, but unimportant. The industry's Washington lobby was strong; no longterm effect was expected. Celia, though confiding her opinion only to Andrew, disagreed. Finally, late in the year, Celia resumed her duties as a detail woman, again with her sales territory in New Jersey. Through contacts at St. Bede's she had found an elderly retired nurse who came to the house daily and took care of Lisa. Typically, Celia tested the arrangement, by going on an out-of-town trip with Andrew and leaving the older woman in charge. It worked well. Celia's mother, Mildred, occasionally visited from Philadelphia and enjoyed filling in, and getting to know her granddaughter, when the daily nurse was away. Mildred and Andrew were on excellent terms, and Celia became closer to her mother as time went by, sharing an intimacy they had rarely known in earlier years. One reason, perhaps, was that Celia's younger sister, Janet, was far away-in the Trucial Sheikdomshaving married an oil company geologist, now busy overseas. Thus, with support from several sources Celia and Andrew were once more able to take pleasure in their separate careers.

In the case of Andrew's career, only one thing marred it slightly, and just how important that worry was, Andrew himself was uncertain. It concerned Noah Townsend. Andrew's senior partner had, over a handful of widely separated occasions, exhibited what could have been signs of emotional instability. Or perhaps, when Andrew thought about it, bizarre behavior was a more accurate description. What puzzled Andrew was that both characteristics were alien to the nature of the older, dignified physician as Andrew had observed it day by day. There were three incidents that Andrew knew of. One was when Noah, during a conversation in his office with Andrew, became impatient because of a telephone call that interrupted him. After a brusque response to the call, he yanked the telephone cord from the wall and hurled the instrument across the office where it hit a file cabinet and broke. Then Noah continued talking as if nothing had happened. Next day a replacement telephone was on Noah's desk-, the fate of the old one was never mentioned. Some six weeks later Andrew was in Noah's car, with Noah driving. Suddenly, to Andrew's horror, they were hurtling through Morristown with the accelerator floored, skidding around corners, and going through a red light. Andrew shouted a warning, but Noah appeared not to hear. Through extraordinary luck, no accident occurred, and they raced into St. Bede's parking lot, then slid to a halt with a screech of tires. While Andrew was protesting, Noah just shrugged-and the next time Andrew observed Noah driving, it was at a safe speed with normal caution. A third incident, again widely separated from the others, but the most distressing, involved their office receptionist-secretary, Mrs. Parsons, who had worked for Noah for many years, long before Andrew's arrival. True, Violet Parsons in her mid-sixties was slowing down and was occasionally forgetful. But it was seldom about anything important, and she was good with patients, who liked her. She and Andrew got along well, and her devotion to Noah-close to adoration-was an in-house joke. Until an incident about a check. In preparing one for payment of office supplies, Violet made an error. The invoice was for forty-five dollars. She reversed the figures, made out the check for fifty-four dollars, and left it on Noah's desk for him to sign. In practical terms it didn't matter, since the extra amount would have appeared as a credit on the following month's bill. But Noah stormed into the reception area with the check in his hand and shouted at Violet Parsons, "You stupid bitch! Are you trying to ruin me by giving away my money?" Andrew, who happened to be entering the office at that moment, could hardly believe what he was hearing. Nor, it seemed, could Violet, who stood up and replied with dignity, "Dr. Townsend, I have never been spoken to in that manner before, and do not intend to have it happen again. I am leaving now and will not be back.”

When Andrew tried to intervene, Noah snapped, "Stay out of this!" And Violet said, "Thank you Dr. Jordan, but I no longer work here.”

Next day Andrew tried to bring up the subject with Noah, but the older man merely growled, "She wasn't doing her job. I've hired someone else; she starts tomorrow.”

If the incidents had been less isolated or more frequent, Andrew might have had greater concern. But, he reasoned, as everyone grew older the pressures of work and daily living could cause tensions to erupt and tempers fray. It was, after all, a human characteristic. Andrew himself felt those pressures at times, with a resultant edginess which he contained. Noah, it seemed, had not contained his. Still, the incidents troubled Andrew.

Celia's career activities were more upbeat. In February 1960, on a day when she had left her sales territory to transact some business at Felding-Roth headquarters, Sam Hawthorne summoned her to his office. Sam was in a relaxed mood and greeted Celia cordially. His new responsibilities in national sales did not appear to be wearing him down, she thought-a good sign. Also, in view of her own long-term plans, an optimistic one. Sam's hair, though, was noticeably thinner; by his fortieth birthday, now a year away, he would probably be bald, though the look seemed to suit him. "I wanted to see you about the national sales meeting," he announced. Celia already knew that Felding-Roth's biennial sales convention would be held at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York in April. While private and closed to outsiders, the affair was attended by all company sales people in the United States, plus officers of Felding-Roth subsidiaries abroad. As well, the chairman, president and other senior executives would be present during the three-day proceedings. "I'm expecting to be there," Celia said.”I hope you're not going to tell me it's for men only.”

"Not only is it not men only, but the top brass want you to be one of the speakers.”

"I'll do it," Celia said. Sam observed dryly, "I was sure of that. Now, about the subject. I've talked to Eli Camperdown and what he and others would like is for you -to describe some of your selling experiences-from a feminine point of view. There's a suggested title: 'A Woman Looks at Pharmaceutical Detailing.'" "I can't see it on a movie marquee," Celia said, "but it'll do," "You should keep your talk light, possibly humorous," Sam continued. "Nothing heavy or serious. Nothing controversial. And ten to fifteen minutes should be enough.”

Celia said thoughtfully, “.

"I see.”

"If you like, you can submit a draft. Then I'll go over it and make suggestions.”

"I'll remember that offer," said Celia, who already had ideas about her speech and had no intention of submitting anything. "Sales in your territory have been excellent," Sam complimented her. "Keep it up!" "I intend to," she acknowledged, "though some new products would help, By the way, what happened to the one Mr. Camperdown talked about a year ago-Thalidomide?" "We dropped it. Gave it back to Chemie-Griinenthal. Said thanks but no thanks.”

"Why?" "According to our research people," Sam explained, "it wasn't a good drug. They tried it out in those old people's homes, as you arranged. As a sleep aid it didn't seem to work.”

"And that's the end?"

"So far as Felding-Roth is concerned. I just heard, though, that the Merrell Company has taken Thalidomide on. They're calling it Kevadon and they plan a big launching here and in Canada.”

He added, "With all the success Thalidomide has had in Europe, that's not surprising.”

"You sound unhappy," Celia said.”Do you think our company made a mistake?" Sam shrugged.”Maybe. But we can only sell what our research department approves, and this is one they didn't.”

He hesitated, then said, "I may as well tell you, Celia, there are a few people around here who are criticizing you because our testing of Thalidomide was limited to old people and wasn't more widespread -as Vincent Lord originally wanted.”

"Are you one of the critics?" "No. At the time, if you remember, I agreed with you.”

"I do remember.”

Celia considered, then she asked, "Is the other criticism important?" "To you?" Sam shook his head.”I don't think so.”

At home, during the evenings and weekends which followed, Celia worked on her sales meeting speech. In the quiet, comfortable study-den she and Andrew enjoyed sharing, she surrounded herself with papers and notes. Watching her one Sunday, Andrew observed, "You're cooking up something, aren't you?" "Yes," she admitted, "I am.”

"Will you tell me?" "I'll tell you later," Celia said.”If I tell you now, you'll try to talk me out of it.”

Andrew smiled and was wise enough to leave it there. 7

"I know that most of you are married," Celia said, looking out over the sea of male faces that confronted her, "so you know how it is with us women. We're often vague, we get mixed up, and sometimes forget things altogether.”

"Not you, sharp girl," someone near the front said softly, and Celia smiled swiftly, but continued. "One of the things I've forgotten is how long I'm supposed to speak today. I've a vague notion of someone mentioning ten to fifteen minutes, but that couldn't possibly be right, could it? After all, what woman could make herself intimately known to five hundred men in that short time?" There was laughter and, from the back of the convention hall, a broad Midwestern voice.”You can have as much of my time as you want, baby!" This was followed by more laughter, wolf whistles, and cries of, "Same here!", "Take all you need, kiddo!" Leaning closer to the microphone in front of her on the speakers' platform, Celia responded, "Thank you! I was hoping someone would say that.”

She avoided meeting the eyes of Sam Hawthorne, watching her intently from a few seats away. It was Sam who, earlier that day, had told Celia, "At the opening of a sales meeting everybody feels their oats. That's why the first day is mostly hype. We try to get all the guys worked up---tell those who are in from the field how great they are, what a topnotch outfit Felding-Roth is, and how happy we are to have them on the team. After that, for the next two days, we get down to more serious business.”

"Am I part of the hype?" Celia had asked, having observed from the program that she would be speaking during the after-noon of the first convention day. "Sure, and why not? You're the only female we have actively selling, a lot of the guys have heard about you, and all of them want to see and hear something different.” Celia said, "I must try not to disappoint them.”

At the time, she and Sam had been walking on Park Avenue, shortly after breakfasting at the Waldorf with several others from the company. In an hour the sales convention would begin. Meanwhile they were enjoying the mild and sunny April morning. Clear fresh breezes were sweeping through Manhattan and springtime proclaimed itself in massed tulips and daffodils on Park Avenue's central malls. On either side, as always, were noisy, never ceasing streams of multilane traffic. On sidewalks a tide of hurrying inbound office workers swirled around Sam and Celia as they strolled. Celia, who had driven in from New Jersey early that morning and would stay for the next two nights at the Waldorf, had dressed carefully for this occasion. She had on a new tailored jacket and skirt of navy blue, with a white ruffled blouse. Celia knew that she looked good and that the combination was a happy blend of business crispness and femininity. She was also glad to have shed the glasses which she had always disliked; contact lenses, suggested by Andrew on their honeymoon, were now a permanent part of her life. Sam said suddenly, "You decided not to show me a draft of your speech.”

"Oh dear!" she acknowledged.”It seems I forgot.”

Sam raised his voice to be heard above the traffic.”It might seem that way to others. But not to me, because I know there's almost nothing you forget.”

As Celia was about to reply, he silenced her with a gesture.”You don't need to answer that. I know you're different from others who work for me, which means you do things your own way, and so far you've mostly done them right. But I'll offer just a word of warning, Celia-don't overreach. Don't leave caution too far behind. Don't spoil a damn good record by trying to do too much, or move too fast. That's all.”

Celia had been silent and thoughtful as they turned, crossed Park Avenue on a green light, and headed back toward the Waldorf. She wondered: would what she had in mind for this afternoon be overreaching? Now, with the sales convention under way, and as she faced the entire sales force of Felding-Roth in the Waldorf's Astor Room, she realized she was about to find out. Her audience was mostly salesmen--detail men-plus supervisors and district managers, all from outposts of the company as far apart as Alaska, Florida, Hawaii, California, the Dakotas, Texas New Mexico, Maine and places in between. For many it was their only direct contact, every other year, with their superiors at company headquarters. It was a time for camaraderie, the reviving of enthusiasm, the implantation of new ideas and products, and even -for some--a renewal of idealism or dedication. There were also some boisterous high spirits directed toward womanizing and drinking-ingredients found at any sales convention of any industry anywhere. "When I was invited to speak to you," Celia told her audience, "it was suggested that I describe sonie of my experiences as a detail woman, and I intend to do that. I was also cautioned not to say anything serious or controversial. Well, I find that impossible. We all know this is a serious business. We are part of a great company marketing important, life-giving products. So we ought to be serious, and I intend to be. Something else I believe is that we who are working on the firing line of sales should be able to be frank, honest and, when necessary, critical with each other.”

As she spoke, Celia was conscious not only of the large audience of salesmen, but of a smaller one which occupied reserved seats in the front two rows: Felding-Roth's senior executives-the chairman of the board, president, executive vice president, vice president of sales, a dozen others. Sam Hawthorne, his near-bald head standing out like a beacon, was among the others. Eli Camperdown, as befitted the president and CEO, sat front and center. Beside him was the board chairman, Floyd VanHouten, now elderly and frail, but who had led and shaped the company a decade earlier. Nowadays VanHouten's duties were mainly limited to presiding at directors' meetings, though his influence , mained strong. "I used the word 'critical,' " Celia said into the microphone, "and that-though some of you may not like it-is what I intend to be. The reason is simple. I want to make a positive contribution to this occasion and not be merely ornamental. Also, everything I shall say is within the limits of the title I was handed, which is in the program: 'A Woman Looks at Pharmaceutical Detailing.' " She had their attention now, and knew it. Everyone was silent, listening. That had been her worry earlier-whether she could hold this audience. Coming off Park Avenue this morning and entering the

crowded, smoky, noisy anteroom where the sales force was assembling, Celia had experienced nervousness for the first time since agreeing to be a convention speaker. Even to herself she admitted the Felding-Roth sales convention was, at least for the time being, essentially a male exercise with its backslapping bonhomie, crude jokes, inane loud laughter, all to a background of unoriginal conversation. Celia lost count of the number of times today she had heard, "Long time, no see!" mouthed as if a novel, just-invented line. "Just as you do," she went on, "I care very much about this company we work for and the pharmaceutical industry of which we are a part. Both have done fine things in the past and will do more. But there also are things that are wrong, seriously wrong, especially with detailing. I would like to tell you what, in my opinion, these things are and how we could do better.”

Glancing down at the two executive rows, Celia detected unease on several faces; one or two people were fidgeting. Quite clearly, what she had said already was not what had been expected. She looked away and gave her attention to other portions of the hall. "Before we came in here this morning, and again this after-noon, we all saw the banners and the booth which feature Lotromycin. It's a magnificent drug, one of the great breakthroughs in medicine and 1, for one, am proud to be selling it.”

There was applause and cheers, and Celia paused. Displays in the anteroom outside featured a dozen or so of Felding-Roth's important products, but she had homed in on Lotromycin because of its personal associations. "If you pick up one of the pamphlets at that booth, as some of you may have already, you'll find it describes the use of Lotromycin by my husband. He's an M.D.-an internist. My husband has had excellent experience with that drug and with some others. He has also had bad experience with drugs, and with detail people who deceived him by describing those drugs falsely. He is not alone. Other doctors--far too many, as I know from reports made to me -have shared the same experience. It is a side to this business which can and should be changed.”

Aware that she was reaching rugged ground, Celia faced the audience squarely and chose her words with care. "As a result of my husband's experiences as a physician, he tells me he has mentally divided the detail men who call on him into three groups-first, those who give him honest information about their companies' drugs, including adverse side effects; second, those who are uninformed and fail to advise him properly about the drugs they are promoting; and third, those who will tell him anything, even lie, to have him prescribe what they are selling. "I would like to say that the first of those three groups-the detail people who are informed and honest-is the largest, and that the other two are small. Unfortunately that isn't true. The second and third groups are far larger than the first. What it adds up to is that the quality of detailing, in terms of full and accurate information, is poor, and that applies to all companies in the pharmaceutical business, including ours.”

Celia could now see signs of consternation, not only among executives at the front, but back beyond them. Amid a series of groans someone called out, "Hey, what is this?" She had anticipated the reaction and accepted it as part of a calculated risk. As she continued, her voice was strong and clear.

"I am sure you are asking yourself two questions. One: "How does she know all that stuff, and can she prove it” The second: "Why bring it up now, at a time when we're happy and cosy and don't want to hear unpleasant things " Again a voice from the audience.”You're damn right we're asking!" "So you should!" Celia shot back.”And you're entitled to an answer, which I'll give.”

"Better make it good!" Something else Celia had gambled on today was that whatever the reaction to her speech, she would be allowed to finish. It seemed to be happening. Despite frowns of displeasure in the executive rows, no one was rising to use authority and cut her off. "One reason I know what I'm talking about," Celia declared, "is that I used to be a member of that second group-the uninformed. That's because, when I went out selling drugs to doctors, I was inadequately trained. In fact, I was scarcely trained at all. Concerning that, let me tell you a story.”

She described the encounter-which she had related to Andrew on their honeymoon-with the North Platte physician who had accused her of having "inadequate knowledge" and ordered her brusquely from his office. Celia told the story well and there was a return to silence as the audience listened. Here and there she saw nods and heard murmurs of agreement. Celia suspected that many in the hall had had similar bruising experiences. "The doctor was right," she continued.”I didn't have the knowledge to discuss drugs with highly qualified physicians, even though I should have been given it before I went out selling.”

She reached behind her to a table and held up a file. "I mentioned reports from doctors about false information given by detail people. In the nearly four years I have been selling for Felding-Roth I have kept a record of those reports, and it is here. Let me quote examples.”

Celia pulled a sheet from the file.”As you know, we have a prescription product called Pernaltone. It is an excellent drug in the treatment of hypertension and one of Felding-Roth's good sellers. But it should never be used by patients with rheumatic disease or diabetes. To do so is dangerous; warnings to that effect are in the literature. And yet... four doctors in New Jersey, two others in Nebraska, were assured by detail men from this company that Pernaltone was safe for all patients, including those with the diseases mentioned. I have the doctors' names if you wish to see them. Of course, those are just the doctors I know about. Obviously there are more, perhaps many more. "Two of those doctors I spoke of, who were given that misinformation, checked it out and found it to be in error. Two others accepted it in good faith and prescribed Pernaltone for hypertensive patients who were also diabetic. Several of those patients became extremely ill, one of them close to death, though he eventually recovered.”

Celia whisked another paper from her file.”A competitor of ours has an antibiotic, Chloromycetin, again a first-rate drug, but for serious infections only, since its possible side effects include damaging, even fatal, blood disorders. Yet-and again I have dates, names, places-the other company's detail men have assured doctors the drug is harmless...”

Celia finished with Chloromycetin, then continued, "Now to comeback to Felding-Roth...”

As she talked, the damning evidence mounted. "I could go on," Celia said after a while, "but I won't because my file is here for anyone in this company to examine. I will answer that second question, though: Why did I bring this up today? "I brought it up because I could not get attention any other way. I have tried since last year to have someone at headquarters listen to me and go through my file. No one would. I had the strong impression that what I had accumulated was simply bad news that nobody wanted to hear.”

Now Celia looked down directly at the two executive rows.”It may be said that what I have done today is headstrong, even foolish. Perhaps it is. But I would like to say that I have done it out of deep conviction and caring-for this company, our industry, and the reputation of both. "That reputation is being tarnished, yet we are doing little or nothing about it. As most of us know, there are hearings being held at present in the U.S. Congress about the pharmaceutical industry. Those hearings are antagonistic to us, yet few in the industry appear to be taking them seriously. But they are serious. Already the press is giving prominence to criticisms; soon there will be a public outcry for reform. I believe that unless we do something ourselves to improve our sales practices and reputation we shall have it done for us by government-in a way that none of us will like and that will be harmful to us all. "Finally, for all these reasons I urge that our own company take the lead-first in establishing a detailing code of ethics, second in setting up a training and retraining program for us detail people. I have put together my own ideas for such a program.”

Celia paused and smiled.”If anyone is interested, they too are in my file.”

She concluded, "Thank you, and good afternoon.”

As Celia gathered up her papers and moved to leave the speakers' platform, there was some feeble handclapping, though it ceased almost at once, with few in the audience seeming inclined to join in. Clearly, most were taking their cue from the executive group at the front, from where there was no applause and facial expressions showed disapproval. The board chairman seemed angry-he was speaking in low tones, heatedly, to Eli Camperdown; the Felding-Roth president nodding as he listened. The vice president of sales, a New Yorker named Irving Gregson who had been recently promoted, approached her. A forceful man of athletic build, Gregson was normally genial and well liked- But now he was glowering, his face flushed.”Young woman," he declared, "you have been malicious, presumptuous and misguided; also your so-called facts are wrong. You are going to regret it. You will be dealt with later, but for now, I am ordering you to leave this sales convention and not to return.”

"Sir," Celia said, "won't you at least look at the material I have-"

"I'll look at nothing!" Gregson's raised voice was audible through the hall.”Get out of herel" "Good afternoon, Mr. Gregson," Celia said. She turned and walked away, heading for an exit. Her step was firm, head high. She thought, later there would be time for regrets, perhaps deep dejection; for now, she had no intention of leaving this male assemblage defeated, like a weakling. Just the same, she admitted to herself, she was defeated, and of course she had known this might happen but hoped that it would not. To Celia, the faults she had described were so obvious and glaring, the reforms so plainly needed, it was hard to see how others could disagree when facts were pointed out. But they had. And almost certainly her employment by FeldingRoth was ended, or would be shortly. A pity. Sam Hawthorne would probably say she had done what he cautioned her not to do -overreached in trying to achieve too much. Andrew, too, had warned her--on the way back from their honeymoon when she told him about building a file of doctors' reports. She remembered Andrew's words: "You're taking on something pretty big. Also some risks.” How right he had been! Yet, a principle was involved, and her own integrity, and Celia had decided long ago she would never temporize on that, What was that line from Hamlet she had teamed at school? "This above alk to thine own self be true You paid a price for it, though. Sometimes a stiff one. Moving through the hall, she was aware of sympathetic glances from a few of the men still seated. That was unexpected, after all her criticisms. Not that it made any difference now. "One moment, please!" Suddenly, startling her, coming from nowhere, a voice boomed strongly over the p.a. system.”Mrs. Jordan, will you wait?" Celia hesitated, then stopped as the voice repeated, "Mrs. Jordan, wait!" Turning, she saw with surprise that the voice was Sam Hawthome's. Sam had left his seat, ascended the speakers' platform, and was leaning over the microphone. Others were startled too. Irving Gregson could be heard exclaiming,

"Sam... what the hell?" Sam passed a hand across his head, shiny under the spotlight; it was an unconscious habit when he was thinking a problem through. His craggy face was serious.”If you don't mind, Irving, there's something I'd like to say, and have everyone hear, before Mrs. Jordan goes.”

Celia wondered what was coming. Surely Sam wasn't going to endorse her expulsion by telling the world about their conversation of this morning and his warning. It would be out of character. Yet ambition did strange things to people. Was it possible that Sam believed some comment would make him look good in the eyes of the assembled brass? Looking up at the platform, the vice president of sales asked testily, "What is it?" "Well," Sam said, close enough to the microphone so his voice could be heard again through the now-silent hall, "I guess you could say, Irving, I'm standing up here to be counted.”

"In what way counted?" This time the question was from Eli Camperdown, now also on his feet. Sam Hawthorne faced the Felding-Roth president, at the same time moving closer to the mike.”Counted with Mrs. Jordan, Eli. And admitting-even though no one else seems willing to-that everything she said is true. As we all damn well know, even while pretending otherwise.”

The silence in the hall was awesome. Only minor noises filtered in-the sound of traffic, distantly; a rattle of glassware from a kitchen; muted voices from a corridor outside. It seemed as if everyone was still, rooted, not wanting to move and thereby miss a word. Amid the quiet, Sam continued. "I'd also like to go on record as wishing I'd had the wit and moral courage to make the speech which Mrs. Jordan did. And there's something else.”

Irving Gregson interrupted.”Don't you think you've said enough?" "Let him finish," Eli Camperdown ordered.”It might as well all hang out.”

The sales vice president subsided. "In particular," Sam Hawthorne went on, "I agree with the opinion that if our industry fails to mend its ways, laws will be passed compelling us to do so. Moreover, those laws will be more restrictive by far than if we accept the good advice we have just heard and clean house ourselves. "Finally, about Mrs. Jordan. Several times already she has proved her great value to this company. In my opinion she has just done so again, and if we let her leave this room in this way, we're all short-sighted fools.”

Celia could scarcely believe what she heard. She had a momentary sense of shame for doubting Sam's motives. What he had just done, she realized, was to put his own job, his ambitions, his promising future at Felding-Roth, all on the line on her behalf Still the uncanny silence persisted. There was a shared awareness of a moment of high drama in which no one seemed certain what would happen next. It was Eli Camperdown who moved first, returning to his seat beside the chairman of the board where the two senior officers began a second urgent, low-voiced conversation. This time Camperdown was doing most of the talking-it seemed, attempting to persuade while the elderly VanHouten listened. At first the chairman shook his head adamantly, then appeared to relent, and finally shrugged. Camperdown beckoned Irving Gregson to join them. Since decisions were obviously taking shape at highest level, others waited, though now a buzz of conversation filled the hall, It diminished as the vice president of sales left the other two and ascended the speakers' platform. He took over the microphone from Sam Hawthorne, who returned to his seat below. Gregson surveyed the sea of curious faces, paused for effect, then permitted himself a broad grin. "Whatever else you may say about our sales conferences," he declared, "we always promise you they are never dull.”

It was the fight thing to say and there was a roar of appreciative laughter in which even the dour VanHouten joined. "I am instructed by our chairman and president," Gregson said, ,.an instruction in which I personally join, to state that a few moments ago we may all have acted hastily, even unwisely.”

Again the grin, a pause, and the sales chief continued. "Many years ago, when I was a small boy and sometimes got into trouble-as all boys do-my mother taught me something. 'Irving,' she said, 'when you've made an ass of yourself and an apology is called for, stand up straight, be a man, and do it handsomely.' My dear mother, rest her soul, is dead; but somehow I can hear her voice saying, 'Irving, my boy, that time is now.”

Watching and listening, Celia thought: Gregson had style. It was clearly not by accident he had been promoted to the hierarchy of sales. She realized he was pointing directly at her.”Mrs. Jordan, come this way, please. You too, Sam.”

When all three of them were on the platform--Celia dazed, almost unbelieving-Gregson said, "I announced I would apologize, Mrs. Jordan, and I do. We will, after all, consider your suggestions carefully. And now I'll relieve you of that file of yours if you don't mind.”

Turning to the audience Gregson said, "I believe you have just witnessed an example of why ours is a great company and will 11

T he remainder of his remarks were drowned out by applause and cheering and, moments later, executives and others were surrounding Celia, offering congratulations and shaking her hand.

"Why did you risk it?" Sam Hawthorne asked. "If it comes to that," Celia answered, "why did you?" It was a week later. Celia and Andrew were spending an evening at the Hawthornes' home and during dinner-a superb meal attesting Lilian Hawthorne's culinary skill-they had avoided the subject of the sales convention and talked of other things. A few days earlier the Russians had announced the shooting down of an American U-2 plane and the capture of its pilot, Gary Powers. Moscow charged that both were spying. The United States at first denied the charge but soon afterward President Eisenhower admitted, redfaced, that it was true. Most Americans, the Hawthornes and Jordans agreed, felt embarrassed too. In Britain the Queen's sister, Princess Margaret, had set tongues wagging and raised eyebrows by marrying a professional photographer, Antony Armstrong-Jones. The wedding took place in what the press described as a "carnival mood.”

People were asking: Would the marriage diminish the prestige of the British throne? Andrew emphatically said no. After dinner they listened to a new recording by Elvis Presley-a pop ballad, "Fame and Fortune.”

Presley had resumed his career after a year in the U.S. Army, his absence having left his popularity undimmed. The women liked "Fame and Fortune.”

The men didn't. Finally, over brandies in the Hawthomes' spacious, artistically decorated living room, it was Sam who introduced the subject, closer to home, that was on all their minds. Answering Celia's question, he said, "When I followed you onto that platform, maybe I just couldn't resist being part of a dramatic scene.”

She objected, "You know it was more than that.”

"We all do," Andrew put in. He was leaning back in a comfortable armchair and savoring the brandy; he had had a busy day with patients in a practice that was growing rapidly, and was tired.”You risked everything, Sam-far more than Celia.”

"Of course, I'm grateful-" Celia began, but Sam cut her off. "You don't need to be. If you want the truth, I felt I was being tested.”

He addressed Andrew.”Your wife had already demonstrated she had more guts, along with greater respect for truth, than anyone else Mere. I didn't want to fall below her standards.”

Sam smiled at Celia.”Especially if you're trying to follow me up the ladder at Felding-Roth.”

"You know about that?" "I told him," Lilian Hawthorne said.”I'm sorry if I broke your confidence, Celia, but Sam and I don't keep secrets from each other.” "I have a secret," Sam said; "it's about Celia.”

As the others looked at him curiously, he went on, "She isn't going to be a detail woman anymore.”

Andrew chuckled.”You're firing her after all?" "No. Promoting her. Our company is going to have a Department of Sales Training, just as Celia suggested. She'll help set it up -and will be assistant director.”

"Well, hurrah!" Lilian raised her glass.”The men have shown some sense. I'll drink to that.”

"If all things were fair," Sam said, "Celia would have been director. But there are some in the company who can't swallow quite that much. Not yet. By the way, it'll be announced tomorrow.”

Andrew got up and crossed the room to kiss Celia.”I'm happy for you, darling. You deserve it.”

"Well," Celia told them all, "I'm not exactly upset. Thank you, Sam, and I'll settle for 'assistant.' " She added with a smile, "For the time being.”

They were interrupted by two small, pajama-clad figures who ran, laughing, into the living room. In the lead was Lisa, now twenty months old, lively and inquisitive, whom Andrew and Celia had brought with them and who-so they thought-had been put to bed for the night. Behind her was Juliet, the Hawthornes' fouryear-old and only child. Lilian had confided to Celia some time ago that doctors advised her she would never have more children, and she and Sam lavished love on Juliet, who was bright, intelligent and apparently unspoiled. The two little girls had clearly been excited by each other's company. Lisa hurled herself into her father's arms. She told Andrew, giggling, "Julie chase me.”

Lilian got up.”I'll chase you both. Right back to bed.”

Amid laughter and shrieks the three disappeared in the direction of Juliet's bedroom. When Lilian returned, Celia said, "All of that reminds me of something. I may need a little time off from that new job after a while, Sam. I seem to be pregnant again.”

"This is a night for revelations," Lilian said.”Fortunately there's some booze left, so we can drink to that too.”

There was, Celia thought, a trace of envy in the other woman's voice, through the remainder of 1960, and into 1961, Celia immersed herself in teaching the Felding-Rotb sales force how to sell. Her new chief, the director of sales training, was a former division manager from Kansas City named Teddy Upshaw. When introduced, Celia recognized him at once. His had been one of the sympathetic faces when she was about to be ejected from the sales convention at the Waldorf. Upshaw, a fast-talking, short-statured, dynamic whippet of a man in his late forties, bad been selling drugs all his working life. He radiated energy, always hurried from one place to the next, and had a small round head which he nodded frequently during conversations; it gave the impression of a bouncing ball. Before being promoted to management, Upshaw had been the company's top sales producer and confided to Celia that he still missed the life of a traveling salesman, which he described as "like easy breathing," and added, "in this business you don't have to sell dirty to be good because most does know damned little about drugs, and if you're straight with 'em, and they learn to trust you, you can have all the business you want. Only other thing to remember is to treat the does like gods. They expect that.”

When Celia told Andrew in bed one night about the "gods" remark, he laughed and said, "Smart boss you have. Just remember to treat this doc that way at home.”

She threw a pillow at him then, after which they wrestled playfully. The wrestling became something more, and they ended up making love. After-ward Andrew rubbed his hands over Celia's belly where her pregnancy was beginning to show and he said, "Take care of this little guy, and remember while he's in there-for you, no drugs of any kind!" It was a caution he had expressed when she was pregnant with Lisa, and Celia said, "You feel strongly about that.”

"Sure do.”

Andrew yawned.”Now let this god-doc get some sleep.”

On another occasion when Teddy Upshaw was talking with Celia he described "dirty selling" as "plain goddam stupid and not needed.”

Just the same, he admitted, there was plenty of it in the pharmaceutical business, "Don't think you and me are going to stop detail men saying what ain't true, even at Felding-Roth. We won't. What we'll do, though, is show that the other way is smarter.”

Upshaw agreed with Celia about the need for sales training. He had been given almost none himself and picked up his scientific knowledge-a surprising amount, as she discovered-by self-education across the years. The two of them got along well and quickly worked out a division of duties. Celia wrote training programs, a task Upshaw disliked, and he put them into effect, which he enjoyed. One of Celia's innovations was a staged sales session between a detail man and a doctor, with the former presenting one of FeldingRoth's drugs and the latter asking tough, sometimes aggressive, questions. Usually Teddy, Celia or another staffer played the doctor's role; occasionally, with Andrew's help, a real doctor was persuaded to come in to add reality. The sessions proved immensely popular, both with participants and observers. All new detail men hired by Felding-Roth were now given five weeks of training, while others already employed were brought to headquarters in small groups for a ten-day refresher. To everyone's surprise, the older hands were not only cooperative but keen to learn. Celia, who also gave regular lectures, was well liked. She discovered that detail men who had been at the Waldorf sales meeting referred to her privately as "Joan of Arc" because, as one explained, "while Jordan wasn't burned for heresy, she came damn close.”

When Celia thought about the sales convention she realized, in retrospect, how lucky she had been and how close she had come to wrecking her career. At times she wondered: if Sam Hawthorne had not spoken up, defending her, if she had been expelled from the convention and afterward lost her job, would she have regretted acting as she did? She hoped not. She also hoped she would have the same kind of fortitude in future in whatever other confrontations lay ahead. For the moment, though, she was happy with the outcome. In her new job Celia saw a fair amount of Sam Hawthorne because, while Teddy Upshaw reported to him officially, Sam took a personal interest in the training program and was aware of Celia's contribution. Less harmonious was Celia's relationship with the director of research, Dr. Vincent Lord. Because of the need for scientific help with sales training information, the Research Department had to be consulted frequently, something Dr. Lord made clear was an imposition on his time. Yet he refused to delegate responsibility to someone else. During one acerbic session with him Celia was told, "You may have conned Mr. Camperdown and others into letting you build your little empire, but you don't fool me.”

Staying calm with an effort, she replied, "It isn't my 'empire,' I'm the assistant, not the director, and would you prefer to have scientific misinformation go out to doctors, the way it used to?" "Either way," Dr. Lord said, glaring, "I doubt if you would know the difference.”

When she reported the conversation to Upshaw, he shrugged and said, "Vince Lord is a first-class prick. But he's a prick who knows his science. Do you want me to talk to Sam and get him kicked in the butt?" "No," she said grimly.”I'll handle him my own way.”

Her way involved collecting more insults, but at the same time learning and, in the end, respecting Vincent Lord's competence. Though only seven years older than Celia-he was thirty-six-his impressive qualifications included a B.S. with honors from the University of Wisconsin, a Ph.D. in chemistry from the University of Illinois, and membership in several scientific honor societies. Vincent Lord had published papers while an assistant professor at U of 1, papers describing his own significant discoveries-one concerning oral contraception had led to improvements in the Pill. What everyone expected, Celia learned, was that Dr. Lord eventually would achieve a major breakthrough by developing an important new drug. But nowhere en route had Vincent Lord learned to be a pleasant human being. Perhaps, Celia thought, it was why he had remained a bachelor, though he was attractive enough physically in an ascetic, austere way. One day, attempting to improve their relationship, she suggested they use first names, a practice common in the company. He advised her coldly, "It would be better for both of us, Mrs. Jordan, to remember at all times the difference in our status.”

Celia continued to sense that the antagonism generated at their first meeting a year and a half earlier would remain a permanent part of their relationship. But despite it, and with Celia's persistence, the contribution of the Research Department to sales training proved substantial. Not that the plan to raise the standard of detailing was entirely successful or wholly accepted. It wasn't. Celia had wanted to set up a report system, with spot checks of detail men's performance obtained through confidential questionnaires. The questionnaires would be mailed to doctors on whom the detail men called. The suggestion went to the highest level and was vetoed. Then Celia asked that letters of complaint about detail men sent in by doctors be routed to Sales Training and a record kept. She knew from her own contacts that such letters were mailed in, but no one in the company ever admitted seeing them, and presumably they were buried in some archive, with corrective action, if any, remaining secret. This request, too, was refused. As Teddy Upshaw patiently explained, "There's certain things the powers-that-be don't want to know. You changed that some because when you stood up at our sales bash and spelled things out, and then Sam fescued you, they just weren't hidden anymore, and the brass had to make the best of what was on their plate. But don't push 'ern too far too fast.”

It sounded uncannily like the advice Sam Hawthorne had given before her Waldorf speech and Celia retorted, "Someday the government is going to step in and tell us what to do.”

"You've said that before," Upshaw acknowledged, "and maybe you're right. Also, maybe it's the only way.”

They had left it there.

The subject of drugs and the pharmaceutical industry was on other minds elsewhere. Through much of 1960 the drug business was in the news almost daily-mostly unfavorably. The continuing U.S. Senate hearings, chaired by Senator Kefauver, were proving a gold mine for reporters and unexpected agony for companies like Felding-Roth. Both outcomes were due, in part, to skillful staging by the senator and his staff. Like all such congressional hearings, much of the emphasis was on politics, with a bias decided in advance. As a Washington reporter, Douglass Cater, wrote, "They... move from a preconceived idea to a predetermined conclusion.”

There was also, on the part of Estes Ktfauver and his aides, a constant quest for headlines; thus their presentations were one-sided. The senator proved a maestro at disclosing sensational charges just before reporters had to leave the hearing room to file their stories-11:30 A.M. for afternoon papers, 4:30 P.m. for morning editions. As a result, rebuttals occurred with reporters absent. Despite the unfairness, certain ugly truths emerged. They revealed excessive pricing of drugs; unlawful collusive price-fixing; illegally rigged bids for government contracts for supplying drugs; misleading advertising to physicians, including minimizing or even ignoring dangerous side effects; infiltration of the Food and Drug Administration by pharmaceutical companies and acceptance by one high-ranking FDA official of "honorariums" totaling $287,000 from a drug firm source. Newspaper headlines, though sometimes one-sided, zeroed in on some abuses.

SENATORS FIND 1,118% DRUG MARKUP

-Washington Evening Star

SENATE PANEL CITES MARKUP ON DRUGS Ranging to 7,079%

-New York Times

DRUG PERIL CLAIMED

-Miami Herald

BIG PROFIT FOUND IN TRANQUILIZERS Chlorpromazine 6 Times Costlier in U.S. than in Paris -New York Times

Testimony revealed that drugs which had been discovered and developed in foreign countries were far cheaper in those countries than in the United States. This was absurd, it was pointed out, since the American companies marketing the drugs had incurred no development costs. In French drugstores, for example, fifty tablets of chlorpromazine cost fifty-one cents compared with three dollars and three cents in the United States. Similarly, the U.S. price of reserpine was three times greater than in Europe where the drug was developed. Another strange contrast was that American-made penicillin was selling in Mexico for two thirds of its retail price at home. These and other American prices, it was suggested, were high because of unlawful collusion between manufacturers.

PET FOOD SAID BETTER INSPECTED THAN DRUGS

-Los Angeles Times

FDA AIDE'S TALK EDITED BY AD MAN Drag Firm Slogan Written Into Speech -New York Times

Testimony disclosed that a speech delivered by an FDA division head at an International Antibiotics Symposium had been sent to a drug company, Pfizer, for prior approval. An advertising copywriter changed the text to include, by inference, a plug for a Pfizer product, Sigmamycin. Later the drug company bought 260,000 reprints of the speech, treating it as an FDA endorsement. The disagreeable newspaper headlines continued, sometimes on successive days, in big and small cities coast to coast, with TV and radio adding their reports. All in all, as Celia expressed it to Andrew in December, "It hasn't been a year for boasting about where I work.”

At the time, Celia was on leave of absence because their second child had been born in late October, again in accord with Celia's schedule. As Andrew had been confident, it was a boy. They named him Bruce. Both their lives had been made easier several months before by the advent of a young Englishwoman, Winnie August, who now lived in and took care of the children during their parents' absence. Andrew had found her through an agency that advertised in medical journals. She was nineteen, had previously worked as a shop assistant in London and, as Winnie herself put it, she "wanted to lave a workin' 'oliday findin' out what you Yanks are like, then maybe spend a couple o' years down under with the Aussies.”

She was cheerful, quick and, to Andrew's great joy, whipped up breakfast each morning with lightning speed.”Comes o' practice. Did it for me mum at 'ome," she told him when he complimented her. Winnie also liked children and Lisa adored her. Andrew and Celia hoped that Winnie's departure for Australia would be long delayed. One other event that came to Celia's attention happened near the end of 1960. The German drug Thalidomide-to be known in the U.S. and Canada as Kevadon-was submitted to the FDA for marketing approval. According to drug industry trade magazines, the Merrell Company, which now had North American rights, had large-scale plans for Thalidomide-Kevadon, believing the drug would be a huge seller, as it was continuing to be in Europe. The company was pressing FDA for swift approval. Meanwhile samples of the drug--officially for "investigative use," though in fact, without restriction -were being distributed to over a thousand physicians by enthusiastic Merrell detail men. The news reminded Celia of her conversation with Sam Hawthorne eight months earlier when he had reported resentment within Felding-Roth because, at Celia's suggestion, Thalidomide had been tested only on old people, then rejected. She wondered briefly if the resentment still remained, then dismissed the subject as unimportant. She had other business concerns. Following Bruce's birth Celia returned to work more quickly than she had after Lisa was born and was back at Felding-Roth by mid-December. One reason: it was a busy time in Sales Training. The company was expanding and a hundred more detail men were being taken on-plus, at Celia's urging, some detail women, though only a half dozen. Also contributing to her decision was an infectious sense of national excitement. In November John F. Kennedy had been elected president and it seemed-from the graceful rhetoric at least-as if a new era, stimulating and creative, had begun. "I want to be part of it all," Celia confided to Andrew.”People are talking about 'a new beginning' and 'history in the making' and saying it's a time to be young and in charge of something. Going back to work means being involved.”

"Uh-huh," Andrew had said, almost indifferently, which was unusual. Then, as if realizing it, he added, "It's okay with me.”

But Andrew's mind was not really on Celia's endeavors; he was preoccupied with a problem of his own. The problem concerned Dr. Noah Townsend, Andrew's senior partner and the respected chief of medicine at St. Bede's Hospital. Andrew had discovered something about Noah which, ugly and unpleasant, brought into question the older man's competence to practice medicine. Dr. Townsend was a drug addict.

Noah Townsend, now fifty-eight, had for many years appeared to represent everything a seasoned, experienced physician should be. He was conscientious, treating all who came to him, whether wealthy or poor, with equal concern. His appearance was distinguished; in manner he had always been courtly and dignified. As a result Dr. Townsend had a solid practice with patients who liked him and were loyal-with good reason, since he served them well. His diagnostic skills were regarded as remarkable. Townsend's wife, Hilda, once told Andrew, "I've stood with Noah at a party and he's looked across the room at a complete stranger and told me quietly, 'That man is very ill and doesn't know it,' or another time, 'That woman over there-I don't know her name, but she's going to die in six months.' And he's always been right. Always.”

Townsend's patients felt much the same way. Some who exchanged anecdotes about his accurate diagnoses referred to him as "the witch doctor.”

One even brought back from Africa, as a gift, a witch doctor's mask which Townsend proudly hung on his office wall. Andrew, too, respected the older doctor's abilities. As well, there had grown up between the two a genuine and warm affection, not least on Andrew's part because Townsend had, in all ways, treated his much younger colleague generously. Contributing to Andrew's respect was the fact that Noah Townsend stayed up-to-date medically through systematic reading, some thing many physicians of his age neglected. Yet Andrew had also noticed, over recent months, a certain vagueness at times on Townsend's part, and occasional slurred speech. Then there had been those incidents earlier in the year of Noah's apparently bizarre behavior. The combination of symptoms made Andrew uneasy, though he continued to rationalize that stress and tiredness could be their cause, since both doctors had been working hard, with heavy patient loads. It was during a November afternoon a month earlier-which Andrew now remembered as beginning for himself a time of agonized soul-searching-that unease and vague suspicion had turned to certainty. The way it happened was that Andrew wished to discuss their schedule of days off, days when he and Dr. Townsend covered for each other. After checking to be sure no patient was with his colleague, Andrew knocked lightly on Townsend's office door and went in. It was something each of them was used to doing frequently. Townsend had his back to Andrew and swung around, startled, in his haste failing to conceal what was in the palm of his hand-a sizable pile of tablets and capsules. Even then Andrew might have thought nothing of it, except for the older man's subsequent behavior. Townsend reddened with embarrassment, then with some bravado brought his hand to his mouth, shoved the pills inside and with a glass of water flushed them down. There was no way Townsend could ignore the significance of what Andrew had seen, but he attempted to make light of it.”So you caught me stoking up the furnace!... Well, I admit I do it now and then--been under a lot of pressure lately, as you know... But never let things get away from me... I'm an old-cowhand doctor, m'boy-know too much to ever lose control... A damn sight too much.”

Townsend laughed, a laugh which sounded false.”So don't worry, Andrew-I know where and when to stop.”

The explanation did not convince Andrew. Even less convincing was the slurred speech, a slurring which suggested that the pills Noah Townsend had just ingested were not the first he had had that day. Andrew asked, with a sharpness he immediately regretted, "What were you taking?" Again the false laugh.”Oh, just a few Dexedrine, some Percodan, a touch of Darvon for added flavor... Andrew, what the hell does it matter?" Then, with a touch of belligerence, "Told you I keep it under control. Now, what did you come to see me about?" With his mind in a turmoil, Andrew mentioned the subject of days off-which now seemed absurdly unimportant-speedily settled what was necessary, and left Noah Townsend's office as quickly as he could. He needed to be alone. To think. Andrew was horrified at the stew of drugs-there must have been a dozen or fifteen tablets and capsules-which his older colleague had casually downed. According to Noah's own admission, they were stimulants and depressants---drugs which reacted to each other and which no competent doctor would prescribe in combination. While not an expert on addiction, Andrew knew enough to realize the quantity and casualness were hallmarks of someone who was a long way down the addict's road. And prescription drugs taken indiscriminately, as Noah clearly was taking them, could be as dangerous and destroying as any street drug sold illegally. What to do next? The immediate thing, Andrew decided, was to find out more. Over the next two weeks he used whatever time he could spare to visit medical reference libraries. St. Bede's had a modest one; Andrew knew of another in Newark. Both had cataloged reports about physicians who became drug addicts and, as he studied the material, the first thing to become evident was the common and widespread nature of the problem. The American Medical Association estimated that some five percent of all physicians were "impaired" because of drug abuse, alcoholism, or related causes. If the AMA admitted to that startling figure, Andrew reasoned, the real one must be higher. Others seemed to agree. Most estimates ranged to ten percent, several to fifteen. One conclusion reached by all observers was that doctors got into trouble because of overconfidence. They were convinced that their specialized knowledge would let them use drugs without the habit's becoming dangerous, but almost always they were wrong. Noah Townsend's words, "

...never let things get away from me... know too much to ever lose control... I know where and when to stop...” seemed a pathetic echo of what Andrew read. The point was made that doctors became "successful addicts," undetected for long periods, because of the ease with which they could obtain drugs. How well Andrew knew it! It was something he had discussed with Celia-the fact that physicians could get free supplies of any drug, virtually in unlimited quantity, merely by asking a detail man from the company concerned. In a way he was ashamed of, yet mentally justified as necessary, Andrew managed to inspect the cupboard in Noah Townsend's office where drug supplies were kept. He did it at a time when Townsend was at the hospital, making grand rounds. The cupboard should have been locked, but it wasn't. In it, piled high and occupying all available space, was an astounding collection of drugs in manufacturers' containers, including narcotics of which there was a large supply. Andrew recognized some which Townsend had named. Andrew kept some drugs in his own office, samples of those he prescribed regularly, which he sometimes handed out to patients who he knew were in financial need. But compared with what was here, his own supply was trifling. Nor, for safety reasons, did Andrew ever accumulate narcotics. He whistled softly in amazement. How could Noah be so careless? How had he kept his secret for so long? How did he take the drugs he did and keep control? There seemed no simple answers. Something else shocked Andrew. He discovered from his researches that no overall program existed either to help doctors in trouble through excessive drug taking, or to protect their patients. The medical profession ignored the problem when it could; when it couldn't, it covered it up by secrecy and closing ranks. No doctor, it seemed, ever reported another doctor for drug addiction. As for a drug-addicted physician losing his license to practice, Andrew couldn't find a record of its happening. And yet the question haunted him: What about Noah Townsend's patients who, in a way, were also Andrew's because of the shared practice, with each doctor sometimes substituting for the other? Were those patients now at risk? While Townsend seemed normal in his behavior, and while he had made no mistakes medically so far as Andrew knew, would that condition continue? Could it be relied on? Would Noah someday, because of drugs, misdiagnose or fail to see an important symptom he should have caught? And what of his even larger responsibility as chief of medicine at St. Bede's? The more Andrew thought, the more the questions multiplied, the more elusive were any answers. In the end he confided in Celia. It was early evening, a few days before Christmas. Celia and Andrew were at home and, with Lisa's excited help, had been decorating their tree. It was Lisa's first awareness of "Kissmus," as she called it; all three were loving the experience. Eventually, with his daughter almost asleep from excitement and fatigue, Andrew gently carried her to bed. Afterward he stopped briefly in the adjoining bedroom where Bruce, the baby, was sleeping soundly in his crib. When Andrew returned to the living room, Celia had mixed a scotch and soda. "I made it a stiff one," she said as she handed him the glass.”I think you need it.”

As he looked at her inquiringly, she added, "Lisa was good for you tonight; you were more relaxed than I've seen you in weeks. But you're still troubled. Aren't you?" Surprised, he asked, "It shows that much?" "Darling, we've been married four years.”

He said feelingly, "They've been the best four years of my life.”

While he drank his scotch Andrew studied the Christmas tree and there was a silence while Celia waited. Then he said, "If it was that obvious, why didn't you ask me what was wrong?" "I knew you'd tell me when you were ready.”

Celia sipped a daiquiri she had made for herself.”Do you want to tell me? Now?" "Yes," he said slowly.”Yes, I think I do.”

"My God!" Celia said in a whisper when Andrew had finished.”Oh, my God!" "so you see," he told her, "if I've been less than a barrel of laughs, there's been good reason.”

She came to him, putting her arms around him, her face against his, holding him close.”You poor, poor darling. What a burden you've been carrying. I had no idea. I'm so sorry for you.”

"More to the point-be sorry for Noah.”

"Oh, I am. I really am. But I'm a woman, Andrew, and you're the one who means most to me. I can't, I won't, see you go on this way.,, He said sharply, "Then tell me what to do.”

"I know what to do.”

Celia released herself and turned to face him. "Andrew, you have to share this. You have to tell someone, and not just me.”

"For instance--who?" "Isn't it obvious? Someone at the hospital-someone with authority who can take some action, and help Noah too.” "Celia, I can't. If I did, it would be talked about, brought out in the open... Noah would be disgraced. He'd be removed as chief of medicine, God knows what would happen about his license, and either way it would break him. I cannot, simply cannot, do that.”

"Then what's the alternative?" He said glumly, "I wish I knew.”

"I want to help you," Celia said.”I really do, and I have an idea.”

"I hope it's better than the last one.”

"I'm not sure the last was wrong. But if you won't talk about Noah Townsend specifically, why not talk to someone in the abstract. Sound them out. Discuss the subject generally. Find out how other people at the hospital feel.”

"Do you have anyone in mind?" "Why not the administrator?" "Len Sweeting? I'm not sure.”

Andrew took a turn around the room, considering, then stopped beside the Christmas tree.”Well, at least it's an idea. Thanks. Let me think about it.”

"I trust that you and Celia had a good Christmas," Leonard Sweeting said. "Yes," Andrew assured him, "we did.”

They were in the hospital administrator's office with the door closed. Sweeting was behind his desk, Andrew in a chair facing it. The administrator was a tall, lanky ex-lawyer who might have been a basketball player but instead had the unlikely hobby of pitching horseshoes, at which he had won several championships. He sometimes said the championships had been easier than getting doctors to agree about anything. He had switched from law to hospital work in his twenties and now, in his late forties, seemed to know as much about medicine as many physicians. Andrew had come to know Len Sweeting well since their joint involvement in the Lotromycin incident four years earlier, and on the whole respected him. The administrator had thick, bushy eyebrows which moved up and down like vibrating brushes every time he spoke. They moved now as Sweeting said briskly, "You said you had a problem, Andrew. Something you need advice about.”

"Actually it's a physician friend of mine in Florida who has the problem," Andrew lied.”He's on staff at a hospital down there and has uncovered something he doesn't know how to deal with. My friend asked me to find out how we might handle the same situation here.”

"What kind of situation?" "It has to do with drugs.”

Briefly Andrew sketched out a mythical situation paralleling his own real one, though being careful not to make the comparison too close. As he spoke he was aware of a wariness in Sweeting's eyes, the earlier friendliness evaporating. The administrator's heavy eyebrows merged into a frown. At the end he pointedly stood up. "Andrew, I have enough problems here without taking on one from another hospital. But my advice is to tell your friend to be very, very cautious. That's dangerous ground he's treading on, especially in making an accusation against another doctor. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

He knew. With a flash of intuition Andrew realized that Len Sweeting knew precisely what he had been talking about, and whom. The Florida-friend gambit had not fooled Sweeting for an instant. God knows how, Andrew thought, but he's known for longer than I have. And the administrator wanted no part of it. All he wanted, quite clearly at this moment, was to get Andrew out of his office. Something else. If Sweeting knew, then others in the hospital must know too. Almost certainly that meant fellow physicians, some of them a great deal senior to Andrew. And they were doing nothing either. Andrew stood up to go, feeling naive and foolish. Len Sweeting came with him to the door, his friendliness returned, his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "Sorry to have to hurry you away like this, but I have important visitors due-big donors to hospitals who we hope will give us several million dollars. As you're aware, we really need that kind of money. By the way, your boss will be joining us. Noah is a tremendous help with fund-raising. Seems to know everybody, and everybody likes him. There are times I wonder how this hospital could continue functioning without our Dr. Townsend.”

So there it was. The message, plain and unequivocal: Lay off Noah Townsend. Because of Noah's connections and moneyed friends, he was too valuable to St. Bede's for any scandal to intrude. Let's cover it up, fellas; maybe if we pretend the problem isn't there, it will go away. And of course, if Andrew attempted to repeat what Sweeting had just conveyed to him, the administrator would either deny the conversation had taken place or claim his remarks were misinterpreted. In the end, which was later the same day, Andrew decided he could only do what everyone else was doing-nothing. He resolved, though, that from now on and as best he could, he would watch his senior colleague closely and try to ensure that Noah's medical practice or his patients did not suffer. When Andrew told Celia about the chain of events and what he had decided she looked at him strangely.”It's your decision and I can understand why you made it. All the same, it may be something you'll regret.”

Dr. Vincent Lord, director of research for Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals, Inc., was a mixed-up--an unkind person might say '.messed-up"- -personality. A scientific colleague had observed wryly, "Vince behaves as if his psyche is whirling in a centrifuge, and he's not sure how it will come out---or how he wants it to.”

That such an assessment should be made at all was in itself paradoxical. At the relatively young age of thirty-six, Dr. Lord had reached a plateau of success which many dream of but few attain. But the fact that it was a plateau, or seemed to be, kept him worrying and wondering about how he got there and whether anything significant lay beyond it. What might also be said of Dr. Lord was that if there had not been disappointments in his life, he would have invented them. Expressed another way: Some of his disappointments were more illusory than real. One of them was that he had not received the respect he believed he deserved from the academic-scientific community, which was snobby about drug company scientists-regarding them generally, though often erroneously, as second-raters. Yet it had been Vincent Lord's own personal, free choice, three years earlier, to move from an assistant professorship at the University of Illinois over to industry and Felding-Roth. However, strongly influencing that choice were Lord's frustration and anger at the time-both directed at the university-the anger persisting even now to the point where it had become a permanent corroding bitterness. Along with the bitterness he sometimes asked himself. Had he been hasty and unwise in leaving academia? Would he have become a more respected international scientist had he stayed where he was, or at least moved to another university somewhere else? The story behind it all went back six years, to 1954. That was when Vincent Lord, a graduate student at U of 1, became "Dr. Lord," with a Ph.D. in organic chemistry. The doctorate was a good one. The university's chemistry school at Chainpaign-Urbana was acknowledged as among the finest in the world, and Lord had proved himself a brilliant student. His appearance fitted the concept of a scholar. His face was thin, sensitive, delicately boned and, in a way, agreeable. Less agreeable was that he rarely smiled and often wore a worried frown. His vision was poor, perhaps from years of intense studying, and he wore rimless glasses through which dark green eyes-Lord's strongest feature-looked out with alertness mingled with suspicion. He was tall and lean, the last because food held no interest for him. He regarded meals as a waste of time and ate because his body required it; that was all. Women attuned to sensitive men found Vincent Lord attractive. Men seemed divided, either liking or detesting him. His field of expertise was steroids. This included male and female hormones-testosterone, estrogen, progesterone-which affect fertility, sexual aggressiveness and birth control, and during that period of the fifties when the Pill was just beginning to be used, the subject of steroids commanded wide scientific and commercial interest. After earning his Ph.D., and since his work on steroid synthesis was going well, it seemed logical for Dr. Lord to take a two-year postdoctoral fellowship, also at U of 1. The university was cooperative, financing for a "postdoc" was obtained readily from a government agency, and the two years passed amid continued scientific success and only minor personal problems. The problems arose from Lord's habit, close to an obsession, of looking over his shoulder mentally and asking himself. Did I do the right thing? He brooded: Had he made a mistake by remaining "in-house" at U of P Should he have cut loose and gone to Europe? Would Europe have supplied a more rounded education? The questions most of them unnecessary-multiplied persistently. They also made him moody and bad-tempered, a trait that would persist and lose him friends. And yet-another facet of the paradoxical prism which was Vincent Lord-he had a high opinion of his worth and work, an opinion that was wholly justified. Therefore it did not surprise him when, at the end of his two-year "postdoc," the University of Illinois offered him a post as assistant professor. He accepted. Again he remained "in-house.”

Again, as time went by, he brooded over that latest decision, repeating the torture of his earlier questions. An angel looking into Vincent Lord's soul might well have wondered-Why? During Lord's time as an assistant professor his reputation as a steroid expert burgeoned, not only at U of I but far beyond. In slightly more than four years he published fifteen scientific papers, some in prestigious publications including the Journal of the American Chemical Society and Journal of Biological Chemistry. It was an excellent record, considering his low-totem-pole status at the university. And that was something which infuriated Dr. Lord, increasingly as time went on. In the arcane world of scholarship and science, promotions are seldom speedy and almost always painfully slow. The next upward step for Vincent Lord would be to associate professor-a tenured appointment, tenure itself equating a laurel wreath or lifetime financial security, whichever way you looked at it. Associate professorship was also a signal saying, you have made it. You are one of the elite of academia. You have something which cannot be taken away, and are free to work as you choose, with only limited interference from above. You have arrived.

Vincent Lord wanted that promotion badly. And he wanted it now. Not in another two years, the remaining period which, as the mills of academia ground, he would normally have to wait. Thus, wondering why the idea hadn't occurred to him sooner, he decided to seek accelerated promotion. With his record, he reasoned, it should be a snap, a mere formality. Full of confidence, he prepared a bibliography, telephoned for an appointment with the dean the following week, and when the appointment was arranged, dispatched the bibliography to precede him.

Dean Robert Harris was a small man, wizened and wise, though his wisdom included doubts of his own ability to make the Socratic decisions frequently required of him. Basically a scientist, he still kept his hand in with a small laboratory, and attended scientific meetings several times each year. Most of his working hours though, were taken up with chemistry school administration. On a morning in March 1957 Dean Harris was in his office, turning pages of Dr. Vincent Lord's bibliography and wondering why it had been sent. With someone as temperamental and unpredictable as Lord there could be a dozen reasons. Well, he would find out soon. The subject of the bibliography was due to arrive in fifteen minutes. Closing the bulky folder which he had read fully and carefully the dean was by nature conscientious-he leaned back in the armchair behind his desk, musing on facts and his private, personal instincts about Vincent Lord. The man had genius potential. No doubt of it. If the dean had not known that already, he would have learned it from his recent reading of Lord's published work and reviews and accolades concerning it. In his chosen field Vince Lord could, and probably would, scale the Parnassus heights. With reasonable luck, which scientists like other mortals needed, some splendid discovery might well be in his future, bringing renown to himself and U of 1. Everything seemed positive, all signals set at green. And yet... Dr. Vincent Lord at times made Dean Harris feel uneasy. The reason was not the high-strung temperament exhibited by Lord; that and brilliance quite often went together and in tandem were acceptable. Any university-the dean sighed as he thought about it-was a cauldron of animus and jealousies, often over unimportant issues argued with surprising pettiness. No, it was something else, something more-a question raised once before and recently raised again. It was: Did the seeds of intellectual dishonesty, and therefore scientific fraud, lie somewhere deep in Vincent Lord? Nearly four years earlier, in the first year of Dr. Lord's assistant professorship, he had prepared a scientific paper on a series of experiments which, as Lord described them, produced exceptional results. The paper was close to being published when a colleague at U of 1, a more senior organic chemist, let it be known that while attempting to repeat the experiments and results described by Dr. Lord, he could not do so; his results were different. An investigation followed. It showed that Vincent Lord bad made mistakes. They appeared to be honest mistakes of misinterpretation, and Lord's paper was rewritten and later published. It did not, however, create the stir scientifically which the originally stated results-had they been correct-would have caused. In itself the incident had no significance. What had happened to Dr. Lord occasionally happened to the best of scientists. All made mistakes. But if a scientist later discovered an error of his own, it was considered normal and ethical to announce the error and correct any published work. What was different in Lord's case was an intuition, a suspicion among his peers based on Lord's reaction when confronted, that he had known about the errors, probably discovered after his paper was prepared, but had kept quiet, hoping no one else would notice. For a while there were rumblings on campus about moral sense and ethics. Then, following a series of unchallenged and praised discoveries by Vincent Lord, the rumblings died down, the incident apparently forgotten. Dean Harris had almost forgotten too. Until a conversation two weeks earlier at a scientific conference in San Francisco. "Listen, Bobby," a professor from Stanford University and longtime crony bad told Harris over drinks one evening, "if I were you I'd keep an eye on your guy Lord. Some of us have found his two latest papers non-repeatable. His syntheses are okay, but we don't get those spectacular yields he claims.”

When pressed for more details, the informant added, "I'm not saying Lord isn't honest, and we all know he's good. But there's an impression around that he's a young man in a hurry, maybe too much of a hurry. You and I both know what that can mean, Bobby --once in a while cutting corners, interpreting data the way you wish it to come out. It adds up to scientific arrogance and danger. So what I'm saying is: For the good of U of 1, and your own good, watch out!" A worried, thoughtful Dean Harris nodded his thanks for the advice. Back at Champaign-Urbana he had summoned the chairman of Dr. Lord's department and repeated the San Francisco conversation. The dean then asked: What about those two last published papers of Vince Lord's? Next day the department chairman was back in the dean's office with an answer. Yes, Dr. Lord acknowledged there was some dispute about his latest published results; he intended to run the experiments again and, if appropriate, would publish a correction. On the face of it-fair enough. Yet, overhanging the conversation was the unspoken question: Would Lord have acted if someone else had not brought attention to the subject? Now, two weeks later, Dean Harris was again pondering that question when his secretary announced, "Dr. Lord is here for his appointment.”

"So that's it," Vincent Lord concluded ten minutes later. He was seated, facing the dean across his desk.”You've seen my record in the bibliography, Dean Harris. I believe it's more active and impressive than that of any other assistant professor in this school. In fact, no one else comes close. I've also told you what I'm planning for the future. Putting all of it together, I believe accelerated promotion is justified and I should have it now.”

The dean placed his hands together, surveyed Dr. Lord across his fingertips and said with some amusement, "You do not appear to suffer from an underestimation of your own worth.”

"Why should IT' The answer was quick and sharp, devoid of humor. Lord's dark green eyes were fixed intensely on the dean.”I know my record as well as anyone. I also know other people around here who are doing a damn sight less than I am.”

"If you don't mind," Dean Harris said with a touch of sharpness himself, "we will leave other people out of it. Others are not the issue. The issue is you.”

Lord's thin face flushed.”I don't see why there's an issue at all. The whole thing seems perfectly clear. I thought I had just explained it.”

"Yes, you did explain. Quite eloquently.”

Dean Harris decided he would not be provoked into being less than patient. After all, Lord was right about his record. Why should he be falsely modest and pretend? Even the aggressiveness could be excused. Many scientists-as one himself, the dean understood-simply did not have time to school themselves in diplomatic niceties. So should he agree to Lord's request for fast promotion? No. Dean Harris knew already that he wouldn't. "You must realize, Dr. Lord," he pointed out, "that I alone do not make decisions about promotions. As dean I must depend heavily on advice from a faculty committee.”

"That's a-" Lord blurted out the words and stopped. A pity, the dean thought. If he'd said "a load of crap" or something similar I'd have had an excuse for ordering him from my office. But this is a formal occasion, as he remembered just in time, and we will keep it that way. "A promotion supported by you is always accepted.”

Vincent Lord scowled as he corrected himself He hated being subservient to this dean whom he considered an inferior has-been scientist, now a pathetic paper pusher. Unfortunately he was a paper pusher with the authority of the university behind him. Dean Harris did not reply. What Lord had said about his support of any promotion was true, but that was because he never took a position on one until he was sure it would be acceptable to the faculty. Though a dean was the senior member of a faculty, the faculty as a whole had more power than a dean. Which was why he knew he would never get Lord's promotion agreed to at this point, even if he pushed it. By now, gossip about those two most recent published papers of Vincent Lord's was undoubtedly circulating through the campus. Gossip, plus questions about ethics, plus the earlier, four-year-old incident which had been almost forgotten but now would be revived. There was no point, the dean reasoned, in delaying announcement of a decision already taken. "Dr. Lord," he stated quietly, "I will not recommend you for accelerated promotion at this point.”

"Why not?" "I do not believe the reasons you have given are sufficiently compelling.”

"Explain 'compelling'!" The words had been snapped out like a command and there were limits to patience, the dean decided. He replied coldly, "I believe it would be better for both of us if this interview were ended. Good day!" But Lord made no attempt to move. He remained seated in front of the dean's desk, glaring.”I'm asking you to reconsider. If you don't, you may regret it.”

"In what way might I regret it?" "I could decide to leave.” Dean Harris said, and meant it, "I would be sorry to see that happen, Dr. Lord, and your departure would be a loss. You have brought credit to the'university and will, I believe, continue to. On the other hand"-the dean permitted himself a thin smile-"I believe that even after your departure this institution would survive.”

Lord rose from the chair, his face flushed with anger. Without a word he stalked from the office and slammed the door behind him. Reminding himself, as he had so many times before, that part of his job was to (teal calmly and fairly with un-calm, talented people who often behaved unreasonably, the dean returned to other work.

Unlike the dean, Dr. Lord did not put the matter from his mind. As if a recording were implanted in his brain, he replayed the interview over and over, growing increasingly bitter and angry until he came to hate not only Harris, but the entire university. Vincent Lord suspected-even though the subject had not been mentioned at the interview-that those minor changes he was having to make in his two most recently published papers had something to do with his rejection. The suspicion increased his anger because, as he saw it, the matter was trivial compared with his overall scientific record. Oh yes, he conceded even to himself, he knew how those errors had occurred. He had been impatient, overenthusiastic, in a hurry. He had, for the absolute briefest time, let wishful thinking about results overrule his scientific caution. But he had since vowed never to let anything similar happen again. Also, the incident was past, he would shortly publish corrections, so why should it be considered? Petty! Trivial! At no point did it occur to Vincent Lord that it was not the incidents themselves, including the one four years ago, that his critics were concerned with, but certain symptoms and signals about his character. In the absence of such reasoning and understanding by Dr. Lord, his bitterness continued festering. Consequently when, three months later during a scientific meeting in San Antonio, he was approached by a representative of Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals with an invitation to "come aboard"-a euphemism for an offer of employment-his reaction, while not immediately positive, was at least, "Well, maybe.”

The approach itself was not unusual. The big drug firms were constantly on the lookout for new scientific talent and monitored carefully all published papers originating in universities. In the case of something interesting, a congratulatory letter might he written. Then, following through, scholarly gatherings where drug company people met academic scientists on neutral ground were useful points of contact. In all these ways, and well before the San Antonio meeting, Vincent Lord's name had been considered and selected as a "target.”

More specific talks followed. What Felding-Roth wanted was a scientist of highest caliber in his field to head a new division to develop steroids. From the beginning, the company representatives treated Dr. Lord with deference and respect, an attitude which pleased him and which he saw as a pleasant contrast to what he considered his shabby treatment by the university. The opportunity, from a scientific point of view, was interesting. So was the salary offered-fourteen thousand dollars a year, almost twice as much as he was earning at U of 1. To be fair to Vincent Lord, it could have been said that money itself held almost as little interest for him as did food. His personal needs were simple; he never had difficulty living on his university pay. But the drug firm's money was one more compliment-a recognition of his worth. After thinking about it for two weeks, Dr. Lord accepted. He left the university abruptly, with minimal goodbyes. He began work at Felding-Roth in September 1957. Almost at once an extraordinary thing occurred. In early November the drug firm's director of research collapsed over a microscope and died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Vincent Lord was in place and available. He had the needed qualifications. He was appointed to the vacant post.

Now, three years later, Dr. Lord was solidly entrenched at Felding-Roth. He continued to be respected. His competence was never questioned. He ran his department efficiently, with minimal outside interference, and despite Lord's private personality problems, relations with his staff were good. Equally important, his personal scientific work was going well. Most others, in the circumstances, would have been happy. Yet for Vincent Lord there was that perpetual looking-backward syndrome, the doubts and soul-searching about long-ago decisions, the anger and bitterness-as impassioned as ever-about his refused promotion at U of 1. The present held problems too, or so he thought. Outside his department, he was suspicious of others in the company. Were they undermining him? There were several people whom he disliked and distrusted--one of them that pushy woman. Celia Jordan received altogether too much attention. Her promotion had been unwelcome to him. He saw her as a competitor for prestige and power. There was always the possibility, which he hoped for, that the Jordan bitch would overreach, be toppled, and disappear. As far as Dr. Lord was concerned, it could not happen too soon. Of course, none of this would matter, not even the insult in the past at U of 1, and no one would come close to Vincent Lord in power and respect if a certain event occurred which now seemed likely. Like most scientists, Vince Lord was inspired by the challenge of the unknown. Also like others, he had long dreamed of achieving, personally, a major breakthrough, a discovery which would push back dramatically the frontiers of knowledge and place his name in the honor roll of history. Such a dream now seemed attainable. After three years of persistent, painstaking work at FeldingRoth, work which he knew to be brilliantly conceived, a chemical compound was at last in sight which could become a revolutionary new drug. There was still a great deal to be done. Research and animal experiments were needed over two more years at least, but preliminaries had been successful, the signposts were in place. With his knowledge, experience and scientific intuition, Vincent Lord could see them clearly. Of course, the new drug when marketed would make an undreamed-of fortune for Felding-Roth. But that was unimportant. What was important was what it would do to the worldwide reputation of Dr. Vincent Lord. A little more time was all he needed. Then he would show them. By God, he would show them all! Thalidomide exploded! As Celia said much later, "Though none of us knew it then, nothing in the drug industry would ever be quite the same again after the facts about Thalidomide became well known.”

Developments started slowly, unnoticed except locally, and-in the minds of anyone involved at the beginning-unconnected with a drug. In West Germany, in April 1961, physicians were startled by an outbreak of phocomelia-a rare phenomenon in which babies are born tragically deformed, without arms or legs, instead having tiny, useless, seal-like flippers. The previous year two cases had been reported----even that an unprecedented number since, as one researcher put it, "'two-headed children have been more common.”

Now, suddenly, there were dozens of phocomelic babies. Some mothers, when shown the children to whom they had given birth, screamed in revulsion and despair. Others wept, knowing that, as one put it, "my son could never feed himself unaided, bathe himself, attend to basic sanitary requirements, open a door, hold a woman in his arms, or even write his name.”

Among the mothers, several committed suicide; far more required psychiatric help. A formerly devout father cursed God.”I spit and shit upon him!" Then he corrected himself.”There is no God. How could there be?" And still the cause of the phocomelia outbreak remained unknown. (The word, it was explained, is from the Greek-phoke meaning "seal"; melos is "limb.” ) One study suggested the cause might- be radioactive fallout from atom bombs. Another, that a virus was at work. Many of the babies had other defects as well as missing limbs. Ears were absent or deformed; hearts, bowels and other organs were incomplete or didn't function as they should. Some babies died-"the lucky ones," as one observer wrote. Then, in November 1961, two doctors working independently and unknown to each other-a pediatrician in Germany and an obstetrician in Australia-linked phocomelia to the drug Thalidomide. Soon afterward, it was established that the drug was indeed the cause of the defective births. Australian authorities, acting swiftly, ordered Thalidomide off the market during the same month the connection became known. West Germany and Britain withdrew the drug a month later, in December. But in the United States it was two months more until, in February 1962, the Thalidomide-Kevadon application was withdrawn from the FDA. Canada, inexplicably, left the drug on sale until March--four months later than the Australian withdrawal and time for many more individuals, including pregnant women, to take it. Celia and Andrew, who followed the grim story by reading scientific publications as well as the regular press, discussed it frequently. One night at dinner Celia said, "Oh, Andrew, how glad I am you wouldn't let me take any drugs during pregnancy!" A few minutes earlier she had looked with love and gratitude at their own two healthy, normal children.”I could have taken Thalidomide. I hear there are doctors' wives who did.”

Andrew said quietly, "I had some Kevadon myself " You did?" "I was given samples by a detail man.”

Jolted, Celia said, "But you didn't use them?" Andrew shook his head.”I'd like to say I had a suspicion about the drug, but it wouldn't be true. I simply forgot they were there.”

"Where are the samples now?" "Today I remembered them. I pulled them out. There were several hundred tablets. I read somewhere that more than two and a half million were distributed to American doctors. I've flushed mine down the toilet.”

"Thank God.”

"I'll second that.”

In the months that followed, more news about Thalidomide continued to flow in. It was estimated that twenty thousand deformed babies were born in twenty countries, though the exact number would never be known. In the United States the number of phocomelia births was Iowan estimated eighteen or nineteen-because the drug had never been approved for general use. Had it been approved, the number of armless and legless American babies would probably have reached ten thousand. "I guess we all owe a debt to that woman Kelsey," Andrew commented to Celia on a Sunday in July 1962. He was at home, relaxing, a newspaper spread out before him in the den they shared. "Kelsey" was Dr. Frances Kelsey, an FDA medical officer who, despite intense pressure from the drug firm which planned to market Thalidomide-Kevadon, used bureaucratic tactics to delay it. Now, declaring she'd had scientific reasons for doubting the drug's safety all along, Dr. Kelsey was a national heroine. President Kennedy had awarded her the President's Gold Medal for Distinguished Service, the country's highest civilian decoration. "As it turned out," Celia said, "what she did was right, and I agree about being grateful. But there are some who say she got the medal for doing nothing, just putting off making a decision, which is always the safe thing for a bureaucrat to do, and now she's claiming to have had more foresight than she really did. Also, it's feared that what Kennedy has done will mean that in the future, good drugs that are truly needed will be delayed by others at FDA who'd like a medal too.”

"What you have to understand," Andrew said, "is that all politicians are opportunists and Kennedy's no exception, nor is Kefauver. Both of them are using the pubhcity about Thalidomide for their own advantage. Just the same, we need some kind of new law because whatever else Thalidomide did, it sure as hell showed that your industry, Celia, can't regulate itself and that parts of it are rotten.”

The remark was prompted by revelations, following investigations into the drug firms responsible for Thalidomide, of duplicity, callousness, greed, cover-up and incompetence, revelations that seemed to surface almost daily. Celia acknowledged sadly, "I wish I could argue with you. But no one in their right mind could.”

Surprisingly, and despite the political maneuvering that preceded it, some good legislation did emerge and was signed into-law by President Kennedy in October 1962. While far from perfect, and with provisions which later would deny valuable new drugs to those in desperate need of them, the new law provided consumer safeguards that had not existed "B.T.”

which was how many in the drug industry would in future identify the era of "before Thalidomide.”

Also in October the news reached Celia that Eli Camperdown, president and CEO of Felding-Roth, who had been ill for several months, was dying. The cause was cancer. A few days after she heard, Sam Hawthorne summoned Celia to his office. "Eli has sent a message. He would like to see you, He's been taken home from the hospital and I've arranged for you to be driven there tomorrow.”

The house was five miles southwest of Morristown at Mount Kemble Lake. Located at the end of a long driveway and shielded from outside view by trees and heavy shrubbery, it was large and old, with a frontage of fieldstone which had weathered and taken on a green patina. From the outside the interior looked dark. Inside, it was. A stooped, elderly butler let Celia in. He led her to an ornate drawing room furnished with heavy period pieces and asked her to wait. The house was quiet, with no sounds of activity. Perhaps, Celia thought, it was because Eli Camperdown lived alone; she knew he had been a widower for many years. In a few minutes a uniformed nurse appeared. In contrast to the surroundings, she was young, pretty and brisk.”Will you please come with me, Mrs. Jordan. Mr. Camperdown is expecting you.”

As they climbed a wide, curving staircase with deep carpeting Celia asked, "How is he?" The nurse said matter-of-factly, "Very weak and in a good deal of pain, though we use sedation to help him with that. Not today, though. He said he wished to be alert.”

She looked at Celia curiously.”He's been looking forward to your coming.”

Near the head of the staircase the nurse opened a door and motioned Celia in. At first Celia had difficulty in recognizing the gaunt figure propped up by pillows in the large four-poster bed. Eli Camperdown, who not long since had seemed the embodiment of strength and power, was now emaciated, wan and fragile-a caricature of his former self. His eyes, sunk in their sockets, regarded Celia as his face twisted in an attempt to smile. When he spoke his voice was low and reedy.”I'm afraid advanced cancer isn't pretty, Mrs. Jordan. I hesitated about letting you see me like this, but there are things I wanted to say to you directly. I thank you for coming.” The nurse had brought a chair before leaving them alone and Celia sat in it beside the bed.”I was glad to come, Mr. Camperdown. I'm just sorry you are ill.”

"Most of my senior people call me Eli. I'd be glad if you would do that.”

She smiled, "And I'm Celia.”

"Oh yes, I know. I also know you've been important to me, Celia.”

He raised a frail hand and motioned to a table across the room.”There's a Life magazine over there, some papers with it. Would you pass them to me?" She found the magazine and papers and brought them. With effort, Eli Camperdown began leafing through the issue of Life until he found what he was seeking. "Perhaps you've seen this.”

"The article about Thalidomide, with the photos of deformed babies? Yes, I have.”

He touched the other papers.”These are more reports and photographs; sonic haven't reached the public yet. I've been following the case closely. It's awful, isn't it?" "Yes, it it.”

They were silent, then he said, "Celia, you know I'm dying?" She answered gently, "Yes, I know.”

"I made the damn doctors tell me. I've a week or two, at best; perhaps only days. It's why I had them bring me home. To finish here.”

As she started to speak, he stopped her with a gesture.”No, hear me out.”

He paused, resting. Clearly the effort made so far had tired him. Then he went on. "This is selfish, Celia. None of it will do those poor, innocent children any good.”

His fingers touched the photos in the magazine.”But I'm glad I'm dying without that on my conscience, and the reason I don't have it there is you.”

She protested, "Eli, I believe I know what you're thinking, but when I suggested...”

He continued as if not hearing her.”When we at Felding-Roth had that drug, we planned to push it hard. We believed it would be big. We were going to test it widely, then pressure the FDA to pass it. Maybe it would have passed. Our timing would have been different; there could have been another examiner. There's not always logic to these things.”

He paused again, mustering his strength and thoughts.”You persuaded us to do the tests on old people; because of that, no one under sixty took it. It didn't work. We dropped it. Afterward I know there was criticism of you ... But if it had happened... the way we intended in the beginning... then I'd have been responsible...”

Again his fingers found the photos in the magazine.”I'd have died with that terrible thing upon me. As it is...”

Celia's eyes were misty. She took his hand and told him, "Eli, be at peace.”

He nodded and his lips moved. She leaned closer to hear what he was saying.”Celia, I believe there is something you have: a gift, an instinct, for judging what is right... Big changes are coming in our business, changes I won't see... Some in our company believe you are going far. That's good... So I'll give you some advice, my last advice... Use your gift, Celia. Trust your good instincts. When you have power, be strong to do what you believe... Don't let lesser people dissuade you - . .”

His voice drifted off. A spasm of pain contorted his face. Celia turned, aware of movement behind her. The young nurse had come into the room quietly, She had a syringe on a tray which she put down beside the bed. Her movements were efficient and quick. Leaning over her patient she asked, "Is it pain again, Mr. Camperdown?" As he nodded feebly, she rolled back the sleeve of his pajamas and injected the syringe's contents into his arm. Almost at once his facial tension eased, his eyes closed. "He'll drift now, Mrs. Jordan," the nurse said.”I'm afraid there isn't much point in your staying.”

Again she regarded Celia curiously.”Did you finish your talk? It seemed important to him.”

Celia closed the Life magazine and put it, with the papers, back where she had found it. "Yes," she said.”Yes, I think so.”

Somehow-though not from Celia, who kept her own counsel-a report of her encounter with Eli Camperdown filtered through the company. As a result she found herself regarded with a mixture of curiosity, respect, and occasionally awe. No one, including Celia, had any illusion that some exceptional insight had prompted her suggestion five years earlier about Felding-Roth's testing of Thalidomide, testing that turned out to be unsuccessful. But the fact was, the route the company took had saved it from what could have been disaster, and Celia's contribution to that route was cause enough for gratitude. Only one person in the company's top echelon failed to acknowledge Celia's role. The director of research, although he was one of those who had originally urged wide testing of Thalidomide-including giving it to obstetricians, which Celia specifically opposed --- chose to keep quiet about that portion of his involvement with the drug. Instead he reminded others that his had been the decision to turn it down when it failed during testing on old people. His statement was true, though incomplete. There was, however, little time for prolonged discussion. The death of Eli Camperdown occurred two weeks after Celia visited him. In newspapers the following day, November 8, 1962, the Camperdown obituaries were respectfully long, though even longer were those for Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, who also had died the day before. As Celia said to Andrew, "It seems as if two pieces of history ended together-one that was big history, the other smaller, but which I was part of.”

The death of the Felding-Roth president resulted in changes within the company, as a new president was named by the board of directors, and others moved up the promotion ladder. Among those affected were Sam Hawthorne, who became a vice president and national sales manager, while Teddy Upshaw, to his great joy, was appointed sales manager of over-the-counter products, marketed by the company's Bray & Commonwealth division.”A smashing chance with O-T-C to do some really drag-'em-in, knock-'em-down selling" was how Teddy described his impending move excitedly to Celia and told her, "I've recommended that you get my job, though I have to tell you there are still some around here who don't like the idea of a woman being director of anything.”

He added, "To be honest, I used to feel that way myself, but you changed my mind.”

Another eight weeks passed during which Celia functioned as head of sales training in everything except title. Day by day her frustration at the unfairness increased. Then, on a morning in early January, Sam Hawthorne walked into her office unannounced and beaming.”By God, we did it!" he declared.”I had to plunge my sword into the entrails of a few male diehards, and blood has flowed, but word has now come down. You are director of this bailiwick and, what is more important, Celia, you are officially on the company's fast track.”