Strong Medicine

TWO 1963-1975

Being on the fast track at Felding-Roth meant much the same as it did at other companies. You had been selected as a candidate for senior management and would be given better than normal opportunities to learn the business and to prove yourself Of course, not everyone on the fast track made it to the finish line. There were others on the track. Competition was keen. Also, a name could be removed at any time. Celia realized all this. She also knew that, as a woman, she had overcome an extra hurdle of prejudice which men didn't have to. The need for double achievement made her keener still. Which is why it seemed unfortunate that the 1960s were already proving a dry, non-innovative period for the prescription drug business. "It's happened before," Sam Hawthorne said when Celia raised the subject. "Look, we've just gone through twenty years of miracle drugs-antibiotics, new heart medicines, the Pill, tranquilizers, all the rest. Now we're in a flat spell before the next big scientific breakthrough.”

"How long a flat spell?" Sam rubbed his bald head thoughtfully.”Who knows? Could be two years, could be ten. Meanwhile, our Lotromycin is selling well and we're developing improved versions of existing drugs.”

Celia said pointedly, "Don't you mean developing 'me-toos'? Copying the successful drugs of our competitors? Playing molecular roulette by changing them just enough so we can't be sued for infringing someone's patent?" Sam shrugged.”If you choose to use our critics' language, maybe SO-,, "Speaking of critics, isn't it true they accuse us of wasting research effort on 'me-too' drugs, effort we ought to use in more productive, beneficial ways?" "And isn't it time you realized this industry is criticized for everything?" An edge of sharpness crept into Sam's voice.”Especially by people who don't know or care that 'me-too' drugs keep companies like ours afloat when nothing much is happening in science. There have always been gaps. Do you know that after vaccination for smallpox began to be used successfully, scientists took another hundred year% to find out why it worked?" Though the conversation depressed Celia, she discovered afterward that other pharmaceutical companies were experiencing the same dry period, with little that was new or exciting being developed. It was an industry-wide phenomenon which-though no one knew it then-would last until the 1970s, eventually proving Sam an accurate prophet. Meanwhile, through most of 1963, Celia continued to work successfully as director of sales training. Until November.

"I sent for you," Sam told Celia on an afternoon in late November, with the two of them seated in his oak-paneled office, "to tell you you're getting a new assignment. And, oh yes, it's also a promotion.”

Celia waited. When Sam said nothing more, she sighed and smiled.”You know perfectly well I'm dying of curiosity, but you're going to make me ask the question, so I will. Okay, Sam: what's my new job?" "General manager of over-the-counter products. You're to be in overall charge of Bray & Commonwealth. Teddy Upshaw, who used to be your boss, will now report to you.”

Sam smiled.”Celia, I hope you're suitably happy and impressed.”

"Oh, I am! I really am, Sam. Thank you!" He looked at her shrewdly.”Amid that enthusiasm, do I detect a reservation?" "No reservation.”

Celia shook her head decisively.”It's just that... Well, the fact is, I know nothing about our over-the-counter business.”

"You're not unique," Sam said.”I used to have the same gap in knowledge until I served a couple of years in 0-T-C territory. In some ways it's like going to a foreign country.”

He hesitated.”Or crossing the tracks to another side of town.”

"The I - ess reputable side?" "Could be.”

What the~ both knew was that Felding-Roth, like other big pharmaceutical firms, erected a wall between the prescription drug portion of its business, which was considered prestigious, and its O-T-C activities which frequently were not. On each side of the wall all activities were separate. Each side had its own administration, research staff, and sales force; there was no liaison between the two. This policy of separation was why Felding-Roth kept alive the name Bray & Commonwealth-originally a small, independent drug house. It had been acquired by Felding-Roth many years earlier and was now concerned solely with non-prescription products. In the public mind Bray & Commonwealth had no connection with Felding-Roth, and the parent company preferred it that way. "Bray & Commonwealth will be an educational experience," Sam told Celia. "You'll learn to care about cough remedies, hemorrhoid ointments and shampoos. Also, O-T-C is part of the whole drug scene-a big part, and it makes a bundle of money. So you have to know about it, how it works, and why.”

He continued, "Something else is that you may have to suspend your critical judgments for a while.”

She said curiously, "Would you explain that?" "You'll find out.”

Celia decided not to press the point. "There's one more thing I should tell you," Sam said.”The Bray & Commonwealth division has been stagnating and our O-T-C line needs new initiative, new ideas.”

He smiled.”Maybe the ideas of a strong, imaginative, occasionally abrasive woman-Yes, what is it?" The last remark was to his secretary, an attractive young black woman who had come in and was standing at the open doorway. When she failed to answer immediately Sam said, "Maggie, I told you I didn't want to be-" "Wait!" Celia said. She had seen what Sam did not-that tears were streaming down the secretary's face.”Maggie, what's wrong?" The girl spoke with an effort, words emerging between sobs.”It's the President... President Kennedy has been shot... in Dallas... It's all over... on the radio.”

Hurriedly, with a look combining horror and unbelief, Sam Hawthorne snapped on a radio beside his desk.

Forever after, like most others of her generation, Celia would remember precisely where she was and what she was doing at that terrible moment. It was a shattering, numbing introduction to the apocalyptic days which followed, a time of ended hopes and deep dejection. Whether Camelot had been real or illusory, there was a sense of something lost for always; of a new beginning which suddenly went nowhere; of the impermanence of everything; of the unimportance of lesser concerns including-for Celia-her own ambitions, and talk and thought of her new job. The hiatus ended, of course, and life moved on. It moved on, for Celia, to the head offices of Bray & Commonwealth Inc., wholly owned subsidiary of Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals, located in a four-story plain brick building a mile and a half from the parent company headquarters. There, some two weeks later, in her new modest but comfortable office, she met with Teddy Upshaw, the division sales manager, to review over-the-counter products. Through the preceding week Celia had immersed herself in papers-financial statements, sales data, research reports, personnel files-all relating to her new appointment. As she read on, she realized what Sam Hawthorne had told her was true. The division had been stagnating under uninspired leadership. It did need new initiative and ideas. At the beginning of her talk with Upshaw, Celia said, "Teddy, a plain, blunt question. Do you resent my sitting here and your having to report to me? Does it matter that our roles have been reversed?" The whippetlike sales chief appeared surprised.”Matter? My God, Celia, I couldn't be happier! You're what this division needed. When I heard you were moving over, I felt like cheering. Ask my wife! The night after I got the news, we drank your health.”

Teddy's energetic, bouncing head punctuated his remarks.”As to resenting you, no my dear, I'm just a salesman-a damn good one, but that's all I'll ever be. But you've the brains to give me something good, a whole lot better than what we have, to sell.”

Celia was moved by the reaction.”Thank you, Teddy," she said.”I like you too. We can be good for each other.”

"Damn right!" "You've been on both sides of this business," she pointed out. "Prescription drugs and O-T-C. Tell me what you see as differences between them.” "It's pretty basic. O-T-C is mostly hype.”

Teddy glanced at papers spread around the office.”I guess you've discovered that from studying costs.”

"Just the same, I'd like to hear your version.”

He looked at her inquiringly.”Confidentially? No holds barred?" She nodded.”That's the way I want it.”

"All right then, look at it this way. As we both know, a prescription drug costs millions to research and takes five, six years before it's ready for selling. With an O-T-C item, you need six months or less to formulate the stuff, and the cost is peanuts. After that the big money goes for packaging, advertising, sales," "Teddy," Celia said, "you have a knack of getting to the core of things. " He shrugged.”I never kid myself. What we're selling around here ain't from Louis Pasteur.”

"Yet overall, the industry's O-T-C drug sales are shooting up and UP.”

"Like a goddam rocket! Because it's what the great American public wants, Celia. People who've got something wrong with 'em -mostly something minor which time would take care of if they had the sense to leave it alone-those people want to treat themselves. They like playing doctor, and that's where we come in. So if that rocket is going up anyway, why shouldn't all of us-FeldingRoth, you, me-go up there with it, hitching to the tail?" He paused, considering, then went on.”Only trouble right now is, we ain't got firm hold of that tail-we're not getting the share we could have of the market.”

"I agree about market share," Celia said, "and I believe we can change that. As to O-T-C drugs themselves, surely they have a little more value than you say.”

Teddy raised his hands as if the answer didn't matter.”A little maybe, but not much. There are a few good things-like aspirin. As to others, the main thing is they make people feel good, even if it's only in their minds.”

She persisted, "Don't some of the common cold remedies, for instance, do more than ease the mind?" "Nah!" Teddy shook his head emphatically.”Ask any good doctor. Ask Andrew. If you or I get a cold, being on the inside track so to speak, what's the best thing we should do? I'll tell you! Go home, put our feet up and rest, drink lots of liquids, take some aspirin. That's all there is to do-until science finds a cure for the common cold, which is still a long hard march from here, the way I hear it.”

Despite the seriousness, Celia laughed.”You never take any cold medicine?"

"Never. Luckily, though, there's lots who do. Armies of hopefuls who pay out half a billion dollars every year trying to cure their uncurable colds. And you and me, Celia-we'll be out there selling 'em what they want, and the nice thing is, none of it'll do 'em harm.”

A note of caution crept into Teddy's voice.”Of course, you understand I wouldn't talk like this to anyone outside. I'm doing it now because you asked me, we're private, and we trust each other.”

"I appreciate the frankness, Teddy," Celia said.”But feeling the way you do, doesn't it sometimes bother you, doing this kind of work?" "The answer's no for two reasons.”

He ticked them off on fingers.”Number one, I'm not in the judgment business. I take the world the way it is, not the way some dreamers think it ought to be. Number two, somebody's gonna sell the stuff, so it might as well be Teddy Upshaw.”

He regarded Celia searchingly..”It bothers you, though, doesn't it?" "Yes," she acknowledged.”Occasionally, it does.”

"Did the brass tell you how long you'd stay in Bray & Commonwealth?" "Nothing was said. I suppose it could be indefinitely.”

"No," Teddy assured her.”They won't leave you here. You'll have this job for a year, probably, then move on. So stick it out, baby! In the end it's worth it.”

"Thank you, Teddy," Celia said.”I'll take your advice, though I hope to do a great deal more than stick it out.”

Despite being a working wife and mother, Celia was determined never to neglect her family, and especially to remain close to Lisa, now five, and Bruce who was three. Each weeknight, on her return home and before dinner, she spent two hours with the children-a schedule Celia adhered to no matter how important were the office papers she brought home in a briefcase for later study. During the evening of the day on which she had her talk with Teddy Upshaw, Celia continued what she had begun a few days earlier-reading to Lisa, and to Bruce when he would sit still long enough to listen, from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Bruce was quieter than usual tonight-he was tired and had the beginnings of a head cold with a runny nose-and Lisa, as always, was listening raptly as the story described Alice waiting by a tiny door to a beautiful garden, a door which Alice was too large to enter, and hoping she would find...a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this time she found a little bottle... ("which certainly was not here before," said Alice), and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words "DRINK ME" beautifully printed on it in large letters.

Celia put the book down while she wiped Bruce's nose with a tissue, then read on.

It was all very well to say "Drink me," but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry.”No, I'll look first," she said, "and see whether it's marked 'poison' or not.”

....She had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked "poison," it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. However, this bottle was not marked "poison," so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavor of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it off. "What a curious feeling!" said Alice.”I must be shutting up like a telescope.”

And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high...

Lisa interjected, "She shouldn't have drunk it, Mommy, should she?" "Not in real life," Celia said, "but this is a story.”

Lisa insisted firmly, "I still don't think she should have drunk it.”

Her daughter, Celia had observed before, was already a person of strong opinions. "You're dead fight, honey," Andrew's voice behind them said cheerfully; he had come in quietly and unnoticed.”Never drink anything you're not sure about unless your doctor prescribes it.”

They all laughed, the children embraced Andrew enthusiastically, and he kissed Celia.”Right now," Andrew said, "I prescribe an end-of-day martini.”

He asked Celia, "Join me?" "Sure will.”

"Daddy," Lisa said, "Brucie has a cold. Can you make it go away?" "No.,,

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not a cold doctor.”

He picked her up and hugged her.”Feel me! I'm a warm doctor.”

Lisa giggled.”Oh, Daddy!" "It's uncanny," Celia said.”This is almost a replay of a conversation I had today.”

Andrew put Lisa down and began to mix martinis.”What conversation?" "I'll tell you over dinner.”

Celia put Alice on a shelf until the next evening and prepared to take the children to bed. An aroma of curried lamb floated in from the kitchen while, in the adjoining dining room, Winnie August was setting Andrew and Celia's places for dinner.”at did I ever do, Celia thought, to have such a wonderful, satisfying, happy life?

"Teddy's absolutely right about its being useless to treat colds with anything except liquids, rest and aspirin," Andrew said after Celia told him of the discussion in her office that morning. The two of them had finished dinner and taken their coffee to the living room. He went on, "I tell my patients, if they have a cold and treat it properly it will last seven days. If they don't, it will last a week.” Celia laughed and Andrew poked at a log fire he had lighted earlier, restoring it to flame. "But Teddy's in error," Andrew said, "about so-called cold remedies not doing any harm- A lot of them are harmful, some dangerous.”

"Oh, really!" she objected.”Surely 'dangerous' is exaggerating.”

He said emphatically, "It isn't. In trying to cure a cold you may make other, more serious things that are wrong with you a whole lot worse.”

Andrew crossed to a bookshelf and pulled down several volumes, their pages flagged with slips of paper.”I've been doing some reading about this lately.”

He turned pages of the books. "in most cold remedies," Andrew said, "there's a mishmash of ingredients. One's a chemical called phenylephrine; it's in what are advertised as decongestants to relieve a stuffy nose. Mostly, phenylephrine doesn't work-there isn't enough used to be effective ---but it does raise blood pressure, which is harmful for anyone, and dangerous for those who have high blood pressure already.”

He referred to a page of notes.”Plain, simple aspirin, just about all medical researchers agree, is the best thing for a cold. But there are aspirin substitutes, heavily advertised and bought, which contain a chemical, phenacetin. It can cause kidney damage, maybe irreversible damage, if taken too often and too long. Then there are antihistamines in cold tablets-there shouldn't be; they increase mucus in the lungs. There are nose drops and nasal sprays more harmful than good-" Andrew stopped.”Do you want me to go on?" "No," Celia said, and sighed.”I get the picture.”

"What it comes down to," Andrew said, "is that if you have saturation advertising you can make people believe anything and buy anything.”

"But cold aids do help a cold," she protested.”You hear people say so. " "They only think they help. It's all a delusion. Maybe the cold was getting better. Maybe it was psychological.”

As Andrew put the books away, Celia remembered something another doctor, a veteran general practitioner, had told her when she was a detail woman. "When patients come to me complaining of a cold, I give 'em placebos-harmless little sugar pills. A few days later they'll come back and say, 'nose pills worked wonders: the cold has gone.”

The old G.P. had looked at Celia and chuckled.”It would have gone anyway.” The memory, and Andrew's comments, had the flavor of truth and now, in contrast to her earlier mood, Celia was depressed. Her new responsibilities were opening her eyes to things she wished she didn't have to know. What was happening, she wondered, to her sense of values? She realized what Sam had meant when telling her, "You may have to suspend your critical judgments for a while.” Would it really be necessary? And could she? Should she? Still pondering the questions, she opened the briefcase she had brought home and spread papers around her. Also in the briefcase was something Celia had forgotten until then-a sample package of Bray & Commonwealth's "Healthotherm," an O-T-C product introduced some twenty years earlier and still sold widely as a chest rub for children with colds; it had a strong, spicy smell described in advertising as "comforting.”

Celia had brought it home, knowing Bruce had a cold, and intending to use it. Now she asked Andrew, "Should IT' He took the package from her, read the table of ingredients, and laughed. "Darling, why not? If you want to use that ancient greasy goo, it won't do Brucie the slightest harm. Won't do him any good, either, but it'll make you feel better. You'll be a mother doing some- thing. , Andrew opened the package and inspected the tube inside. Still amused, he said, "Maybe that's what Healthotherm is all about. It isn't for the kids at all; it's for their mothers.”

Celia was about to laugh herself, then stopped and looked at Andrew strangely. Two thoughts had jumped into her mind. The first: yes, she would have to suspend critical judgments for a while; no doubt about it. As to the second thought, Andrew had just tossed out a good-No, much better than that!-a splendid, excellent idea.

"No," Celia told the advertising agency executives across the table.”No, I don't like any of it.”

The effect was instant, like the sudden dousing of a fire. If there had been a temperature indicator in the agency conference room, Celia thought, it would have swung from "warm" to "frigid.”

She sensed the quartet of advertising men making a hasty, improvised assessment of how they should react. It was a Tuesday in mid-January. Celia and four others from Bray & Commonwealth were in New York, having driven in from New Jersey that morning for this meeting at Quadrille-Brown Advertising. Sam Hawthorne, who had been in New York the night before, had joined them. Outside, it was a mean, blustery day. The Quadrille-Brown agency was located in Burlington House on Avenue of the Americas where snarled traffic and scurrying pedestrians were combating a treacherous mixture of snow and freezing rain. The reason for this meeting, in a forty-fourth-floor conference room, was to review,the Bray & Commonwealth advertising program-a normal happening after a major change in management. For the past hour the program had been presented with showmanship and ceremony-so much of both that Celia felt as if she were on a reviewing stand while a regiment paraded by. Not an impressive regiment, though, she had decided. Which prompted her comment, just received with shock. At the long mahogany table at which they were seated, the agency's middle-aged creative man, Al Fiocca, appeared pained; he stroked his Vandyke beard and shifted his feet, perhaps as a substitute for speech, leaving the next move to the youngish account supervisor, Kenneth Orr. It was Orr, smooth of speech and natty in a blue pinstripe suit, who had been the agency group's leader. The third agency man, Dexter Wilson, was the account executive and had handled most of the detailed presentation. Wilson, a few years older than Orr and prematurely gray, had the earnestness of a Baptist preacher and now looked worried, probably because a client's displeasure could cost him his job. Advertising executives, Celia knew, earned large rewards but lived precarious lives. The fourth member of the agency quartet, Bladen--Celia hadn't caught his first name-was an assistant account executive. (Was there anyone in the business, she wondered, who didn't have an important-sounding title?) Bladen, who seemed little more than a youth, had been busy helping move storyboards and artwork around for viewing by the company representatives headed by Celia. Additional agency people--probably another dozen-had come and gone as segments of the presentation succeeded one another. The most recent segment had been for Healthotherm-a new advertising proposal begun before Celia's arrival on the 0-T-C scene. The others with Celia from Bray & Commonwealth were Grant Carvill, who headed marketing; Teddy Upshaw, representing sales; and Bill Ingram, a young product manager. Carvill, a stolid longtime company man in his fifties, was competent but unimaginative; Celia had decided that sometime soon she would move him sideways to another job. Ingram, boyish, with unruly red hair and only a year out of Harvard Business School, was apparently keen and energetic, but otherwise an unknown quantity. Sam Hawthorne, as an officer of Felding-Roth, was senior to them all. The ad agency president, in acknowledgment of Sam's presence, had looked in briefly to say hello. But Sam, in announcing during a telephone call to Celia the day before that he would attend the advertising review, had made his own role clear. "I'll just be sitting in, observing. Because you've a big responsibility to which you're new, and a lot of dollars are involved, the brass over here will feel more comfortable if someone from the parent company keeps an eye on what's happening and reports back. But I won't intervene and it's your show.”

Now Celia glanced at Sam, wondering if he agreed or not with her comment of a moment earlier. But Sam's face was impassive, revealing nothing, as had been the case all morning. "All right, Mr. Orr," Celia said briskly, addressing the account supervisor, "you can stop wondering about how to react, and how to handle me. Let's have plain talk about the advertising, why I don't like it, and why I think this agency, whose work I'm familiar with, can do a whole lot better.”

She sensed a stirring of interest among the advertising group and even, perhaps, relief. All eyes, including those of her own people, were focused on her. Kenneth Orr said smoothly, "We're all delighted to listen, Mrs. Jordan. There is nothing among what you've seen which anyone in the agency is cemented to. As to new ideas, we'll be happy to produce them, or develop yours.”

"I'm glad about the cement," Celia said with a smile, "because my feeling about what we've seen is that everything would have been good ten years ago but is out of tune with here and now. I'm also wondering-to be fair-if some of that is because of instructions and restrictions from our company.”

She was aware of Orr and Dexter Wilson looking at her sharply, with respect. But it was Bladen, the young dogsbody, who blurted out, "Gosh, that's just the way it was! Whenever anybody around here came up with a 'with it' idea, or wanted to jazz up your old products-" The account supervisor cut in sharply, "That will do!" He glared at his subordinate.”We do not blame a client for shortcomings in our advertising. We are professionals who accept responsibility for what goes out from here. Furthermore, you will never refer to 'old products' in that tone. Mrs. Jordan, I apologize.”

"That's a load of horseshit!" The remark shot out from Celia's side of the table before she had time to answer Orr. It came from young Bill Ingram, whose face had flushed red in sudden anger, matching his hair. He went on, "They are old products and we all know it, so what's wrong with saying so? No one's suggested discarding them, but they sure can stand jazzing up. So if we're going to have plain talk, the way Mrs. Jordan said, let's have it.”

There was an awkward silence which Kenneth Orr broke.”Well, well!" With an eyebrow raised, he seemed divided between surprise and amusement.”It seems that youth has spoken up for youth.”

He turned to Celia.”Do you mind?" "No. It may even help us progress.”

Behind Celia's attitude today was her opinion, gained from a study of Bray & Commonwealth files, that past advertising had been inhibited by overly cautious, status-quo policies, an inhibition she intended to shed. "To begin, I'd like to discuss Healthotherm," she told the others.”I believe the new advertising that's proposed, as well as our old advertising, takes the wrong approach.”

With a mental salute to Andrew, Celia went on, "All our advertisin g, going back years because I've checked, shows children smiling, feeling better, happier, after Healthotherm has been applied to them, rubbed on their chests.”

The account executive, Dexter Wilson, asked mildly, "Isn't that what's supposed to happen?" But Kenneth Off, watching Celia's face intently, waved his colleague to silence. "Yes, it happens," Celia answered.”But it isn't the children, happy or otherwise, who go into stores and buy Healthotherm. It's their mothers. Mothers who want to be good mothers, who want to do something to make their sick children feel better. Yet, in our advertising a mother is either not in view or is merely in the background. What I would like to see, right up front, is a happy mother, a relieved mother, a mother who, when her child was ill, did something to help and now feels good about it. We should use the same approach for the print media and television.”

Suddenly there were approving nods around the table. Celia wondered: Should she add Andrew's comment, "Maybe that's what Healthotherm is all about. It isn't for the kids at all; it's for their mothers.” She decided not. She also put resolutely from her mind Andrew's description, "that ancient greasy goo" which, he claimed, would do neither harm nor good. Kenneth Orr said slowly, "That's interesting. Very interesting.”

"It's more than interesting," Bill Ingram injected.”It's damn good. Do you think so, Howard?" The question was to Bladen, so now Celia had the missing first name. The young agency man nodded eagerly.”Sure do. What we'd have is a kid in the background-I guess you'd have to show one somewhere. But momma right up front, and not too smoothy a momma. Her hair a bit ruffled, maybe her dress a touch untidy. As if she'd been working, sweating, worrying, in the kid's sickroom.”

Ingram picked it up.”Yes, make her real

"But happy," Bladen said.”She's relieved, not worrying any more because she knows her kid's okay, thanks to Healthotherm. That's a must. Mrs. Jordan put her pinkie on it there.”

"We can work out the details," Orr observed. He smiled at Celia.”Mrs. Jordan, there seems a consensus that you have something promising.”

"And something else, Mrs. Jordan," Bill Ingram said.”At our end we ought to change the product a bit. Then we could call it 'New Healthotherm.'" The account executive, Dexter Wilson, nodded.”That always helps.”

"New Healthotherm.”

Teddy Upshaw mouthed the words as if trying them on, then affirmed, "Yep! Be good for our sales guys out front. Give 'em a new angle, something fresh to talk about.”

Grant Carvill, the Bray & Commonwealth marketing man, leaned forward. Celia had the impression he felt the decision process was passing him by, therefore he should say something. "Changing the product won't be difficult," Carvill volunteered.”The chemists do it by revising an ingredient. Just something minor, not critical, maybe a difference in the per-fume.”

"Great!" Bladen said.”Now we're cooking.”

In a separate compartment of her mind, Celia wondered if all this was really taking place, and how she would have felt about it only a short time ago. Well, she reasoned, for better or worse she had accepted Sam Hawthorne's advice and suspended critical judgments. How long would she have to go on doing it? If Teddy Upshaw was right in his prediction about her moving on from O-T-C, it would be merely for a year. Celia observed that Sam was smiling and wondered at what. Her thoughts returned to her responsibilities. Observing the two young men, Howard Bladen and Bill Ingram, Celia had an instinct about whom she would be working with closely in the future, both at Bray & Commonwealth and Quadrille-Brown Advertising.

Even in her most sanguine moments Celia had not expected her merchandising program for New Healthotherm-the "happymomma" plan, as it became known to company insiders-to produce the astounding results it did. As Teddy Upshaw declared cheerfully during a private session in her office, "Celia, baby, it's dynamite!" He added, "I knew all along you were good, but you turned out to be a friggin' genius.”

Within a month of launching a TV, radio and print campaign orchestrated by Quadrille-Brown Advertising, sales of Healthotherm had multiplied by six. Moreover, in the fourth week a fresh flood of wholesale orders made clear this was merely a beginning. Sure enough, within another month the previous high had doubled, with still further gains predicted. The success of Celia and New Healthotherm were duly noted at Felding-Roth corporate headquarters. Consequently, through the remainder of 1964 when plans were developed to revitalize other Bray & Commonwealth products, approval of the expense was automatic. As Sam Hawthorne explained, "We still want to know what's going on, Celia--after all, we might learn something over here--but while you continue producing, you'll be given freedom to operate your way.”

Celia's way consisted of creating new images for elderly, existing products. One of them had been known simply as B&C Shampoo. At Celia's suggestion the old name was retained, but in minuscule type with a large new added name-EMBRACE. Immediately below and almost as prominent was the slogan: As Gentle As Your Dream Lover. Not only was the slogan remembered by those who saw EMBRACE advertised, and those who bought it, but-to the delight of all concerned with sales-it was bandied around to become a national catchphrase. TV comics milked the line for laughs. Parodies appeared in newspapers-among them an editorial page feature in The Wall Street Journal, criticizing a White House tax plan and headed: No Gentle Embrace From Your Dream President

This, and more, brought EMBRACE shampoo unprecedented attention and sales exploded. Again, the Quadrille-Brown agency developed the advertising program for EMBRACE, but this time under the direction of Howard Bladen, promoted from assistant to full account executive. Young Bladen had also played a role in New Healthotherm, eventually eclipsing the earnest, worried Dexter Wilson who simply disappeared from view, so Celia never did learn whether he had left the agency or was pastured to a lesser account. Similarly, at the Bray & Commonwealth end of the equation, the youthful Bill Ingram had been moved up by Celia to become marketing director, replacing the veteran Grant Carvill. For Carvill another slot was found where he was now-as someone said unkindly-"counting paper clips until early retirement.”

Ingram, taking his cue from Celia, came up with innovative marketing ideas. It was Ingram, also, who brought to her the news that a small pharmaceutical firm in Michigan was available for purchase.”They have several products, Mrs. Jordan, but the only interesting one is System 5, a liquid cold medicine, a decongestant. As you know, that's a gap in our own line, something we don't have. If we could buy the Michigan company, dump their other products and take over System 5, we could build it into something big.”

Remembering Andrew's views about all cold medicines, she asked, "Is System 5 any good?" "I had our chemists check it out. They say it's okay. Nothing world-shaking, and no better than we could produce ourselves, starting from scratch if we needed to.”

Ingram ran a hand through his perpetually untidy red hair.”But System 5 does what it's supposed to and it's already on the market with a reasonable sales base, so we wouldn't start from zero.”

"Yes, that's important.”

Celia was aware that economics were on the side of adapting an O-T-C product which had some acceptance already, rather than introducing something entirely new. Not only was any new item incredibly costly to launch, but most new products failed, often taking their supporters down to obscurity with them. "Give me a written report with all the details, Bill," she instructed. "I'll look them over. If I think it's a good idea, I'll talk to Sam.” A few days later Celia did think it a good idea and made a recommendation to buy the Michigan company-and thereby the cold medication System 5. As a result the small company was quietly acquired through an intermediary law firm, the vendors unaware of whom the lawyers represented. Such methods were standard, since announcing that a major drug house was interested would have pushed the purchase price sky high. Soon after, the other products of the acquired company were sold ofr and the Michigan plant closed. Manufacture of System 5, and a few of the people working with it, were transferred to Bray & Commonwealth's New Jersey plant. Bill Ingram was charged with improving and expanding sales of System 5. He began by ordering a striking, modem package design in orange and gold, an attractive matching plastic container to replace the green glass bottle in which the medicine had been sold previously, and renaming it System 500. "Those extra numbers," he argued, when reporting to Celia, "will imply we've strengthened the product at the same time we redesigned it. Matter of fact, our chemists are making a change or two in formulation so manufacturing will be more efficient.”

Celia studied the material presented, then said, "I suggest an extra line of copy immediately beneath the name.”

She scribbled on a sheet of paper:

System 500 The SYSTEMATIC Cold Fighter

and passed it to Ingram. He regarded her admiringly.”Brilliant! It'll make people feel they can be organized in getting rid of their colds. They'll love it!" Celia thought, Forgive me, Andrew! She reminded herself once more, All this is only for a year-then remembered how quickly time had gone by and that it was already a year and a half since her transfer to Bray & Commonwealth. I've become so engrossed, she reflected, sometimes I forget about moving back to the prescription drug side. Besides, what's happening here is Jun. Bill Ingram was continuing, enthusiastically as usual.”In another six months, when the new packaging has taken hold, we can launch the tablets.”

"What tablets?" He looked pained.”You haven't read my memo?" Celia pointed to a stack of papers on her desk.”It's probably in there. So tell me.”

"Okay. Tablets are just another way of selling System 500. Ingredients will be the same, the effect the same. But we'd advertise separately and get double exposure. Of course, we will dilute the ingredients for the children's version. That one will be called System 50, the smaller figure showing...”

"Yes," Celia said.”Yes, I get the idea-smaller figure, smaller people.”

She laughed. "Next winter," Ingram went on, undeterred, "when whole families are down with colds, my memo suggests we introduce a large, family-size System 500 bottle. If that catches on, we'd follow with an even larger one-in the trade they call it an 'Oh-my-Goff size.”

"Bill," Celia said, still laughing.”You're getting to be too much! But I like it. How about System 500 in aspic?" "For the carriage trade?" Now he was laughing with her.”I'll work on it.”

And while Celia and O-T-C were meshed fructiferously, events elsewhere moved on as always-with tragedy, comedy, conflict, nobility, sadness, laughter and human folly-bounding or shuffling onstage, sometimes as entities, occasionally all together. The British and French announced confidently, as they had on and off for a hundred and fifty years, that work would shortly begin on a Channel tunnel. Jack Ruby, killer of President Kennedy's assassin, Oswald, was found guilty and sentenced to death. President Johnson succeeded, where Kennedy had failed, in having a strong civil rights bill passed by Congress. Four saucy, charming Liverpudlians with the unlikely title of the Beatles were causing their music and a cult dubbed "Beatlemania" to sweep the world. In Canada, during a nationwide wrangle combining anger and silliness, the country adopted a new national flag. Winston Churchill, who had appeared likely to survive forever, died at ninety. And in the United States something called the Gulf of Tonkin resolution, relating to a faraway country, Vietnam, was eased through Congress with little attention paid, and less awareness that its consequences would alienate a generation and tear America asunder. "I want to watch the TV news tonight," Andrew told Celia on an evening in August 1965.”There's been rioting and burning in a place called Watts. It's part of Los Angeles.”

They were at home for a family evening, which both of them cherished, though recently such occasions were fewer since Celia's work now required her to travel, and sometimes she was away for days at a time. Because of this, and to compensate, the children joined their parents for the evening meal whenever possible. Celia liked the children, also, to see their grandmother, thoughto general regret-the visits from Mildred were less frequent nowadays, due to her failing health. Asthma had long been a problem for Celia's mother, and lately it had worsened. Andrew suggested that Mildred come to live with them, where he could take care of her, but she declined, preferring her independence and the modest Philadelphia home where she had lived since Celia was small.

But Andrew's response was reflexive, automatic. The mental depression produced by the televised scenes from Watts had stayed with him. So had a crucial personal problem, not related to Celia or his family-a problem that had already caused him anguish and would not, could not go away.

"The dilemma is," Sam Hawthorne told Celia next day, "you've been too successful--or, rather, far more successful than anyone expected. You are a goose producing golden eggs, which is why you've been left alone at Bray & Commonwealth.”

They were in Sam's office at Felding-Roth headquarters-a meeting arranged at Celia's request and at which she had just asked for a transfer from her O-T-C duties. "I have something here which may interest you," Sam said. Reaching across his desk, he shuffled several file folders, pulled one free from the others and opened it, From the other side of the desk Celia could see that it contained financial statements. "This hasn't been circulated yet, but the board of directors will see it soon.”

Sam put his finger on a figure.”When you went over to Bray & Commonwealth, revenues from that division were ten percent of all Felding-Roth sales. This year the figure will be fifteen percent, with profit up proportionately.”

Sam closed the folder and smiled.”Of course, you were helped a little by a falloff in prescription drugs sales. Just the same, it's a tremendous achievement, Celia. Congratulations!" "Thank you.”

Celia was pleased. She had expected the figures to be favorable, though not as outstanding as those Sam had just reported. She considered briefly, then told him, "I think O-T-C will keep its momentum, and Bill Ingram has become very good. Since, as you just said, prescription sales are down, maybe I could help out there.”

"You will," Sam said.”I promise it. Also, we may have something special and interesting for you. But be patient for a few months more.”

Andrew faced the hospital administrator grimly, They were in Leonard Sweeting's office and both were standing. Tension hung in the air between them. It was a Friday, close to noon. "Dr. Jordan," the St. Bede's administrator said formally-his voice taut, his expression serious-"before you go any further, let me caution you to be absolutely certain of what you are saying and to consider the consequences which may follow.”

"Goddammit!" Andrew, who was short-tempered from a sleepless night, was ready to explode.”Do you think I haven't done that?" "I imagined you had. I wanted to be sure.”

As usual, Sweeting's thick, bushy eyebrows moved up and down rapidly as he spoke. "All right-here it is again, Leonard, and this time I'm making it official.”

Continuing, Andrew chose his words carefully, the sentences wrenched reluctantly from his heart. "My partner, Dr. Noah Townsend," Andrew said, "is up on the medical floor at this moment where he is seeing patients. To my personal knowledge, Dr. Townsend is under the influence of drugs, to which he is addicted. In my opinion he is incompetent to practice medicine and may be endangering patients' lives. Further, also to my personal knowledge, a patient died needlessly in this hospital this week because of an error by Noah Townsend when he was impaired by drugs.”

"Jesus!" At the final sentence the administrator had paled. Now he pleaded, "Andrew, can you at least leave that last bit out?" "I can't and I won't! I also demand that you do something immediately.”

Andrew added savagely, "Something you should have done four years ago when we both knew what was happening, but you and others chose to keep your mouths closed and your eyes averted.”

Leonard Sweeting growled, "I have to do something. Legally, Andrew's mother, who had moved to Europe, was seldom heard from and, despite invitations, had never been to visit. She had not seen her grandchildren and apparently had no wish to.”When she hears from us, we remind her that she's old," Andrew observed.”She'd prefer not to have that happen, so I think we'll leave her alone.”

Celia sensed the sadness behind Andrew's remark. Andrew's long-estranged father had died; the news reached them, by merest chance, several months after it happened. As to younger family members, Lisa was now seven and in second grade at school. She continued to exhibit a strong personality, took her schoolwork seriously, and had a special pride in her growing vocabulary, though sometimes straining it. Referring to an American history lesson, she told Celia, "We learned about the American Constipation, Mommy," and on another occasion when explaining a circle, "The outside is the encumbrance.”

Bruce-now almost five-showed, in contrast, a gentleness and sensitivity, partly offset by a droll sense of humor. Celia was prompted to observe once to Andrew, "Brucie can be hurt easily. He'll need more protecting than Lisa.”

"Then he must do what I did," Andrew responded, "and marry a strong, good woman.”

He said it tenderly and Celia went to him and hugged him. Afterward she said, "I see a lot of you in Brucie.”

Of course, the two of them bickered occasionally, and there had been a serious quarrel or two during eight years of marriage, but no more than wits normal between husbands and wives, nor did the minor wounds they inflicted fail to heal quickly. Both knew they had a good marriage and did all they could to protect and preserve it. The children were with them when they watched, on TV, the rioting in Watts. "My God!" Andrew breathed, as scene followed awful scene-of burning, looting, destruction, brutality, injury and death, savage fighting between embittered blacks and beleaguered police in the wretched, degrading, segregated ghetto slum of Charcoal Alley. It was a living nightmare of poverty and misery the world ignored, except at moments like this when Watts obligingly provided drama for the TV networks, which it would continue to do for five more dreadful days and nights.”My God!" Andrew repeated.”Can you believe this is happening in our own country?"

All of them were so riveted to the TV screen that not until near the end did Celia observe Bruce who was shaking, quivering, sobbing silently, with tears streaming down his face. She went to him at once and held him, urging Andrew, "Switch it off!" But Bruce called out, "No, Daddy! No!" and they continued watching until the terrible scenes were done. "They were hurting people, Mommy!" Bruce protested afterward. Still comforting him, Celia answered, "Yes, Brucie, they were. It's sad and it's wrong, but it sometimes happens.”

She hesitated, then added, "What you're going to find out is that things like what you saw often happen.”

Later, when the children were abed, Andrew said, "It was all depressing, but you gave Brucie the right answer. Too many of us live in cocoons. Sooner or later he has to learn there's another world outside.”

"Yes," Celia said. She went on thoughtfully, "I've been wanting to talk to you about cocoons. I think I've been in one myself.”

A swift smile crossed her husband's face, then disappeared. He asked, "Could it be an O-T-C cocoon?" "Something like that. I know that some of what I've been doing involves things you don't approve of, Andrew-like Healthotherm and System 500. You haven't said a lot. Have you minded very much?" "Maybe a little.”

He hesitated, then went on.”I'm proud of you, Celia, and what you do, and it's the reason I'll be glad when someday you go back to the prescription medicines side of Felding-Roth, which we both know is a whole lot more important. Meanwhile, though, there are things I've come to terms with. One is, people will go on buying snake oil whether you or others produce it, so it doesn't make a helluva difference who does. And something else: If people didn't buy O-T-C potions and went to doctors instead, we'd all be swamped-we couldn't cope.”

"Aren't you rationalizing?" Celia asked doubtfully.”Just because it's me?" "If I am, why not? You're my wife, and I love you.”

"That goes both ways.”

She leaned over to kiss him.”Well, you can stop rationalizing, darling, because I've decided that O-T-C and I have been together long enough. Tomorrow I intend to ask for a change.”

"If it's what you really want, I hope you get it.”

after what you've told me, I have no choice. But as to what's past, I know nothing about it.”

"You're lying," Andrew said, "and both of us know it. But I'll let that go because at the time I was as bad, and as gutless as you. What I'm concerned about is now.”

The administrator sighed. He said, half to himself, "I guess this had to break open sometime.”

Then, moving to his desk, he picked up a telephone. A secretary's voice rattled in the instrument and Sweeting instructed, "Get me the chairman of the board downtown. Whatever he's doing, tell his people to break into it. This is urgent. When you've done that, you and anyone else out there get on phones and summon a meeting of the medical executive committee. The meeting will be held immediately in the boardroom.”

Sweeting glanced at a clock.”Most heads of services should be in the hospital now.”

As the administrator put down the phone he grimaced wearily, then his manner softened.”This is a bad day, Andrew. For all of us, and for the hospital. But I know you've done what you felt you had to.”

Andrew nodded dully.”What happens next?" "The executive committee will meet in a few minutes. You'll be called in. Meanwhile wait here.”

Somewhere outside a noontime whistle sounded. Time. Wait. Waiting. Andrew mused dejectedly: Waiting was what he had done too much of. He had waited too long. Waited-until a patient-a young patient, who should have lived for many more years-had died.

After his discovery, four years and eight months earlier, that Noah Townsend was a drug addict, Andrew had kept watch as best he could on the older physician-the objective being to ensure that no medical mishap or crucial misjudgment occurred. And while there were limits, obviously, to the closeness of Andrew's scrutiny, he was satisfied that no serious malpractice problem had existed. As if recognizing and accepting his colleague's concern, Noah would often discuss his difficult cases, and it was evident that, drugs or not, the elderly doctor's diagnostic skills were continuing to function. On the other hand, Dr. Townsend became noticeably more careless about taking drugs, not bothering with the concealment from Andrew he had practiced earlier, and showing increasing signs of the drugs' effects-glazed eyes, slurred speech and shaky hands, both at the office and St. Bede's. He left dozens of sample bottles of prescription drugs lying around in his office, not even taking the trouble to put them out of sight, and he would dip into them occasionally when Andrew was with him-as if they contained candy. Sometimes Andrew wondered how Townsend could continue to be a drug addict, yet function as well as he appeared to. Then Andrew reasoned: habit died hard, and so did instincts. Noah had been practicing medicine for so many years that much of what he did-including diagnoses which could be difficult for others-came easily to him. In a way, Andrew thought, Noah was like a flawed machine which goes on running of its own momentum. But a question was: How long would the momentum last? Still, at St. Bede's, no one else appeared to share Andrew's concern. However, in 1961-a year after Andrew's discovery about Noah and the first, abortive session with Leonard Sweeting-Noah Townsend did step down as chief of medicine, also quitting the hospital's medical board. Whether the changes were Townsend's own idea or the result of a quiet suggestion, Andrew never found out. Also, from then on, Townsend led a less active social fife, staying at home more than in the past. And at the office he eased up on his patient load, mostly referring new patients to Andrew and a new young doctor, Oscar Aarons, who had joined their practice. From time to time Andrew still worried about Noah and patients, but because there seemed no major problem, Andrew had as he saw it now-simply drifted along, doing nothing, waiting for something to happen, yet nurturing a wishful belief it never would. Until this week. The climax, when it came, arrived with shattering suddenness.

At first Andrew had only partial, disconnected information. But soon afterward, because of his suspicions and inquiries, he was able to piece events together in their proper sequence. They began on Tuesday afternoon. A twenty-nine-year-old man, Kurt Wyrazik, appeared in Dr. Townsend's office complaining of a sore throat, nausea, persistent coughing and feeling feverish. An examination showed his throat to be inflamed; temperature was 102 and respiration rapid. Through his stethoscope, Noah Townsend's clinical notes revealed, he heard suppressed breath sounds, lung rales, and a pleural friction rub. He diagnosed pneumonia and instructed Wyrazik to go to St. Bede's Hospital where he would be admitted immediately and where Townsend would see him again, later in the day. Wyrazik was not a new patient. He had been in the office several times before, beginning three years earlier. On that first occasion he had also had an inflamed throat and Townsend had given him, there and then, a shot of penicillin. In the days that followed the injection, Wyrazik's throat returned to normal but he developed an itchy body rash. The rash indicated that he was hypersensitive to penicillin; therefore that particular drug should not be given him again because future side effects might be severe or even catastrophic. Dr. Townsend made a prominent, red-starred note of this in the patient's medical record. Wyrazik had not, until that time, known about his allergy to penicillin.

On a second occasion, when Wyrazik arrived with a minor ailmtnt, Noah Townsend was away and Andrew saw him. Reading the patient's file, Andrew observed the warning about penicillin. At that point it did not apply, since Andrew prescribed no medication. That-about a year and a half earlier-was the last time Andrew saw VVyrazik alive. After Noah Townsend sent Wyrazik to St. Bede's, Wyrazik was installed in a hospital room where there were three other patients. Soon afterward he was given a normal workup by an intern who took a medical history. This was routine. One of the questions the intern asked was, "Are you allergic to anything?" Wyrazik replied, "Yes-to penicillin.”

The question and answer were recorded on the patient's hospital chart. Dr. Townsend kept his promise to see Wyrazik later at the hospital, but before that he telephoned St. Bede's, instructing that the patient be given the drug erythromycin. The intern complied with the order. Since, with most patients, it was normal to use penicillin to treat pneumonia, it appeared that Townsend had either read the allergy warning in his file, or had remembered it-perhaps both. That same day, when he visited Wyrazik in the hospital, Townsend would have-or should have-read the intern's notes, thus receiving a further reminder about the penicillin allergy. The patient's own background had some relevance to what happened, or failed to happen, later. Kurt Wyrazik was a mild, unobtrusive person, unmarried and without close friends. Employed as a shipping clerk, he lived alone and was in every sense a "loner.”

No one visited him while he was in the hospital. Wyrazik was American-born; his parents had been Polish immigrants. His mother was dead. His father lived in a small town in Kansas with Kurt's older sister, also unmarried. The two were the only people in the world with whom Kurt Wyrazik had close ties. However, he did not inform them that he was ill and in St. Bede's. Thus the situation remained until the second day of Wyrazik's stay in the hospital. On the evening of that second day, around 8 p.m., he was seen again by Dr. Townsend. At this point also, Andrew had some indirect connection with the case. Noah Townsend, of late, had taken to visiting his hospital patients at unorthodox hours. As Andrew and others reasoned afterward, he may have done so to avoid meeting medical colleagues in the daytime, or it may have been his general disorientation due to drugs. It so happened that Andrew was also at St. Bede's that evening, dealing with an emergency for which he had been called from home. Andrew was about to leave the hospital as Townsend arrived, and they spoke briefly. Andrew knew at once from Noah Townsend's demeanor and speech that the older physician was under the influence of drugs and had probably taken some quite recently. Andrew hesitated but, since he had been living with the situation for so long, reasoned that nothing harmful would happen; therefore he did nothing. Later Andrew would blame himself bitterly for that omission. As Andrew drove away, Townsend took an elevator to the medical floor where he saw several patients. The young man, Wyrazik, was the last. What went on in Townsend's mind at that point could only be guessed at. What was known was that Wyrazik's condition, while not critical, had worsened slightly, with his temperature higher and breathing difficult. It seemed likely that Townsend, in his befuddled state, decided the earlier medication he had prescribed was not working and should be changed. He wrote out new orders and, leaving Wyrazik, delivered them personally to the nursing station. The new orders were for six hundred thousand units of penicillin every six hours, injected intramuscularly, with the first injection to be given at once. Because of the absence, through illness, of a senior nurse, the night nurse on duty was junior and new. She was also busy.

Seeing nothing unusual in Dr. Townsend's order, she carried it out promptly. She had not seen, nor did she read then, the earlier notes in the patient's chart; hence she was unaware of the warning about penicillin allergy. Wyrazik himself, when the nurse reached him, was both feverish and sleepy. He did not ask what was being injected into him, nor did the nurse volunteer the information. Immediately after giving the injection the nurse left Wyrazik's room. What happened next had to be partly conjecture; the other part was based on a report from another patient in the room. Given the known effects of penicillin in the circumstances, Wyrazik would, within moments, have experienced severe apprehension accompanied by sudden itching all over his body, and his skin would have turned fiery red. In a continuing swift process he would have gone into anaphylactic shock with rapid swelling and distortion of his face, eyes, mouth, tongue and larynx, all accompanied by sounds of choking, wheezing and other desperate noises from the chest. The swelling of the larynx, most critical of all, would have blocked the airway to the lungs, preventing breathing, followed -mercifully, after pain and terror--by unconsciousness, then death. The entire process would occupy five minutes or perhaps a little more. If emergency treatment had been used, it would have consisted of a massive injection of adrenaline and an urgent tracheotomy-a surgical cut through the neck into the windpipe-to get air into the lungs. But it was never called for, and when help arrived it was too late.

Another patient in the room, observing thrashing and hearing choking noises from the adjoining bed, pressed a bell push urgently to call back the nurse. But when she came Kurt Wyrazik had already died-unaided and alone. The nurse immediately paged a resident. She also paged Dr. Townsend in the hope that he was still in the hospital. He was, and arrived first. Townsend took charge, and again the reasoning behind his actions had to be conjectured. What seemed most likely was that a realization of what had happened penetrated his befuddled state and, with an effort of will, he cleared his bead and began what--except for Andrew's intervention later-would have been a successful cover-up. It must have been clear to him that the nurse did not know about the penicillin allergy. It was also possible that, with some extraordinary luck, the two incriminating items-tbe earlier entry on the patient's chart concerning the allergy, and the penicillin injection-might not be connected. So if he could pass off the death as occurring from natural causes, the true cause might not attract attention. It also could not have escaped Townsend's notice that Kurt Wyrazik was without close friends, the kind likely to ask prying questions. "Poor fellow!" Townsend told the nurse.”His heart gave out. I was afraid it might happen. He had a weak heart, you know.”

"Yes, Doctor.”

The young nurse was immediately relieved that she was not being blamed for anything. Also, even now, Noah Townsend was an impressive, seasoned figure of authority whose pronouncement she did not question. Nor was it questioned by the resident who had been called, and who returned to other duties after finding there was an "attending" on the scene; therefore he was not needed. Townsend sighed and addressed the nurse.”There are things we have to do after a death, young lady. Let's you and me get on with them.”

One of the things was to complete a death certificate in which Noah Townsend recorded the death as due to "acute heart failure secondary to pneumonia.”

Andrew learned about Kurt Wyrazik's death by chance on Thursday morning. Passing through the office reception area which he, Townsend, and Dr. Aarons shared, Andrew heard Peggy, the receptionist who had replaced the departed Violet Parsons, refer on the telephone to "Dr. Townsend's patient who died last night.”

Soon after, Andrew encountered Townsend and said sympathetically, "I hear you lost a patient.”

The older man nodded.”Very sad. It was a young fellow; you saw him once for me. Wyrazik. He had a bad case of pneumonia, also a weak heart. His heart gave out. I was afraid it might.”

Andrew might have thought no more about the matter; the death of a patient, while regrettable, was not unusual. But there was something awkward in Townsend's manner which aroused a sense of vague disquiet. The feeling prompted Andrew, an hour or so later when Townsend had left the office, to pull out Wyrazik's medical file and read it. Yes, now he remembered the patient and, going through the file, Andrew noticed two things. One was a notation about a penicillin allergy, which did not seem significant. The other was the absence of any reference to heart disease, which did. Still not overly concerned, but curious, Andrew decided to make discreet inquiries about Wyrazik's death at the hospital later in the day. That afternoon he went to the records office at St. Bede's. Wyrazik's chart aiid other documents had been sent there from the medical floor after the patient's death. Andrew read the last entry on the medical chart first--the cause of death, as recorded by Dr. Townsend-then worked backward through the file. Almost at once the order, in Townsend's handwriting, for six hundred thousand units of penicillin leaped out at him, striking Andrew like a thunderbolt. Equally shattering was the nurse's notation that the penicillin had been administered and, as time sequences showed, it was shortly before Wyrazik died. Andrew read the rest of' the file-including the intern's note about penicillin allergy and the earlier order for erythromycin-in a daze. When he returned the file to a records clerk his hand was shaking, his head pounding. Questions hurled themselves.”at to do? Where to go next? Andrew went to the morgue to view Wyrazik's body. In death the eyes were closed, the dead man's features composed. Except for a slight bluish, cyanotic tinge to the skin which could have been from other causes, there were no telltale signs of the anaphylactic shock which, Andrew now believed, had killed this young man needlessly, He asked the morgue attendant who accompanied him, "Has an autopsy been ordcred?" "No, sir.”

Then the man added, "There's a sister who's supposed to be coming from Kansas. There's to be cremation after she gets here.”

Andrew's thoughts were in turmoil. Remembering his earlier experience with the hospital administrator, he was stilt' uncertain about what to do next. Clearly, something must be done, but what? Should he sound a warning about the need for an autopsy? One thing Andrew was sure of: an autopsy would show,there had been no heart failure. But even without an autopsy the entries on the patient's chart were damning evidence. By now it was early evening, most senior people in the hospital had gone home, and there was little choice but to wait until next day. Throughout that night, while Celia slept beside him, unaware of her husband's problem, he lay awake as courses of action chased themselves around his mind. Ought he to go before colleagues in the hospital with what he knew, or would impartial proceedings be more assurt,-d if he went to authorities outside? Should he confront Noah Townsend first and hear Noah's explanation? But then Andrew realized the futility of this, as Noah's personality had clearly changed, even more than appeared on the surface-the result of his drug addiction over years. The Noah Andrew had once known and respected, and at moments loved, was upright and honorable, holding the strongest views about ethics and medicine, so that he would never have condoned in himself or others the awful professional negligence, followed by subterfuge, which he had just practiced. The old Noah Townsend would have stood up, confessed and taken the consequences, no matter how harsh. No, a personal confrontation would accomplish nothing. Over it all, Andrew had a sense of great sadness and of loss. In the end he decided wearily that he would keep what he knew within the family of the hospital. If other, outside action needed to be taken, then others in the hospital must decide. Next morning in his office he took time to write a detailed summation of what he knew. Then, shortly before noon, he went to St. Bede's and confronted the administrator.

If he closed his eyes, Andrew thought, he might well imagine he was at a PTA meeting at the children's school, or perhaps in the boardroom of a nuts-and-bolts industrial company making everyday, routine decisions. The words flowed past him. "May I have a resolution on that?" - "Mr. Chairman, I propose "Is there a seconder?" second that.”

been proposed and seconded... Those in favor of the res- olution...” A chorus of "aye. "Against?" Silence. “.

...declare the resolution carried By unanimous decision the hospital privileges of Dr. Noah Townsend are suspended...” Could this truly be the way it happened? This prosaic, formal, minor-key accompaniment to deepest tragedy. Were these petty, pecksnifflan phrases the best that could be found to signal the sudden, grievous ending of a lifetime's work, a once dedicated man's career? Andrew was not ashamed to find that tears were coursing down his face. Aware that others seated around the hospital boardroom table were watching, he made no attempt to hide them.

"Dr. Jordan," the chairman of the medical board executive committee said considerately, "please believe me that the rest of us share your great sadness. Noah was, and is, our friend and colleague too. We respect you for doing what you have, which we are well aware was difficult. What we have done was equally difficult, but equally necessary.”

Andrew nodded, unable to speak. The chairman was Dr. Ezra Gould. He was a neurologist and the chief of medicine, having succeeded Noah Townsend in that office three years earlier. Gould was small and soft-spoken, but quietly strong and greatly respected at St. Bede's. The others on the committee were heads of services--surgery, obstetrics and gynecology, pathology, pediatrics, radiology, several more. Andrew knew most of them fairly well. They were decent, sensitive, caring people, but doing what they had to, even though, in Andrew's view, their action had been delayed too long.

"Mr. Chairman," Leonard Sweeting said, "I should inform the committee that in anticipation of its decision I prepared a notice which will go immediately to the entire hospital-nursing stations, admitting office, pharmacy, and so on. In it I took the liberty of describing Dr. Townsend's suspension as being 'because of health reasons.' I believe that's more discreet than anything specific. Is that agreeable?" Gould glanced inquiringly at the others. There were murmurs of assent. "It's agreeable," Gould said. "I would also urge," the administrator continued, "that the details of what has passed here be discussed outside this room as little as possible.”

Leonard Sweeting had guided the committee on procedure from the moment the meeting's purpose had been made known-to ' the shock and consternation of the senior doctors summoned here so hurriedly. Sweeting had also, before the meeting began, had a hurried telephone consultation with the hospital chairman, a veteran local lawyer, Fergus McNair, whose practice was in Morristown. The conversation had been in Andrew's presence and, while hearing only one side of it, Andrew did catch the chairman's emphatic final words which rattled in the phone receiver, "Protect the hospital.”

"I'll do my best," the administrator had said. After that Sweeting had gone into the boardroom, which adjoined his office, closing the door behind him and leaving Andrew alone. In a few minutes the door reopened and Andrew was summoned in. All faces around the boardroom table were deadly serious. "Dr. Jordan," the chairman, Dr. Gould, had said, "we have been informed of the nature of your charges. Please tell us what you know.”

Andrew had repeated what he had told the administrator earlier, at times referring to his notes. Following his statement there were a few questions and some discussion, but not much. Leonard Sweeting then produced the hotspital's file on the deceased Kurt Wyrazik, which was passed around and the patient's chart, with its damning entries, examined amid doleful head shaking. Andrew had the clear impression that although members of the committee had not expected today's disclosures to unfold as they had, the subject itself was no surprise to them. The formal resolution had come next, stripping Noah Townsend of his long-held status at St. Bede's. Now the chief of pediatrics, a gaunt, slow-speaking New Englander, said, "Something we haven't discussed is what's to happen concerning the young man who died.”

"Knowing what we do," the administrator answered, "it's essential that an autopsy be performed. Just before this meeting I spoke by telephone with the deceased's father in Kansas-a sister is on the way here--and the father has given the necessary permission. So the autopsy will be done today.”

Sweeting glanced at the head of pathology, who signified assent. "All right," the pediatrics chief persisted, "but what do we tell his family?" "Quite frankly," Sweeting said, "because of the legal issues involved, that is a delicate, potentially volatile subject. I suggest you leave a decision on it to Dr. Gould, to me, and to Mr. McNair who will be here shortly and who will also advise us legally.”

He added, "Perhaps, later on, we will report back to this committee.”

Dr. Gould asked the others, "Is that all right?" There were nods of agreement and also, it seemed, a sense of relief. Perhaps. Andrew thought: it was the operative word. Perhaps... we will report back to this committee. And perhaps we won’t. What the hospital, in the persons of Leonard Sweeting and his boss Fergus McNair, would undoubtedly like was for everything to be hushed up, and for young Kurt Wyrazik, the innocent victim, to be cremated and forgotten. In a way, Andrew supposed, you couldn't blame Sweeting or McNair. They had their responsibilities. And if all this came to a malpractice case in court, a jury award or financial settlement could be horrendous. Whether insurance would cover it, Andrew had no idea and didn't care. The only thing he was sure of was that he would not be part of a cover-up himself. There had been a buzz of conversation and the chairman rapped a gavel for attention. "Now," Dr. Gould said, "we come to the hardest part.”

He glanced around the room.”I will have to go to Noah Townsend and tell him what has been decided here. I understand he is still in the hospital. Is there anyone who chooses to come with me?" Andrew said, "I'll come with you.”

It was, he thought, the very least that he could do. He owed that much to Noah. "Thank you, Andrew.”

Gould nodded his appreciation.

In the calm of later, quiet reflection, and despite the pathetic, strident scene that followed, Andrew had an instinct that Noah Townsend had been waiting for them and was relieved to see them come. As Dr. Ezra Gould and Andrew stepped out of an elevator on the medical floor, to their right were a busy corridor, patients' rooms and a nursing station. At the end of the corridor Townsend was standing, doing nothing, appearing to be looking into space. As the two of them approached, he moved his head and then, observing them, seemed to shrink into himself. He turned away, but a moment later abruptly changed his mind. Swinging back, his features twisted in the parody of a smile, he held out his wrists, both close together. "Did you bring handcuffs?" Townsend asked. Gould seemed non-plused, then said, "Noah, I have to talk to you. Let's go somewhere private.”

"Why bother with privacy?" The response was close to a shout and it appeared as if Townsend had raised his voice deliberately; a nurse and several patients turned their heads in curiosity.”Isn't the whole hospital going to know before the day is out?" "Very well," Gould said quietly.”If you insist, we'll do it here. It is my duty to tell you, Noah, that the medical board executive committee has held a meeting. With the greatest regret it was decided to suspend your hospital privileges.”

"Do you have any idea"-Townsend's voice was still raised"how long I've been part of this hospital and how much I've done for it?" "I'm aware that it's been many years and we all know you've done a great deal.”

Gould was uncomfortably conscious of still more people listening. "Please, Noah, can't we "Doesn't all of that count for something?"

"In this case, unfortunately no.”

"Ask Andrew here how much I've done! Go on, ask him!"

"Noah," Andrew said.”I told them about Wyrazik. I'm sorry, but I had to," "Ah, yes! Wyrazik.”

Townsend nodded several times with jerky movements of his head; he spoke more softly.

”That poor young fellow. He deserved better. I'm sorry about Wyrazik too. I truly am.,, Then suddenly, embarrassingly, the elderly physician broke down and began to blubber. Violent sobs shook his body. They were punctuated by incoherent phrases.”.

...first time... ever made mistake... surely overlooked... won't happen... promise you...”

Andrew reached for Townsend's arm but Ezra Gould was ahead of him. Grasping it, Gould said firmly, "Noah, let's get out of here. You're not well. I'm going to take you home.”

Still shaken by sobs, Townsend allowed himself to be eased toward the elevators. Curious glances followed them. Gould turned to Andrew. Pushing Townsend slightly ahead, the chief of medicine said quietly, "Andrew, stay here. Find out which patients Noah saw today and check any orders he may have written. Do it quickly. There must be no repetition of... You understand?" Andrew nodded.”Yes.”

Reluctantly he watched the other two go. When they reached the elevators Townsend began screaming and shouting hysterically, trying to resist. Suddenly, incredibly, something within him seemed to have collapsed, reducing him to a shard of his former sell', a broken figure, stripped of all dignity and stature. As an elevator door opened Gould shoved Townsend roughly, hurriedly inside. Even when the door closed the screaming could be heard. Then it faded as the elevator descended, leaving Andrew standing alone amid the silence.

That evening, after dinner, Andrew received a telephone call at home from Ezra Gould.

"I want to see you," the chief of medicine said.”Tonight. Where would be most convenient? I'll come to your house if you wish.”

"No," Andrew said.”Let's make it at the hospital.”

He had not felt equal yet to telling Celia about Noah and though, as she always did, Celia sensed something wrong, she had not pressed him for the reason. When Andrew arrived at St. Bede's, Dr. Gould was in the tiny office which the hospital set aside for his use.”Come in," he said.”And close the door.”

Opening a desk drawer, Gould produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses. "It's against the rules and I do this rarely. But I feel a need tonight. Will you join me?" Andrew said gratefully, "Yes, please.”

Gould poured the drinks, added ice and water, and they drank in silence. Then Gould said, "I've been with Noah almost since I left you. There are several things you should know. The first is-since it will affect your practice and Noah's patients-Noah Townsend will never practice medicine again.”

“How is he?" Andrew asked. 'Make that 'where is he, and I'll answer.”

Gould swirled the remaining liquid in his glass.”He's been committed to a private psychiatric hospital in Newark. In the opinion of those competent to know, he’s unlikely ever to leave.”

As Gould described the events of the afternoon and early evening his voice was strained. At one point he commented grimly, "I hope I never go through anything like this again.”

After leaving Andrew, when Gould and Townsend reached the main floor of St. Bede's the chief of medicine managed to hustle Townsend, still screaming, into an unoccupied treatment room where Gould locked the door and telephoned urgently for a staff psychiatrist. When the psychiatrist arrived, between them they subdued Townsend and sedated him. Obviously, in his condition Townsend could not be taken home so the psychiatrist had done some hasty telephoning, after which Townsend was removed by ambulance to the institute in Newark. Gould and the psychiatrist accompanied him. By the time they arrived at the psychiatric hospital, the sedation had worn off and Townsend became violent, necessitating his being restrained in a straitjacket.

”Oh, Christ, it was awful!" Gould took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. At that point, more or less, it became evident that Noah Townsend had become insane. As Ezra Gould described it,

"It was as if somehow Noah had been living-for a long time and because of his drug addiction, of course-as an empty shell. God knows how he managed to keep going, but he did. Then, suddenly, what happened today caused the shell to crumple... and there was nothing functioning inside and, the way it looks now, nothing salvageable either.”

An hour ago, Gould continued, he had been to see Noah Townsend's wife. Andrew was startled. Amid all that had occurred in the past few days, he had given no thought to Hilda, He asked, "How has she taken it?"

Gould considered before answering.”It's hard to say. She didn't talk a lot and she didn't break down. I got the impression she's been expecting something to happen, though never knowing what. I think you'd better see her yourself tomorrow.”

"Yes," Andrew said. A will.”

Gould hesitated. Then, looking at Andrew directly, he said, "There's one more thing you and I have to discuss, and that's the dead man, Wyrazik.”

"I may as well tell you now," Andrew said firmly, "I have no intention of being part of any cover-up.”

"All right," Gould acknowledged; his voice sharpened.”Then let me ask you this: What do you propose doing? Are you going to make a public statement, maybe to the press? After that will you volunteer as a prosecution witness in a malpractice suit? Will you help some ambulance-chasing lawyer on a fat contingency fee take away from Townsend's wife whatever money Noah had accumulated for their old age? Will you load this hospital with damages far in excess of any insurance we carry, and which could break us financially, so we might have to reduce our services or close?" Andrew protested, "None of that may happen.”

"But it could. You've read enough about sharp lawyers to know what they can do in court.”

"That isn't my problem," Andrew insisted.”What's important is the truth.”

"The truth is important to us all," Gould answered.”You don't have a monopoly on that. But sometimes the truth can be shaded for decent reasons and in special circumstances," His voice became persuasive.”Now listen carefully, Andrew. Hear me out.”

The chief of medicine paused, gathering his thoughts, then said, "The dead man's sister, Miss Wyrazik, arrived this afternoon from Kansas. Len Sweeting saw her. She's a nice ordinary woman, he says, quite a bit older than her brother was, and of course she's sorry about his death. But the two of them weren't close, haven't been for many years, so for her it's not a shattering bereavement. There's a father back in Kansas, but he has Parkinson's. It's advanced, he hasn't long to live.”

Andrew said, "I don't see what all this-" "You will. Just listen!" Again Gould paused before continuing.”Wyrazik's sister is not here to make trouble. She hasn't asked a lot of questions. She even volunteered the statement that her brother's health was never good. She wants his remains cremated, and after-ward she'll take the ashes back to Kansas. But she does have problems about money. When Len talked to her he discovered that.”

"Then she's entitled to be helped. Surely that's the least-" "Exactly! We're all agreed on that, Andrew. What's more, financial help can be arranged.”

"How?" "Len and Fergus McNair have worked it out. They've been busy this afternoon. Never mind all details; you and I don't need to know them, But the fact is, our insurers-who've been talked to confidentially-have an interest in seeing this thing ended quietly. Wyrazik, it appears, was sending money to Kansas to help pay medical expenses for his father. Those amounts can be continued, maybe augmented. Wyrazik's funeral expenses will be paid. And there can be a pension, not enormous but sufficient, for the sister for the remainder of her life.”

"How will you explain that to her without admitting liability? Supposing she becomes suspicious?" "I imagine it's a risk," Gould said, "though Len and McNair don't seem to think so, and they're lawyers after all. They believe they can handle it discreetly. Also, I suppose, it has to do with the kind of woman Miss Wyrazik is. The most important thing: this way there won't be any ridiculous multimillion dollar settlements.”

"I suppose," Andrew said, "what's ridiculous or isn't depends on your point of view.”

The chief of medicine gestured impatiently.”Try to remember this: There's no wife involved, no children with future education to be considered-just a dying old man and one middle-aged woman who's going to be taken care of reasonably.”

Gould stopped, then asked abruptly, "What were you thinking?" At the last remark Andrew had smiled. "A cynical thought. If Noah had to kill a patient, he couldn't have picked one who'd be more accommodating.”

Gould shrugged.”Life's full of chances. This happens to be one that broke our way. Well?" "Well what?" "Well, are you going to make a public statement? Will you call the press?" Andrew said irritably, "Of course not. I never intended to. You knew that perfectly well.”

"Then what else is there? You've already behaved correctly in bringing what you knew to the hospital's attention. Further than that you're not involved. You will not be a party to any settlement. You are not being asked to lie and if, for any reason, all this blew open and you were questioned officially, naturally you'd tell the truth.” "If that's my position," Andrew queried, "what about yours? Will you tell Miss Wyrazik the real cause of her brother's death?" "No," Gould answered curtly. Then he added, "That's why some of us are in this deeper than you. And maybe why we deserve to be.

In the ensuing silence Andrew thought: What Ezra Gould had just said was an admission, subtle but clear, that Andrew had been right, and others wrong, four years ago when Andrew tried to bring Noah Townsend's drug addiction out in the open but was rebuffed. Andrew was certain now that Leonard Sweeting had told others of their conversation at that time. Undoubtedly the admission was the only one that ever would be made; such things were never inserted in a written record. But at least, Andrew reasoned, something had been learned-by himself, Sweeting, Gould and others. Unfortunately their learning came too late to help either Townsend or Wyrazik. So where, Andrew asked himself, did he go from here? The answer seemed to be: Nowhere. What Gould had been saying did, on the whole, make sense. It was also true that Andrew was not being asked to lie, though he was being asked to keep quiet so, in that sense, he was sharing in a cover-up. On the other hand, who else was there to tell, and what would be gained from doing so? No matter what happened, Kurt Wyrazik could not be brought back to life, and Noah Townsendtragically but necessarily-had been removed from the scene and would menace no one else. "All right," Andrew told the chief of medicine, "I'll do nothing more.”

"Thank you," Gould acknowledged. He looked at his watch.”It's been a long day. I'm going home.”

Andrew went to see Hilda Townsend the following afternoon. Townsend was age sixty-three, Hilda four years younger. For a woman of her age, she was attractive. She had kept her figure in good shape. Her face was firm. Her hair, while entirely gray, was cut stylishly short. Today she was dressed smartly in white linen slacks and a blue silk blouse. Around her neck she wore a thin gold chain. Andrew had expected her to show signs of strain, perhaps of weeping. There were none. The Townsends lived in a small but pleasant two-storied house on Hill Street, Morristown, not far from the medical office at Elm and Franklin to which, on fine-weather days, Noah Townsend had often walked. 'Mere were no servants in the house and Hilda let Andrew in herself, preceding him to a sitting room. It was a room, furnished in soft browns and beiges, which overlooked a garden. When they were seated, Hilda said matter-of-factly, "Would you like something, Andrew? A drink? Tea, perhaps?" He shook his head.”No, thanks.”

Then he said, "Hilda, I don't know what else to say except-I'm terribly sorry.”

She nodded, as if the words were expected, then asked, "Were you dreading this? Coming here to see me?" "A little," he admitted. "I thought so. But there's no need. And don't be surprised or shocked because I'm not weeping, or wringing my hands, or doing any of those other emotional, womanly things.”

Uncertain how to respond, he simply said, "All right.”

As if she had not heard, Hilda Townsend went on, "The fact is, I've done them all, done them so often, and for so long, that now they're far behind me. For years I shed so many tears that my supply ran dry. I used to think that little pieces of my heart were breaking off while I watched Noah destroy himself. And when I couldn't make him understand or even listen, I came to think that all of my heart was gone and only an inner piece of stone was left. Does any of that make sense?" "I think so," Andrew said, and thought: How little each of us knows of the sufferings of other people! For years Hilda Townsend must have lived behind a wall of loyal concealment, a wall which Andrew had neither known of nor suspected. He remembered, too, Ezra Gould's words of the night before.”She didn't talk a lot... I got the impression she's been expecting something to happen, though never knowing what. "You knew about Noah and the drugs," Hilda said.”Didn't you?" "Yes.,, Her voice became accusing.”You're a doctor. Why did you do nothing?" "I tried. At the hospital. Four years ago.”

"And no one there would listen?" "Something like that.”

"Could you have tried harder?" "Yes," he said.”Looking back now, I think I could have.”

She sighed.”You probably wouldn't have succeeded.”

Abruptly she switched subjects.”I went to see Noah this morning, or rather tried to see him. He was raving. He didn't know me. He doesn't know anyone.”

"Hilda," Andrew said gently, "is there anything I can do, anything, to help you?" She ignored the question.”Does Celia feel any guilt about what's happened?" The question startled him.”I haven't told her yet. I will this evening. But as to guilt-" "She shouldl" The words were spoken savagely. In the same tone, Hilda went on, "Celia is a part of that greedy, ruthless, money-coining, high-pressure drug business. They do anything to sell their drugs, to get doctors to prescribe them and people to use them, even if the drugs aren't needed. Anythingl" Andrew said quietly, "No pharmaceutical company forced Noah to take the drugs he did.”

"Maybe not directly.”

Hilda's voice rose.”But Noah took drugs, and so do others, because the companies surround doctors with theml They deluge them! With sleazy, oh-so-clever, limitless advertising, page after page in medical magazines which doctors have to read, and with an avalanche of mail, and with free trips and hospitality and booze-all of it designed to make doctors think drugs, ahvays drugs, still more drugs! The companies, every one of them, swamp doctors with free samples, telling them they can have any drug they want, in whatever quantity, and just by asking! No restrictions, never any questions! You know it, Andrew.”

She stopped.”I want to ask you something.”

He told her, "If I can answer, I will.”

"Lots of salesmen-detail men-came into the office. Noah saw them all the time. Don't you think that some of them, maybe all of them, knew how much he was taking drugs, were aware he was an addict?" Andrew considered. He thought of the untidy profusion of drugs, all in manufacturers' containers and packages, in Noah's office.”Yes," he answered.”Yes, I think it's likely that they knew.”

"Yet it didn't stop them, did it? Bastardsl They just went on delivering. Giving Noah anything he wanted. Helping him destroy himself. That's the rotten, filthy business your wife is in, Andrew, and I loathe it!" "There's something in what you've said, Hilda," he acknowledged.”Maybe a lot. And while it isn't the whole picture, I'd like you to know I understand your feelings.”

"Do you?" Hilda Townsend's voice mixed contempt and bitterness.”Then explain them to Celia sometime. Maybe she'll consider changing to another line of work.”

Then, as if a pent-up force had at last broken free, she put her head in her hands and began to cry. The mid-to-late-1960s was a time when women's lib became a phrase on many lips and a fixture in the news. In 1963 Betty Friedan had published The Feminine Mystique, a declaration of war on "the second-class citizenship of women.”

Her book became the vade mecum of the women's movement and the Friedan voice was now heard frequently. Germaine Greer and Kate Millett joined the movement, adding literary and artistic style. Gloria Steinem effectively combined women's advocacy with journalism and feminist politics. Women's lib had its mockers. Abbie Hoffman, a counterculturc celebrity of the period, declared, "The only alliance I would make with the women's lib movement is in bed.”

And historians, reminding the world that few things are ever new, pointed out that in 1792 in England, one Mary Wollstonecraft courageously published A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, arguing, "Tyrants and sensualists... endeavor to keep women in the dark, because the former only want slaves, and the latter a plaything.”

But many in the 1960s took the movement seriously, and thoughtful men explored their consciences. Celia's attitude to women's lib was approving and sympathetic. She bought copies of The Feminine Mystique and gave them to several male executives at Felding-Roth. One was Vincent Lord, who returned the book with a scribbled note, "I have no use for this rubbish.”

Sam Hawthorne, influenced by his wife Lilian, an ardent libber herself, was more sympathetic. He told Celia, "You're proof that this company has no sex discrimination.”

She shook her head in disagreement.”I had to claw my way to where I am, Sam-with your help, but also fighting male prejudice, and you know it.”

"But you don't have to do that anymore.”

"That's because I've proved myself as a producer, and I'm useful. Which makes me a freak, an exception. Also, you know how little support there is whenever I argue for more women on the detail force.”

He laughed.”Okay, I concede, but attitudes are changing. Apart from that, you're still the best example a man could have for treating women as equals.”

Despite her private advocacy, Celia took no active part in women's lib. She decided--selfishly, as she admitted to herself-that, first, she didn't need it personally; second, she didn't have the time. Celia's working time continued to be occupied with O-T-C products at Bray & Commonwealth. Despite Sam's promise of a change to other duties, no new assignment seemed in sight for Celia, and his urging to "be patient for a few months" proved an underestimate. Meanwhile, at home, Celia shared with Andrew the anguish following Noah Townsend's breakdown and committal to a mental institution. As time went on, the prediction of Dr. Gould that Noah would never be discharged seemed increasingly and sadly to be true. Andrew had told Celia of Hilda Townsend's tirade about drug companies and excessive free samples, and was surprised to find her sympathetic.”Hilda's right," Celia said.”The amount of free drugs handed out is crazy and I guess we all know it. But competition made the scene the way it is. Now, no one company could cut back without being at a disadvantage.”

"Surely," Andrew remonstrated, "drug companies could get together and make some agreement to cut back.”

"No," Celia said.”Even if they wanted to, that would be collusion and against the law.”

"Then how about a case like Noah's? Where drug company detail people must have known, or at least had a good idea, that Noah was heavily on drugs. Should they have kept feeding his habit the way they did?" "Noah was an addict, but he was still a doctor," Celia pointed out.”And you know perfectly well, Andrew, doctors can get all the drugs they want, one way or another. If Noah hadn't got his from detail people he'd simply have written prescriptions, which maybe he did as well as getting samples.”

She added with some heat, "Besides, when the medical profession does nothing about doctors who become addicts, why should pharmaceutical companies be expected to be different?" "A fair question," Andrew conceded, "for which I don't have an answer.”

Then, in August of 1967, Celia's reassignment happened. Preceding it, one significant event occurred near the end of 1966. Sam Hawthorne was promoted to executive vice president, making it clear that unless something accidental intervened, Sam would someday soon be at the head of Felding-Roth. Thus, Celia's judgment ten years earlier when choosing a mentor in the company seemed close to being proved correct. It was Sam who eventually sent for her and told her with a smile, "Okay, your O-T-C servitude is over.”

Sam was now in a palatial office with a comfortable conference area, and instead of one secretary outside his door, his new job rated two. At a previous meeting he confided to Celia, "Damned if I know how I keep them busy. I think they dictate letters to each other.”

Now Sam announced, "I'm offering you the post of Latin-American Director for Pharmaceutical Products. If you accept you'll operate from here, though you'll be away a bit, with quite a lot of travel.”

He regarded her interrogatively.”How would Andrew feel about that? And you about the children?" Without hesitation Celia answered, "We'll work it out.”

Sam nodded approvingly.”I expected that was what you'd say.”

The news delighted and excited her. Celia was well aware that international business in pharmaceuticals was becoming increasingly important. The opportunity was excellent, even better than she had hoped for. As if reading her mind, Sam said, "International is where the future is for sales. So far we've barely probed beneath the surface, in Latin America especially.”

He waved a hand in dismissal.”Go home now. Share the news with Andrew. Tomorrow we'll get down to details.”

Thus began five years which proved a Rubicon in Celia's career. It also, far from making the Jordans' family life more difficult, immeasurably enriched it. As Celia was to write later in a letter to her sister Janet, "All of us benefited in ways we never expected. Andrew and I because we had more real togetherness when Andrew traveled with me than we ever did at home, where both of us were busy with our separate working lives. And the children gained because when they traveled too, it enlarged their education and made their thinking international.”

From the beginning, when Celia brought home the news about her new appointment, Andrew was happy for her and supportive. He was relieved that her time with O-T-C was over, and if he had doubts about family separations which her new work would entail, he kept them to himself. His attitude, like Celia's, was: We'll make it work. Then, thinking about it more, Andrew decided he would use the opportunity to take some time away from the pressures of medicine and travel with Celia when he could. Andrew, now just a year away from being forty, was determined to profit from the lesson of Noah Townsend whose breakdown, he believed, began with overwork and too much stress. Andrew had watched other doctors, too, become obsessed with their profession to the exclusion of all else, to the detriment of themselves and their families. In the medical practice he had joined as a newly qualified internist eleven years earlier-the year before he and Celia met and were married-Andrew was now senior partner. The second doctor, Oscar Aarons, a stocky, brisk and bustling Canadian with a lively sense of humor, had proved to be an asset in whom Andrew had great confidence, and he enjoyed their burgeoning friendship. A third internist, Benton Fox, a twenty-eight-year-old with excellent credentials, had been with them for just a month and was already working well. When Andrew told Celia of his intention to travel with her sometimes she was ovedoyed; as it worked out, he went along on South American journeyings several times a year. Occasionally, depending on school arrangements, one or both of the children traveled too. All of it was made easier by some fortunate arrangements at home. Winnie August their young English housekeeper-cum-cook, having long ago abandoned her plan to move on to Australia, and being virtually a member of the Jordan family after seven years, was married in the spring of '67. Incredibly, her husband's last name was March. As Winnie put it, "If it 'ad to be another month, I should be glad it ain't December.”

When Andrew learned that Hank March, a likable, energetic man who worked at various outdoor jobs, was looking for steady employment, he offered him a post as chauffeur-gardener and general handyman. Since live-in accommodation would be included, the offer was accepted with appreciation from both Winnie and Hank. For his part, Andrew continued to be grateful for Celia's foresight in insisting, shortly after their marriage, that they buy a large house. Within a short time Hank seemed as indispensable as his wife, now Winnie March. Thus Andrew and Celia could leave home, with or without the children, confident their interests would be taken care of in their absence.

One note of family sadness intruded at this time. Celia's mother, Mildred, died of respiratory failure after a severe asthma attack. She was sixty-one. Her mother's death affected Celia greatly. Despite the strength and support of Andrew and the children, she experienced a sense of "aloneness" which persisted long afterward, though the feeling, Andrew assured her, was entirely normal. "I've seen it happen in patients," he said.”The death of a second parent is like severing an umbilical cord to our past. No matter how much we grow up, while at least one parent is alive there's always a sense of having someone to fall back on. When both are gone, we know we are truly on our own.”

Celia's younger sister, Janet, flew to Philadelphia for the funeral, though leaving her busy oilman husband and their two small children in the Middle East. Afterward, Janet and Celia had a few days together in Morristown, each promising they would try to make mutual visits more frequently in future. 1

The sights and sounds of faraway places fascinated Andrew. While Celia transacted her Latin-American business with regional functionaries at outposts of Felding-Roth, he explored the offbeat intricacies of foreign cities or savored scenes of rural life outside. The Parque of Buenos Aires became familiar, as did great herds of grazing cattle on the Argentine pampas. So did Colombia's Bogota, surrounded by mountain grandeur, where downward-sloping streets, the calles, carried streams of icy water from the Andes, and ancient mule carts jousted with modem autos for a share of space. In Costa Rica, Andrew came to know the Meseta Central, the country's heartland and, beyond it, dense broadleaf forests where mahogany and cedar grew. From Montevideo's narrow, congested Old City streets there were journeys into Uruguay's valleys, the air fragrant with the scent of verbena and aromatic shrubs. There was Brazil's dynamic Sao Paulo city, on the edge of the Great Escarpment and, behind it, wide grassy plains with rich red-purple earth, the terra roxa. When the children were traveling, Andrew took them along on his explorations. At other times he reconnoitered, then Celia joined him when her work permitted. One of Andrew's pleasures was bargaining in native shops and making purchases. The drugstore"roguerias---often with their wares crowded into tiny spaces, fascinated him. He talked with pharmacists and occasionally managed to hold conversations with local doctors. He already had a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese and his use of both languages improved with practice. Celia was learning the languages too; at times they helped each other. Despite it all, not every trip was a success. Celia worked hard. Sometimes, trying to solve local problems against an unfamiliar background was a strain. The result was tiredness and normal human frictions which led, on one occasion, to the fiercest, most bitter fight of Andrew and Celia's marriage, a collision of wills and viewpoints they were unlikely to forget. It happened in Ecuador and, like most husband-and-wife quarrels, this one started off low-key. They were staying, with Lisa and Bruce, in the capital, Quito, a high mountain city in a cupped palm of the Andes, and a place of vicious contrasts-mostly between religion and reality. On the one hand was a profusion of ornate churches and monasteries with golden altars, carved choir stalls, crucifixes of silver and ivory, and monstrances vulgar with encrusted jewels. On the other was dirty, barefoot poverty and a peasantry undoubtedly the poorest on the continent with wages-for those lucky enough to find work--of some ten cents a day. Also in contrast to the poverty was the Hotel Quito, an excellent hostelry in which the Jordan family had a suite. It was to the suite that Celia returned in the early evening, after a generally frustrating day spent with the Felding-Roth gerente loca4 Sefior Antonio Jos~ Moreno. Moreno, fat and complacent, had made clear that any visit by a head office functionary was not only an unwelcome intrusion on his territory, but an affront to his personal competence. Moreover, whenever Celia suggested changes in procedures, he had given her what she now knew to be a standard Latin-American response, "En este pals, asi se hace, Sefiora.” When Celia suggested that an attitude of "In this country that is how it is done" could sanctify inefficiency and sometimes be unethical, she was met by the same bland rejoinder and a shrug. One of Celia's concerns was the inadequate information being given to Ecuadorian physicians about Felding-Roth drugs, in particular their possible side effects. When she pointed this out, Moreno argued, "The other companies do it like this. So do we. To say too much about things which perhaps are not going to happen would be perjudicial to us.”

While Celia had authority to issue orders, she knew that Moreno, as the man on the spot and a successful sales entrepreneur, would interpret the,.n later-aided by, differences of language-as he chose. Now, in the hotel suite living room, her frustrations still seething, she asked Andrew, "Where are the children?" "In bed and asleep," he answered.”They decided to go early. We had a grueling day.”

The fact of riot seeing Lisa and Bruce, to which she had been looking forward, as well as what seemed a coolness in Andrew's tone, irritated Celia and she snapped, "You're not the only one who had a lousy day.”

"I didn't say it was lousy, just grueling," he observed.”Though for me there were unpleasant portions.”

Though neither realized it, the high altitude of Quito-more than nine thousand feet above sea level-was having an effect on them both. In Celia it produced a physical weariness, worsening her already downbeat mood. And Andrew had a sharpened acuity, an aggressive edginess, in contrast to his normal easygoing ways at home. Celia said, - 'Unpleasant portions!' I don't know what you're talking about.”

"I'm talking about that!" Andrew jabbed a finger, pointing to a collection of pharmaceutical bottles and packages on a side table. With an expression of distaste, she told him, "I've had enough of that stuff for one day, so I suggest you get those out of here.”

"You mean you're not interested?" His tone was sarcastic. "Dammit! No!" "Frankly, I didn't expect you to be. Because what I have here is about drug companies and it's unpleasant.”

Andrew picked up a small plastic container.”Today, as well as taking the children out, I did some shopping and asked questions.”

Flipping open the container top, he poured tablets into his hand and held them out.”Do you know what these are?" "Of course I don't!" Dropping into a chair, Celia peeled off her shoes and left them where they fell.”What's more, I don't care.”

"You should care! Those are Thalidomide and I bought them today in a local drogueria-without a prescription.”

The reply jolted Celia and the sharp exchange might have ended there, except that Andrew went on, "The fact that I could buy them, five years after they should have been withdrawn, and buy other dangerous drugs marketed here without proper warnings because there are no government agencies to insist on adequate labeling, is typical of the don't -give-a-damn attitude of American drug firms, including your own precious Felding-Roth!" The injustice, as Celia saw it, when she had spent a large part of her day attempting to change what Andrew had just criticized, inflamed her to hot anger. It also robbed her of all reason. Instead of telling Andrew, as she had intended to do later that evening, of her frustration with Antonio Jos~ Moreno, she threw back at him her version of Moreno's answer.”What the hell do you know about local problems and regulations? What right have you to come here and tell Ecuador how to run this country?" Andrew's face went white.”The right I have is that I'm a doctor! And I know that pregnant women who take these tablets will have babies with flippers instead of arms. Do you know what the pharmacist told me today? He said, yes he had heard about Thalidomide, but he didn't know these tablets were the same thing because they're called Ondasil. And in case you don't know, Celia, or don't want to know, Thalidomide has been sold by drug companies under fifty-three different names.” Without waiting for a response, he stormed on, "Why always so many different names for drugs? Certainly not to help patients or their doctors. The only reason anyone can think of is to sow confusion and aid the drug firms when there's trouble. Speaking of trouble, look at this!" Selecting another bottle, Andrew held it out. Celia could read the label: Chloromycetin. "If you bought this in the U.S.," he declared, "there'd be a published warning about possible side effects, especially fatal blood dyscrasias. Not here, though! Not a word!" From the collection on the table he chose one more.”I got this today, too. Take a look at Felding-Roth's Lotromycin, which you and I both know about. We also know it shouldn't be used by anyone with impaired kidney function, or by pregnant women, or women breast-feeding infants. But is there a printed warning saying so? Not on your life! Who cares if a few people suffer or die here because they haven't been cautioned? After all, it's only Ecuador, a long way from New Jersey. Why should Felding-Roth care? Or Celia Jordan?" She screamed back at him, "How dare you say that to me!" Now Andrew lost control. "I dare," he answered fiercely, "because I've seen you change. Change little by little over eleven years. From having decent feelings and ideals and caring, to not caring quite so much, then relaxing while you helped push useless over-the-counter junk, and now moving on to this-using phony head-in-the-sand excuses to justify something which you know is evil, but won't concede, even to yourself" His voice rose.”What happened to that idealistic girl who first brought me Lotromycin and wanted to raise the ethics of the drug business, the same one who stood up, straight and strong, at a New York sales meeting and criticized dishonest detailing? You want to know what happened to her? I think she sold out.”

Andrew stopped, then inquired scathingly, "Were ambition and promotion worth it?" "You bastard!" Acting instinctively, without rational thought, Celia reached down and, seizing one of the shoes she had dropped moments earlier, threw it hard at Andrew. Her aim was unerring. The shoe's stiletto heel struck him on the left side of his face, opening a gash from which blood spurted. But Celia failed to see. Blind to all else, she hurled venomous words. "What gives you the right to be so goddam holy about morals and ideals? What happened to yours? Where were your precious ideals when you did nothing about Noah Townsend, and let him go on practicing medicine for nearly five years, when all that time he was high on drugs, and a danger to himself and others? And don't blame the hospital! Their inaction doesn't excuse you! You know it! "And what about that patient," Celia stormed on, "the young one, Wyrazik? Was it really Noah who killed him, or was it you? You, because when you could have done something about Noah, you did nothing, and left doing anything until too late. Do you ever lie awake nights wondering about that, and feeling guilty? Because you shouldl And do you ever wonder if there weren't some other patients Noah killed during those five years, others you don't know about, and who died because of your neglect? Do you hear me, you self-righteous hypocrite? Answer!" Abruptly Celia stopped. Stopped, not only because she had run out of words, but because she had never seen such anguish as on Andrew's face. Her hand went to her mouth. She said softly, to herself, in horror, "Oh, my God! What have I done!" Then it was not just anguish in Andrew's expression which she saw, but sudden shock at something happening behind her. Following his gaze, Celia wheeled. Two small pajama-clad figures had come into the room. In their uncontrolled fury, both parents had forgotten Lisa and Bruce in the bedroom next door. "Mommy! Daddy!" It was Lisa's voice, choked with tears. Bruce was sobbing uncontrollably. Celia rushed toward both, arms outstretched, in tears herself But Lisa was faster. Dodging her mother, she went to Andrew.

"Daddy, you're hurt!" She saw the shoe, which had blood on the heel, and cried out, "Mommy, how could you!" Andrew touched his face, which was still bleeding. Blood seemed everywhere-on his hands, his shirt, the floor. Now Bruce joined Lisa, clinging to his father while Celia watched helplessly, guiltily, standing back. It was Andrew who resolutely broke the impasse. "No!" he told the children.”Don't do this! You must not take sides! Your mother and I have been foolish. Both of us were wrong, and we're ashamed, and all of us will talk about it later. But this is still one family. We belong together.”

Then, suddenly, all four of them were holding each other, emotionally, as if they never wanted to be separate again. Soon after it was Lisa, aged ten, who broke away and, going to a bathroom, brought back wet towels with which, competently, she wiped her father's face and washed away the blood.

Much later, when the children were again in bed and sleeping, Andrew and Celia came together, making love with a passionate, wild abandon, greater by far than they had experienced for a long time. Near the peak of their frantic coupling, Celia cried out, "Deeper! Deeper! Hurt me!" And Andrew, relinquishing all gentleness, seized her, crushed her, and thrust himself into her, roughly, crudely, deeply, again and again. It was as if their earlier fierceness had released passions other than anger, passions which suddenly coalesced. Afterward, though exhausted, they talked far into the night and again next day.”It was the kind of talk," Andrew said later, "which we've needed to have, yet both of us put off.”

What each conceded was that, for the most part, there had been unpleasant truths in the other's accusations. "Yes," Celia admitted, "I have relaxed some standards I once had. Not all, or even most, but some. And there have been times I've put my conscience in my pocket. I'm not proud of it, and I'd like to say I'll go back to the way things were before, but I have to be honest-at least in this-and say I'm not certain if I can.”

"I guess," Andrew said, "all of it goes with growing older. You think you're wiser, more seasoned, and you are. But you've also learned along the way that there are obstacles and practicalities which idealism won't ever conquer, so you case up on ideals.”

"I intend to try to do better," Celia said.”I really do. To make sure that what happened to us here will not be wasted.”

"I guess that goes for us both," Andrew said. Earlier he had told Celia, "You touched a nerve when you asked if I lie awake sometimes, wondering about Wyrazik's death and perhaps some others. Could I have saved Wyrazik by acting sooner about Noah? Yes, I could, and it's no good saying otherwise and living with delusions. The only thing I can say is that there isn't anyone who's been years in medicine who doesn't have something in the past to look back on and know he could have done better, and perhaps saved somebody who died. Of course, it shouldn't happen often, but if it does, the best you can do is hope that what you learned you'll use later on for the benefit of someone else.”

A postscript to what happened was that next day Andrew had three stitches in his face, put there by a local mMico who observed with a smile as his patient left, "Probably a scar stays, Doctor. It will serve as a reminder to your wife.”

Since Andrew had earlier described the cut as the result of a fall while climbing, it merely showed that Quito was a small place where gossip traveled fast. "I feel terrible about that," Celia said. It was a few hours later and they were having lunch with the children. "No need to," Andrew reassured her.”There was a moment when I felt like doing the same thing. But you were the one who happened to have a shoe handy. Besides, my aim isn't nearly as good as yours.”

Celia shook her head.”Don't joke about it.”

It was then that Bruce, who had been silent through the meal, spoke up and asked, "Will you get a divorce now?" His small, serious face was tightly set, reflecting worry, making it clear the question had been weighing on him for some time. Andrew was about to answer flippantly when Celia stopped him with a gesture.”Brucie," she said gently, "I promise and swear to you that as long as your father and I live, that will never happen.”

"That goes for me too," Andrew added, and their son's face lighted up in a radiant smile, as did Lisa's beside him. "I'm glad," Bruce said simply, and it seemed a fitting end to a nightmare which was past.

There were other, happier journeys the family shared during the lustrum spent by Celia with International Sales. As to Celia's career, the period proved overall successful, enhancing her reputation at Felding-Roth headquarters. She even, despite opposition within the company, managed to achieve some headway in having the labeling of Felding-Roth drugs sold in Latin America come closer to the precise standards required by law in the United States. However, as she admitted frankly to Andrew, the progress was "not much.”

"The day will come," Celia predicted, "when someone will bring this whole subject out into the open. Then, either new laws or public opinion will compel us to do what we should have been doing all along. But that time isn't yet.”

An idea whose time had come was encountered by Celia in Peru. There, a large part of the Felding-Roth sales force was composed of women. The reason, Celia learned, was not liberation; it was sales. In Peru it is considered rude to keep a woman waiting; therefore in doctors' office-, detail women were ushered into a doctor's presence quickly, ahead of male competitors who might have to wait for hours. The discovery prompted a long memorandum from Celia to Sam Hawthorne urging recruitment of more detail women on Felding-Roth's U.S. sales force for the same reason.”I remember from my own time as a detail woman," Celia wrote, "that while sometimes I had to wait to see doctors, at other times they saw me quickly, and I think it was because I was a woman, so why not use that to our advantage?" In a subsequent discussion Sam put the question: "Isn't what you're suggesting a way of advancing women for the wrong reason? That's not women's lib. That's just using women's femininity.”

"And why not?" Celia shot back.”Men have used their masculinity for centuries, often to women's disadvantage, so it's our turn now. Anyway, man or woman, we're all entitled to make the most of what we have.”

In the end, Celia's memo was taken seriously and began a process in Felding-Roth which, during the years that followed, was copied enthusiastically by other drug houses. And during all this time, beyond the pharmaceutical business, outside events marched on. The tragedy of Vietnam was taking shape and worsening, with young Americans-the cream of a generation-being slain by tiny people in black pajamas, and no one really knowing why. A rock-music cult called "Woodstock Nation" flared briefly, then burned out. In Czechoslovakia the Soviet Union brutally extinguished freedom. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy were savagely assassinated. Nixon became President, Golda Meir prime minister of Israel. Jackie Kennedy married Aristotle Onassis. Eisenhower died. Kissinger went to China, Armstrong to the moon, Edward Kennedy to Chappaquiddick. Then, in February 1972, Sam Hawthorne, at age fifty-one, became president and chief executive officer of Felding-Roth. His accession to power was sudden, and occurred at a difficult, critical period in the company's history.

Sam Hawthorne, in the jargon of the times, was a Renaissance man. He had a multiplicity of interests, indoors and out, intellectual and athletic. He was at heart a scholar who, despite heavy involvement in business, managed to keep alive a lifelong, well-informed love of literature, art and music. In foreign cities, no matter how great the pressures of work Sam would somehow find time to visit bookstores, galleries and concerts. In painting he favored the Impressionists, inclining to Monet and Pissarro. In sculpture his great love was Rodin. Lilian Hawthorne once told a friend that in Paris, in the garden of the Rodin Museum, she had seen her husband stand silent for fifteen minutes contemplating "The Burghers of Calais," much of the time with tears in his eyes. In music, Sam's passion was Mozart. A proficient pianist himself, though not a brilliant one, he liked to have a piano in his hotel suite while on trips and play something from Mozart, perhaps the Sonata No. I I in A-the grave and clear Andante, the quickening Menuetto, and finally the joyous Turkish Rondo, sending his spirits soaring after a tiring day. The fact that he had a piano in what was usually a luxury suite was because he paid for such things himself. He could afford to. Sam was independently wealthy and owned a substantial amount of Felding-Roth stock, having inherited it from his mother who died when he was young.

His mother had been a Roth, and Sam was the last member of either the Felding or Roth clan to be involved in company management. Not that his family connections had made much, if any, difference to his career; they hadn't, particularly as he neared the top. What Sam had achieved was through ability and integrity, and the fact was widely recognized. At home, Sam and Lilian Hawthorne's marriage was solid and both adored Juliet, now fifteen and apparently unspoiled despite the adoration. In athletics Sam had been a long-distance runner in college and still enjoyed an tarly morning run several times a week. He was an enthusiastic and fairly successful tennis player, though the enthusiasm was stronger than his style. Sam's greatest asset on the court was a vicious volley at the net, making him a popular doubles partner. But dominating all outside interests, sporting or cerebral, was the fact that Sam Hawthorne was an Anglophile. For as long as he could remember he had loved visiting England, and felt an admiration and affinity for most things English-traditions, language, education, humor, style, the monarchy, London, the countryside, classic cars. In line with the last preference, he owned and drove to work each day a superb silver-gray Rolls-Bentley. Something else that held Sam's high opinion was British-not just English-science, and it was this conviction that prompted an original, daring proposal during the opening months of his FeldingRoth presidency. In a confidential, written submission to the board of directors he set out some stark, unpleasant facts. "In drug research and production--our raison detre--our company is in a barren, dispiriting period which has extended far beyond the 'flat spell' experienced by this industry generally. Our last major breakthrough was with Lotromycin, nearly fifteen years ago. Since then, while competitors have introduced major, successful new drugs, we have had only minor ones. Nor do we have anything startling in sight. "All this has had a depressing effect on our company's reputation and morale. Equally depressing has been the effect on finances. It is the reason we reduced our dividend last year, an action which caused the value of our stock to plummet, and it is still out of favor with investors.

"We have begun internal belt tightening, but this is not enough. In two to three years, if we fail to produce a strong, positive program for the future we will face a financial crisis of the gravest kind.”

What Sam did not say was that his predecessor as president and CEO, who had been dismissed after a confrontation with the board, had followed a top-level policy of "drift" which, in large part, had reduced Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals to its present sorry state. Instead, and having set the stage, Sam moved on to his proposal. "I strongly and urgently recommend," he wrote, "that we create a Felding-Roth Research Institute in Britain. The institute would be headed by a topflight British scientist. It would be independent of our research activities in the United States.”

After more details he added, "I profoundly believe the new suggested research arm would strengthen our most critical resource area and hasten discovery of the important new drugs our company so desperately needs.”

Why Britain? Anticipating the question, Sam proceeded to answer it. "Traditionally, through centuries, Britain has been a world leader in basic scientific research. Within this century alone, consider some of the great discoveries which were British in origin and which changed our way of life dramatically-penicillin, television, modem radar, the airplane jet engine, to name just four. "Of course," Sam pointed out, "it was American companies which developed those inventions and reaped commercial benefits -this because of the unique ability of Americans to develop and market, an ability the British so often lack. But the original discoveries, in those and other instances, were British. "If you asked me for a reason," he continued, "I would say there are fundamental, inherent differences between British and American higher education. Each system has its strengths. But in Britain the differences produce an academic and scientific curiosity unmatched elsewhere. It is that same curiosity we can, and should, harness to our advantage.”

Sam dealt at length with costs, then concluded, "It can be argued that embarking on a major costly project at this critical time in our company's existence is reckless and ill-advised. And, yes, a new research institute will be a heavy financial burden. But I believe it would be even more reckless, even more ill-advised, to continue to drift and not take strong, positive, daring action for the future action which is needed now!"

Opposition to Sam Hawthorne's plan surfaced with astounding speed and strength. The proposal was, as someone put it, "scarcely out of the Xerox machine" and beginning to circulate among company directors and a few senior officers when Sam's telephone began ringing, the callers forceful with objections.”Sure the Brits have had their scientific glories," one director argued, "but nowadays American achievements far exceed them, so your whole contention, Sam, is laughable.”

Others focused on-as one board member expressed it heatedly- "the absurd and backward-looking notion of locating a research center in an effete, run-down, has-been country.”

"You'd have thought," Sam confided to Lilian a few evenings later over dinner, "that I'd suggested canceling the Declaration of Independence and taking us back to colonial status.”

Something Sam was teaming quickly was that holding the company's top job neither gave him carte blanche to do as he wished nor freed him from the shifting sands of corporate politics. A practicing expert in company politics was the director of research, Vincent Lord, also an immediate objector to Sam's proposal. While agreeing that more money should be spent on research, Dr. Lord described the idea of doing so in Britain as 'InaIve" and Sam Hawthorne's view of British science as "kindergarten thinking, founded on a propaganda myth.”

The unusually strong, even insulting words were in a memo addressed to Sam, with a copy to a friend and ally of Vince Lord's on the board of directors. On first reading the memo, Sam burned with anger and, leaving his office, sought out Vincent Lord on the research director's own ground. Walking on impeccable polished floors through the research division's glass-lined, air-filtered corridors, Sam was reminded of the many millions of dollars, virtually limitless sums, expended by Felding-Roth on research equipment-modem, computerized, gleaming, occasionally mysterious-housed in pleasant, spacious laboratories and served by an army of white-coated scientists and technicians. What was here represented an academic scientist's dream, but was a norm for any major pharmaceutical company. The money poured into drug research was seldom, if ever, stinted. It was only the specifics of expenditure which occasionally, as now, became a subject for argument. Vincent Lord was in his paneled, book-lined, brightly lighted office. The door was open and Sam Hawthorne walked in, nodding casually to a secretary outside who had been about to stop himthen, seeing who it was, changed her mind. Dr. Lord, in a White coat over shirtsleeves, was at his desk, frowning as he so often did, at this moment over a paper he was reading. He looked up in surprise, his dark eyes peering through rimless. glasses, his ascetic face showing annoyance at the unannounced intrusion. Sam had been carrying Lord's memo. Putting it on the desk, he announced, "I came to talk about this.”

The research director made a half-hearted gesture of rising, but Sam waved him down.”Informal, Vince," Sam said.”Informal, and some face-to-face, blunt talking.”

Lord glanced at the memo on his desk, leaning forward short-sightedly to confirm its subject matter.”What don't you like about it?" the content and the tone.”

"What else is there?" Sam reached for the paper and turned it around.”It's quite well typed.”

"I suppose," Lord said with a sardonic smile, "now that you're head honcho, Sam, you'd like to be surrounded by 'yes men.”

' Sam Hawthorne sighed. He had known Vince Lord for fifteen years, had grown accustomed to the research director's difficult ways, and was prepared to make allowances for them. He answered mildly, "You know that isn't true. What I want is a reasoned discussion and better causes for disagreeing with me than you've given already.”

"Speaking of reasoning," Lord said, opening a drawer of his desk and removing a file, "I strongly object to a statement of yours.”

"Which one?" "About our own research.”

Consulting the file, Lord quoted from Sam's proposal about the British institute.” "While our competitors have introduced major, successful new drugs, we have had only minor ones. Nor do we have anything startling in sight.”

"So prove me wrong.”

"We have a number of promising developments in sight," Lord insisted. "Several of the new, young scientists I've brought in are working-"

"Vince," Sam said, "I know about those things. I read your reports, remember? Also, I applaud the talent you've recruited.”

It was true, Sam thought. One of Vincent Lord's strengths across the years had been his ability to attract some of the cream of scientific newcomers. A reason was that Lord's own reputation was still high, despite his failure to achieve the major discovery that had been expected of him for so long. Nor was there any real dissatisfaction with Lord's role as research director; the dry spell was one of those misfortunes that happened to drug companies, even with the best people heading their scientific sides. "The progress reports I send to you," Lord said, "are always weighted with caution. That's because I have to be wary about letting you and the merchandising gang become excited about something which is still experimental.”

"I know that," Sam said, "and I accept it.”

He was aware that in any drug company a perpetual tug-of-war existed between sales and manufacturing on the one hand and research on the other. As the sales people expressed it, "Research always wants to be a hundred and ten percent sure of every goddam detail before they'll say, 'Okay, let's go!' " Manufacturing, similarly, was eager to gear up for production and not be caught out by sudden demands when a new drug was required in quantity. But, on the other side of the equation, researchers accused the merchandising arm of "wanting to rush madly onto the market with a product that's only twenty percent proven, just to beat competitors and have an early lead in sales.”

"What I'll tell you now, and what isn't in my reports," Vincent Lord informed Sam, "is that we're getting excitingly good results with two compounds--one, a diuretic, the other an anti-inflammatory for rheumatoid arthritis.”

"That's excellent news.”

"There's also our application for Derogil pending before the FDA.”

"The new anti-hypertensive.”

Sam knew that Derogil, to control high blood pressure, was not a revolutionary drug but might become a good profit maker. He asked, "Is our application getting anywhere?" Lord said sourly, "Not so you'd notice. Those puffed-up nincompoops in Washington He paused.”I'm going there again next week.”

"I still don't think my statement was wrong," Sam said.”But since you feel strongly, I'll modify it when the board meets.”

Vincent Lord nodded as if the concession were no more than his due, then went on, "There's also my own research on the quenching of free radicals. I know, after all this time, you believe nothing will come of it-" "I've never said that," Sam protested.”Never once! At times you choose to disbelieve it, Vince, but there are some of us here who have faith in you. We also know that important discoveries don't come easily or quickly.”

Sam had only a sketchy idea of what the quenching of free radicals involved. He knew the objective was to eliminate toxic effects of drugs generally, and was something Vincent Lord had persevered with for a decade. If successful, there would be strong commercial possibilities. But that was all. "Nothing you've told me," Sam said, getting up, "changes my opinion that creating a British research center is a good idea.”

"And I'm still opposed because it's unnecessary.”

The research director's reply was adamant, though as an afterthought he added, "Even if your plan should go ahead, we must have control from here.”

Sam Hawthorne smiled.”We'll discuss that later, if and when," But in his mind, Sam knew that letting Vincent Lord have control of the new British research institute was the last thing he would permit to happen.

When Lord was alone, he crossed to the outer door and closed it. Then, returning, he slumped in his chair disconsolately. He sensed that the proposal for a Felding-Roth research institute in Britain would go ahead despite his opposition, and he saw the new development as a threat to himself, a sign that his scientific dominance in the company was slipping. How much farther would it slip, he wondered, before he was eclipsed entirely? So much would have been different, be reflected gloomily, if his own personal research had progressed better and faster than it had. As it was, he wondered, what did he have to show for his life in science? He was now forty-eight, no longer the young and brilliant wizard with a newly minted Ph.D. Even some of his own techniques and knowledge, he was aware, were out of date. Oh, yes, he still read extensively and kept himself informed. Yet that kind of knowledge was never quite the same as original involvement in the scientific field in which your expertise developed-organic chemistry in his own case; developed to become an art, so that always and forever after you had instinct and experience to guide you. In the new field of genetic engineering, for example, he was not truly comfortable, not as at home in it as were the new young scientists now pouring from the universities, some of whom he had recruited for Felding-Roth. And yet, he reasoned-reassured himself-despite the changes and fresh knowledge, the possibility of a titanic breakthrough with the work he had been doing still was possible, still could come at any time. Within the parameters of organic chemistry an answer existed-an answer to his questions posed through countless experiments over ten long years of grinding research. The quenching of free radicals. Along with the answer Vincent Lord sought would come enormous therapeutic benefits, plus unlimited commercial possibilities which Sam Hawthorne and others in the company, in their scientific ignorance, had so far failed to grasp. What would the quenching of free radicals achieve? The answer: something essentially simple but magnificent. Like all scientists in his field, Vincent Lord knew that many drugs, when in action in the human body and as part of their metabolism, generated "free radicals.”

These were elements harmful to healthy tissue, and the cause of adverse side effects and sometimes death. Elimination, or "quenching," of free radicals would mean that beneficial drugs, other drugs, which previously could not be used on humans because of dangerous side effects, could be taken by anyone with impunity. And restricted drugs, hitherto used only at great risk, could be absorbed as casually as aspirin. No longer need physicians, when prescribing for their patients, worry about toxicity of drugs. No longer need cancer patients suffer agonies from the near-deadly drugs which sometimes kept them &live, but equally often tortured, then killed them from some other cause than cancer. The beneficial effects of those and all other drugs would remain, but the killing effects would be nullified by the quenching of free radicals. What Vincent Lord hoped to produce was a drug to add to other drugs, to make them totally safe. And it was all possible. The answer existed. It was there. Hidden, elusive, but waiting to be found. And Vincent Lord, after ten years' searching, believed he was close to that elusive answer. He could smell it, sense it, almost taste the nectar of success. But how much longer? Oh, how much longer would he have to wait? Abruptly he sat upright in his chair and, with an effort of will, expunged his downcast mood. Opening a drawer of his desk, he selected a key. fie would go now--once more-he decided, to the private laboratory, a few steps down the hall, where his research work was done.

Vincent Lord's Friend and ally on the Felding-Roth board of directors was Clinton Etheridge, a successful and prominent New York lawyer who had pretensions to scientific knowledge. The pretensions were based on the fact that, for two years as a young man, Etheridge had been a medical student before deciding to switch to law. As an acquaintance cynically described the changeover, "Clint diagnosed where the big money was and prescribed a route to it directly.”

Etheridge was now fifty-three. The fact that his brief, incomplete medical studies had taken place more than a quarter century earlier never deterred him from making confident pronouncements on scientific matters, delivered in his best courtroom manner with an implication that they should be preserved on stone. It suited Vincent Lord's purposes to flatter Etheridge by appearing to treat him as a scientific equal. In this way the research director's own views were often placed before the Felding-Roth board of directors with the bonus, for Vince Lord, of a lawyer's skilled persuasiveness. Not surprisingly, at a board meeting called to consider Sam Hawthorne's proposal for a British research institute, Clinton Etheridge led off for the opposition. The meeting was at Felding-Roth's Boonton headquarters. Fourteen of the total complement of sixteen directors-all men-were assembled around the boardroom's traditional walnut table. Etheridge, who was tall, slightly stooped and cultivated a Lincolnesque image, began genially.”Were you hoping, Sam, that if this pro-British thing goes through, they'll be so pleased with you over there, you'll be invited to tea at Buckingham Palace?" Sam joined in the general laughter, then shot back, "What I'm really after, Clint, is a long weekend at Windsor Castle.”

"Well," the lawyer said, "I suppose it's an attainable objective, but in my opinion the only one.”

He became serious.”What you've proposed seems to me to overlook the tremendous scientific capability and achievements of our own country-your country too.,, Sam had thought about this meeting in advance and had no intention of letting the argument get away from him.”I haven't overlooked American achievements in science," he objected.”How could I? They're all around us. I simply want to supplement them.”

Someone else injected, "Then let's use our money to supplement them here.”

"The British themselves," Etheridge persisted, "have fostered a myth about science on their little island somehow being superior. But if that's true, why does Britain have its so-called 'brain drain'with so many of their best people hotfooting it over here, to join in U.S. research?" "They mostly do it," Sam answered, "because our facilities are better, and more money is available for staff and equipment. But your question, Clint, supports my argument. This country welcomes British scientists because of their high quality.”

"In your opinion, Sam," Etheridge asked, "what area of scientific research, relating to this industry, is at present most important?" "Without question, genetic engineering.”

"Exactly.”

The lawyer nodded, satisfied with the answer.”And isn't it true-and I speak with some scientific knowledge, as you know-that the United States has led the world, and continues to, in this genetic field?" Sam was tempted to smile, but didn't. For once, the pseudoscientist had allowed himself to be mis-briefed. "Actually, Clint," Sam said, "it isn't true. As long ago as 1651, in Britain, William Harvey studied the development of the chick in the egg, and so laid the foundations of genetic studies. Also in England, the study of biochemical genetics was begun in 1908. In between there were other discoveries, with a good deal of work by an American geneticist, Dr. Hermann Muller, in the 1920s and onward. But a crowning achievement, sometimes referred to as 'an explosion in genetic science,' was also in England-at Cambridge in 1953, when Doctors Watson and Crick discovered the structure of the DNA molecule for which they won a Nobel Prize.”

Now Sam smiled.”Dr. Watson, incidentally, was American-born, which shows that basic science is international.”

Several of the directors chuckled and Etheridge had the grace to look rueful. He acknowledged, "As we lawyers say, there are questions you wish you hadn't asked.”

Then, undeterred, he added, "Nothing that's been said changes my view that American science is second to none; further, that our own research quality will suffer if we spread ourselves too thin by setting up shop in another country.”

There were murmurs of agreement until another director, Owen Norton, rapped his knuckles sharply on the table to command attention. He received it at once. Norton, a prestigious, authoritarian figure in his mid-seventies, was chairman and major stockholder of a communications empire that included a TV network. It was generally agreed that Felding-Roth was fortunate to have him on its board. Now, having gained attention, he spoke forcefully in a loud, rasping voice. "May I remind all of you that we are discussing-or should be the serious and important problems which beset this company. We chose Sam Hawthorne as president, believing he would give leadership, ideas and guidance. So he has come up with a proposal embodying all three, and what is happening here? We are being urged by Clint and others to dismiss it out of hand. Well, I for one, will not.”

Owen Norton glanced at Etheridge, with whom he had clashed at board meetings before, and his voice became sarcastic.”I also believe, Clint, you should save your juvenile, flag-waving polemics for a jury which is less well informed than the members of this board.”

There was a momentary silence during which Sam Hawthorne reflected on how much it might surprise outsiders to discover that corporate board meetings were seldom conducted on the high intellectual level which many might expect. While weighty and sometimes wise decisions could be arrived at, there was often a surprising amount of low-level argument and petty bickering. "What the hell does it matter, anyway," Norton continued, "whose science is superior-Britain's or ours? That isn't the point.”

A director asked, "Then what is?" Norton pounded the table with a fist.”Diversification! In any business, including mine, it's sometimes an advantage to have a second 'think tank,' completely separate from and independent of any existing one. And maybe the best way to get that separation is to put an ocean between the two.”

"It's also a way," someone else said, .of letting costs get out of hand. " For nearly an hour the debate continued, with more opposition surfacing and alternative ideas being put forward. But there was support for Sam's proposal from several directors, support which Owen Norton's stand had strengthened, and in the end the opposition dissipated. Finally the original proposal was approved by a vote of thirteen to one, Clinton Etheridge the sole dissenter. "Thank you, gentlemen," Sam acknowledged.”I truly believe that something productive will come from this decision.”

Later the same day he sent for Celia. "You're moving on," he told her without time-wasting preliminaries.”The International Division is now behind you. Your new job is special assistant to the president and you'll be my right hand in setting up a British research institute.”

"All right," Celia acknowledged; the news delighted her, but she kept her tone as brisk as Sam's. He was showing signs, she thought, of some of the pressures which inevitably were crowding him. He was now almost totally bald, only a thin fringe of hair remaining. From her own point of view, Celia reasoned, there would be time for celebration tonight when she shared her news with Andrew. She asked, "When do I start?" Mentally she was calculating how long it would take to hand over her Latin-American responsibilities. A month should be enough. "I'd prefer to make it this afternoon," Sam answered.”But we'll have to arrange an office for you, so let's say 9 A.M. tomorrow.”

"This new assignment you have," Sam explained to Celia next day, "won't last long. Your main job will be to help get our British research institute established, staffed and operating. I'd like to have that done in a year, though sooner would be better. As soon as possible after that, we'll find you something else.”

The priorities, Sam continued, were to find and appoint a British scientist who would head the institute, to decide where in Britain it should be located, then to buy or lease a building-preferably an existing one capable of being adapted quickly to its new purpose. Everything was to be on an urgent basis-which was the reason for pulling Celia so suddenly from International. Sam personally would spearhead the search for a prestigious, capable scientific director, though Celia would help as needed. As to the other matters, Celia would handle those, coming up with recommendations for Sam and others to consider. Both Sam and Celia would leave for Britain the following week. Before then, however, they would consult with Vincent Lord who, despite his opposition to the project, was well informed about British science and scientists and might have names of candidates to suggest. The consultation with Dr. Lord took place a few days later in Sam's office, with Celia present. To Celia's surprise, Vince Lord was cooperative, even friendly as far as that capability lay within him. Sam, who understood more of the background than Celia, realized why. With Felding-Roth now committed to research in Britain, Lord wanted to control it. But Sam still was determined not to have that happen. "I've prepared a list," Lord informed them, "of people who could be potential candidates. You'll have to approach them discreetly because they are either professors at universities or are employed by our competitors.”

Sam and Celia examined the list, which contained eight names.”We'll be discreet," Sam promised, "but we'll also move quickly.”

"While you're over there," Lord said, "here's something else you might look into.”

From a file he extracted a batch of papers and letters clipped together.”I've been corresponding with a young scientist at Cambridge University. He's been doing some interesting work on mental aging and Alzheimer's disease, but he's run out of money and wants a grant.”

"Alzheimer's," Celia said.”That's when the brain stops functioning, isn't it?" Lord nodded.”Part of the brain. Memory disappears. The condition starts slowly and gets worse.”

Despite the research director's earlier aversion to Celia, he had come to accept her as a fixture in the company, and influential; therefore continued antagonism would be pointless. The two had even progressed to using first names-at first a touch awkwardly, but by now with ease. Sam took the letters from Lord, glanced through them and read aloud, "Dr. Martin Peat-Smith.”

Passing them to Celia, he asked Lord, "Do you recommend a grant?" The research director shrugged.”It's a long shot. Alzheimer's has baffled scientists since 1906 when it was first diagnosed. What Peat-Smith is doing is studying the aging process of the brain, hoping to find a cause of Alzheimer's while he does.”

"What are his chances?" "Slim.”

"We might put up some money," Sam said.”If we have time, I'll talk with him. But other things come first.”

Celia, who had been studying the letters, asked, "Is Dr. PeatSmith a possible candidate for institute director?" Lord looked surprised, then answered, "No.”

"Why not?" "For one thing, he's too young.”

Celia looked down at what she had been reading.”He's thirty-two.”

She smiled.”Weren't you about that age, Vince, when you came here?" He replied tautly, some of his normal irritation surfacing.”The circumstances were different.”

"Let's talk about these other people," Sam said. He had gone back to the original list.”Vince, brief me on them.”

June 1972. London was a blaze of pageantry and color. Celia reveled in it. In public parks and gardens a multitude of flowers-roses, lilacs, azaleas, irises--filled the air with fragrance. Tourists and Londoners basked in warm sunshine. Trooping the Color-tke military celebration of the Queen's birthday-was a vivid, dazzling performance to the music of massed bands. In Hyde Park, elegantly attired riders cantered on Rotten Row. Nearby, along the Serpentine, children happily fed ducks which competed for water space with splashing bathers. At Epsom the Derby had been run against a background of tradition, style and hoopla, victory going to the colt Roberto and jockey Lester Piggott, riding to his sixth Derby win. "Being here at this time doesn't feel like work," Celia told Sam one day. "I feel as if I should pay the company for the privilege.”

She was staying at the Berkeley in Knightsbridge from where, for the past several weeks, she had traveled to more than a dozen possible locations. for the Felding-Roth research institute. Celia was alone, since Andrew had not been able to leave his practice to come with her. Sam and Lilian Hawthorne were at Claridge's. It was to Claridge's, the Hawthornes' suite, that Celia brought her news and an opinion during June's third week. "I've traveled all over the country, as you know," she told Sam, "and I believe the best place for us to set up shop is at Harlow, Essex.” Lilian said, "I've never heard of it.”

"That's because Harlow was a little village," Celia explained.”Now it's something called a 'new town,' one of thirty-odd established by the British Government, which is trying to get people and industry out of big cities.”

She went on, "The location fits all our requirements. It's near London, has fast rail service, good roads, and an airport close by. There's housing and schools, with open countryside around-a wonderful place for staff to live.”

Sam asked, "How about a building?" "I've some news about that too.”

Celia consulted notes.”A company called Comthrust, which makes small communications equipment-intercom systems, burglar alarms, that kind of thing-built a plant at Harlow but ran into money problems. So now they can't afford the plant, which has roughly the square footage we want. It's never been occupied, and Comthrust is looking for a quick cash sale.” "Could the building be converted to labs?" "Easily.”

Celia unfolded several blueprints.”I've brought the plans. I've also talked with a contractor.”

"While you co-workers are poring over that dull stuff," Lilian announced, "I'm going shopping at Harrods.”

Two days later Sam and Celia drove together to Harlow. As Sam threaded a rented Jaguar through early morning traffic out of London, heading north, Celia read that day's International Herald Tribune. Vietnam peace talks, which had been stalled, would soon resume in Paris, a'front-page report predicted. In a Maryland hospital, a bullet had been removed successfully from the spine of Governor George Wallace of Alabama, shot a month before by a would-be assassin. President Nixon, offering his own assessment of the Vietnam war, assured Americans, "Hanoi is losing its desperate gamble.”

One item, from Washington, D.C., which appeared to receive unusual attention, described a burglary-a break-in at Democratic Party national headquarters at a place called Watergate. It seemed a minor matter. Celia, uninterested, put the newspaper away. She asked Sam, "How have your latest interviews been going?" He grimaced.”Not well. You've made better progress than L" "Places and buildings are easier than people," she reminded him. Sam had been working his way through Vincent Lord's list of potential candidates to head the research institute.”Most of them I've seen so far," he confided to Celia, "are a little too much like Vince-set in their ways, status-conscious, with their best research years probably behind them. What I'm looking for is someone with exciting ideas, highly qualified of course, and possibly young.”

"How will you know when you've found someone like that?" 'I'll know," Sam said. He smiled.”Maybe it's like falling in love. You're not sure why. When it happens, you just know.”

The twenty-three miles between London and Harlow were amid increasing traffic. Then, leaving the A414 main road, they entered an area of wide grass boulevards with pleasant homes, separated in many cases by open fields. The industrial areas were discreetly apart, concealed from residential and recreational portions of the town. Some old structures had been preserved. As they passed an eleventh-century church, Sam stopped the car and said, "Let's get out and walk around.”

"This is ancient ground," Celia told him as they strolled, surveying the combined rural-modem scene.”Old Stone Age relics have been found from two hundred thousand years ago. The Saxons were here; the name Harlow is from Saxon words meaning 'the hill of the army.' And in the first century A.D., the Romans had a settlement and built a temple.”

"We'll try to add some history ourselves," Sam said.”Now, where's that plant we've come to see?" Celia pointed to the west.”Over there, behind those trees. It's in an industrial park called Pinnacles.”

"Okay, let's go.”

By now it was midmorning. Sam surveyed the silent, unoccupied building as he halted the Jaguar outside. A portion of it, intended as showroom and offices, was of concrete and glass, divided into two floors. The remainder, a metal-clad steel frame, was on one level and designed as a spacious workshop. Even from the outside, Sam could see that what Celia had reported was true-the whole could be readily converted to research laboratories. A short distance ahead of them another car was parked. Now a door opened and a pudgy middle-aged man got out and approached the Jaguar. Celia introduced him as Mr. LaMarre, a real estate company representative she had arranged to have meet them. After shaking hands, LaMarre produced a bunch of keys and jangled them. "No sense in buying the barn without looking at the hay," he said amiably. They moved to the main doorway and went in. A half hour later Sam took Celia aside and told her quietly, "It'll do very well. You can let this man know we're interested, then instruct our lawyers to get started with negotiations. Tell them to wind up everything as quickly as possible.”

While Celia went back to talk with LaMarre, Sam returned to the Jaguar. A few minutes later, when she rejoined him, he said, "I forgot to tell you that we're going on to Cambridge. Because Harlow is halfway there, I arranged to meet Dr. Peat-Smith-he's the one doing research on brain aging and Alzheimer's disease, who has asked for a grant.”

"I'm glad you found time for him," Celia said.”You thought you might not.”

After an hour's drive through more countryside, in bright sunshine, they entered Trumpington Street, Cambridge, soon after midday.”This is a lovely, venerable town," Sam said.”That's Peterhouse on your left-the oldest college. Have you been here before?"

Celia, fascinated by a succession of ancient, historic buildings cheek by jowl, answered, "Never.”

Sam had stopped en route to telephone and arrange luncheon at the Garden House Hotel. Martin Peat-Smith would join them there. The picturesque hotel was in an idyllic location, close to the "Backs"-the landscaped gardens that provide a superb rear view of many colleges-and alongside the River Cam on which boaters in punts poled their leisurely, sometimes uncertain way. In the hotel lobby Peat-Smith spotted them first and came forward. Celia had a swift impression of a stocky, solidly built young man with a shock of untidy blond hair that needed trimming, and a sudden, boyish smile that creased a rugged, square-jawed face. Whatever else Peat-Smith might be, she thought, he wasn't handsome. But she had a sense of facing a strong, purposeful personality. "Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Hawthorne, I presume?" The incisive, cultured but unaffected voice matched Peat-Smith's ingenuous appearance. "That's right," Celia responded.”Except, in terms of importance, it's the other way around.”

The quick smile once more.”I'll try to remember that.”

As they all shook hands, Celia noticed Peat-Smith was wearing an old Harris Tweed jacket with patched elbows and frayed cuffs, and unpressed, stained gray slacks. Instantly reading her mind, he said without embarrassment, "I came directly from the lab, Mrs. Jordan. I do own a suit. If we meet out of working hours, I'll wear it.”

Celia flushed.”I'm embarrassed. I apologize for my rudeness.”

"No need.”

He smiled disarmingly.”I just like to clear things UP.”

"A good habit," Sam pronounced.”Shall we go in to lunch?" At their table, which provided a view of a rose garden and the river beyond, they ordered drinks. Celia, as usual, had a daiquiri, Sam a martini, Peat-Smith a glass of white wine. "I have a report from Dr. Lord about your current research," Sam said. "I understand you've asked for a grant from Felding-Roth which would let you continue it.”

"That's right," Peat-Smith acknowledged.”My project-the study of, mental aging and Alzheimer's disease-is out of money.

The university doesn't have any, at least not for allocation to me, so I've bad to took elsewhere.”

Sam assured him, "That's not unusual. Our company does give grants for academic research if we think it's worthwhile, so let's talk about it.”

"All right.”

For the first time Dr. Peat-Smith showed a trace of nervousness, probably, Celia thought, because a grant was important to him. He asked, "To start with Alzheimer's-how much do you know about it?" "Very little," Sam said.”So assume we know nothing.”

The young scientist nodded.”It isn't one of the fashionable diseases-at least, not yet. Also there's no knowledge, only theories, about what causes it.”

"Doesn't it affect old people mostly?" Celia asked. "Those over fifty-yes; more particularly the age group over sixty-five. But Alzheimer's can affect someone younger. There have been cases in people aged twenty-seven.”

Peat-Smith sipped his wine, then continued.”The disease begins gradually, with lapses of memory. People forget simple things, like how to tie their shoelaces, or what a light switch is for, or where they usually sit at mealtime. Then, as it gets worse, more and more memory goes. Often the person can't identify anyone, even their husband or wife. They may forget how to eat and have to be fed; when thirsty, they may not know enough to ask for water. They're often incontinent, in bad cases violent and destructive. Eventually they die of the disease, but that takes ten to fifteen years-years which are hardest on anyone living with an Alzheimer's victim.”

Peat-Smith paused, then told them, "What goes on in the brain can be seen after autopsy. Alzheimer's hits nerve cells in the cortex -where senses and memory are housed. It twists and severs nerve fibers and filaments. It litters the brain with tiny bits of a substance called plaque.”

"I've read something about your research," Sam said, "but I'd like you to tell us yourself what direction you're taking.”

"A genetic direction. And because there are no animal models for Alzheirner's--so far as we know, no animal gets the diseasemy studies with animals are on the chemistry of the mental aging process. As you're aware, I'm a nucleic acid chemist.”

"My chemistry is a little rusty," Celia said, "but as I understand nucleic acids, they're the 'building blocks' of DNA which make up our genes.”

"Correct, and not so rusty.”

Peat-Smith smiled.”And it's likely that big future medical advances will come when we understand the chemistry of DNA better, showing us how genes work and why they sometimes go wrong. That's what I'm researching now, using young and old rats, trying to find differences, varying with age, between the animals' mRNA-messenger ribonucleic acid-which is a template made from their DNA.”

Sam interjected, "But Alzheimer's disease and the normal aging process are two separate things, right?" "It appears so, but there may be overlapping areas.”

As PeatSmith paused, Celia could sense him organizing his thoughts, as a teacher would, into simpler, less scientific words than he was accustomed to using. "An Alzheimer's victim may have had, at birth, an aberration in his DNA, which contains his coded genetic information. However, someone else, born with more normal DNA, can change that DNA by damaging its environment, the human body. Through smoking, for example, or a harmful diet. For a while, our built-in DNA repair mechanism will take care of that, but as we get older the genetic repair system may slow down or fail entirely. Part of what I'm searching for is a reason for that slowing...”

At the end of the explanation, Celia said, "You're a natural teacher. You enjoy teaching, don't you?" Peat-Smith appeared surprised.”Doing some teaching is expected at a university. But, yes, I enjoy it.”

Another facet of this man's interesting personality, Celia thought. She said, "I'm beginning to understand the questions. How far are you from answers?" "Perhaps light-years away. On the other hand we might be close.”

Peat-Smith flashed his genuine smile.”That's a risk that grant givers take.”

A maAre d' brought menus and they paused to decide about lunch. When they had chosen, Peat-Smith said, "I hope you'll visit my laboratory. I can explain better there what I'm trying to do.”

"We were counting on that," Sam said.”Right after lunch.”

While they were eating, Celia asked, "W hat is your status at Cambridge, Dr. Peat-Smith?" "I have an appointment as a lecturer; that's more or less equivalent to assistant professor in America. What it means is that I get lab space in the Biochemistry Building, a technician to help me, and freedom to do research of my choice.”

He stopped, then added, "Freedom, that is, if I can get financial backing.”

"About the grant we're speaking of," Sam said.”I believe the amount suggested was sixty thousand dollars.”

"Yes. It would be over three years, and is the least I can get by on -to buy equipment and animals, employ three full-time technicians, and conduct experiments. There's nothing in there for me personally.”

Peat-Smith grimaced.”All the same, it's a lot of money, isn't it?" Sam nodded gravely.”Yes, it is.”

But it wasn't. As both Sam and Celia knew, sixty thousand dollars was a trifling sum compared with the annual expenditures on research by Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals or any major drug firm. The question, as always, was: Did Dr. Peat-Smith's project have sufficient commercial promise to make an investment worthwhile? "I get the impression," Celia told Peat-Smith, "that you're quite dedicated on the subject of Alzheimer's. Was there some special reason that got you started?" The young scientist hesitated. Then, meeting Celia's eyes directly, he said, "My mother is sixty-one, Mrs. Jordan. I'm her only child; not surprisingly, we've always been close. She's had Alzheimer's disease for four years and become progressively worse. My father, as best he can, takes care of her, and I go to see her almost every day. Unfortunately, she has no idea who I am.”

Cambridge University's Biochemistry Building was a three-storied red-brick neo-Renaissance structure, plain and unimpressive. It was on Tennis Court Road, a modest lane where no tennis court existed. Martin Peat-Smith, who had come to lunch on a bicycle-a standard form of transportation in Cambridge, it appeared-pedaled energetically ahead while Sam and Celia followed in the Jaguar. At the building's front door, where they rejoined him, PeatSmith cautioned, "I think I should warn you, so you're not surprised, that our facilities here are not the best. We're always crowded, short of space"-again the swift smile-"and usually short of money. Sometimes it shocks people from outside to see where and how we work.”

Despite the warning, a few minutes later Celia was shocked. When Peat-Smith left them alone briefly, she whispered to Sam,

"This place is awful-like a dungeon! How can anyone do good work here?" On entering, they had descended a stairway to a basement. The hallways were gloomy. A series of small rooms leading off them appeared messy, disordered, and cluttered with old equipment. Now they were in a laboratory, not much bigger than the kitchen of a small house, which Peat-Smith had announced was one of two that he worked in, though he shared both with another lecturer who was pursuing a separate project. While they were talking, the other man and his assistant had come and gone several times, making a private conversation difficult. The lab was furnished with worn wooden benches, set close together to make the most of available space. Above the benches were old-fashioned gas and electrical outlets, the latter festooned untidily, and probably unsafely, with adapters and many plugs. On the walls were roughly made shelves, all filled to capacity with books, papers and apparently discarded equipment, amid it, Celia noticed, some outmoded retorts of a type she remembered from her own chemistry work nineteen years earlier. A portion of bench was a makeshift desk. In front was a hard Windsor chair. Several dirty drinking mugs could be seen. On one bench were several wire cages, inside them, twenty or so rats-two to a cage, and in varying states of activity. The floor of the laboratory had not been cleaned in some time. Nor had the windows, which were narrow, high up on a wall, and providing a view of the wheels and undersides of cars parked outside. The effect was depressing. "No matter how it all looks," Sam told Celia, "never forget that a lot of scientific history has been made here. Nobel Prize winners have worked in these rooms and walked these balls.”

"That's right," Martin Peat-Smith said cheerfully; he had returned in time to hear the last remark.”Fred Sanger was one of them; he discovered the amino acid structure of the insulin molecule in a lab right above us.”

He saw Celia looking at the old equipment.”In academic labs we never throw anything away, Mrs. Jordan, because we never know when we'll need it again. Out of necessity, we improvise and build much of our own equipment.”

"That's true of American academia too," Sam said. "Just the same," Peat-Smith acknowledged, "all this must be quite a contrast to the kind of labs you're both used to.”

Remembering the spacious, immaculate, and richly equipped laboratories at Felding-Roth in New Jersey, Celia answered, "Frankly, yes.”

Peat-Smith had brought back two stools. He offered the Windsor chair to Celia, one of the stools to Sam, and perched on the second himself. "It's only fair to tell you," he said, "that what I'm attempting here involves not just problems of science, but enormously difficult techniques. What has to be found is a means of transferring information from a brain cell nucleus to the machinery of the cell that makes proteins and peptides...”

Warming to his exposition, he drifted into scientific jargon. take a gross mixture of mRNA from young and old rats and put it into a cell-free system... RNA templates are allowed to produce proteins... a long strand of mRNA may code for many proteins... afterwards, proteins are separated by electrophoresis... a possible technique could use a reverse transcriptase enzyme... then if the RNA and DNA's don't combine, it will mean the old rat has lost that genetic capability, so we'll begin learning which peptides are changing... eventually, I'll be seeking a single peptide 11

The talk continued for more than an hour, interspersed by shrewd, detailed questioning from Sam that impressed Celia. Although Sam had no scientific training, during his years with Felding-Roth he had absorbed much on-the-scene science and the effect of it showed. Throughout, Peat-Smith's enthusiasm transmitted itself to them both. And while he spoke--clearly, concisely, and from what was plainly a disciplined, orderly mind-their respect grew. Near the end of the discussion the scientist pointed to the rats in cages.”These are only a few. We have several hundred others in our animal room.”

He touched a cage and a large rat, which had been sleeping, stirred.”This old man is two and a half years old; that's equivalent to seventy in a human. This is his last day. Tomorrow we'll sacrifice him, then compare his brain chemistry with that of a rat born a few days ago. But to find answers we need it will take a lot of rats, a lot of chemical analysis, and a lot more time.”

Sam nodded his understanding.”We're aware of the time factor from our own experience. Now to summarize, Doctor-how would you express your long-term goal?" Peat-Smith considered before answering. Then he said carefully,

"To discover, through continuing genetic research, a brain peptide which enhances memory in younger people but, as those same people grow older, is not produced in the human body anymore. Then, having found and isolated such a peptide, we'll learn to produce it by genetic techniques. After that, people of all ages can be given it to minimize memory loss, forgetfulness-and perhaps eliminate mental aging altogether.”

The quiet summation was so impressive, so profoundly confident, yet in no way boastful, that neither visitor seemed inclined to break the silence that followed. Celia, despite the dismal surroundings, had a sense of sharing in a moment to be remembered, and of history being made. It was Sam who spoke first.”Dr. Peat-Smith, you now have your grant. It is approved, as of this moment, in the amount you asked.”

Peat-Smith appeared puzzled.”You mean... it's that simple... just like that?" It was Sam's turn to smile.”As president of Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals I have a certain authority. Once in a while it gives me pleasure to exercise it.”

He added, "The only condition is the usual one, implicit in these arrangements. We'd like to keep in touch with your progress and have first crack at any drug you may produce.”

Peat-Smith nodded.”Of course. That's understood.”

He still seemed dazed. Sam extended his hand, which the young scientist took.”Congratulations and good luck!"

It was a half hour later and teatime in the Biochemistry Building. At Martin's invitation-the three of them had, by now, progressed to first names-they had gone upstairs to where tea and biscuits were being served from tea trolleys in the foyer. Balancing their cups and saucers, the trio moved on to a faculty "tearoom" which, as Martin explained, was a social focal point for scientists who worked there and their guests. The tearoom, as austere and inelegant as the remainder of the building, had long tables with wooden chairs and was crowded and noisy. The scientists were of all shapes, sexes, sizes and ages, but fragments of conversation that could be overheard were decidedly unscientific. One discussion was about official parking places, an elderly faculty member arguing heatedly that favoritism to someone junior was depriving him of his tenurial rights. Alongside, a bearded, white-coated enthusiast reported a "sensational" sale by a Cambridge wine merchant; an available Meursault was recommended. Another group was dissecting a new movie playing in town-The Godfather, starring Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. After some maneuvering and exchanging places with others, Martin Peat-Smith managed to find a comer for his group.

"Is it always like this?" Celia asked. Martin seemed amused.”Usually. And almost everyone comes here. It's the only time some of us get to see each other.”

"It does appear to me," Sam said, "that your setup in this building doesn't allow much privacy.”

Martin shrugged.”That can be a nuisance at times. But you get used to it.”

"But should you have to get used to it?" When there was no answer, Sam went on, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by others nearby, "I was wondering, Martin, if you'd be interested in pursuing the same work you're doing now, but under superior conditions, and with more facilities and help.”

A half smile played over the scientist's face as he asked,

"Superior conditions where?" "What I'm suggesting," Sam said, "as no doubt you've guessed, is that you leave Cambridge University and come to work with us at Felding-Roth. There would be many advantages for you, and it would be in Britain where we're planning-" "Excuse me!" As Martin cut in, he appeared concerned.”May I ask you something?" "Of course.”

"Is the offer of a grant from your company conditional on this?" Sam answered, "Absolutely not. You already have the grant, to which there are no strings attached, other than the one we agreed. On that I give you my word.”

"Thank you. For a moment I was worried.”

The full and boyish smile returned.”I don't wish to be rude, but I think it will save us both time if I tell you something.”

It was Celia who said, "Go ahead.”

"I'm an academic scientist and I intend to remain one," Martin declared. "I won't go into all the reasons, but one is freedom. By that, I mean freedom to do the kind of research I want, without commercial pressures.”

"You'd have freedom with us Sam began. But he stopped as Martin shook his head.

"There'd be commercial factors to consider. Tell me honestly wouldn't there?" Sam admitted, "Well, from time to time, some. We're in business, after all.”

"Exactly. But here there are no commercial considerations. Just pure science, a search for knowledge. For myself, I want to keep it that way. Will you have more tea?" "Thank you, no," Celia said. Sam shook his head. They rose to go. Outside, on Tennis Court Road and standing by the rented Jaguar, Martin told Sam, "Thank you for everything, including the job offer. And you too, Celia. But I'll stay at Cambridge which, apart from this building"-he glanced behind him and grimaced-"is a beautiful place.”

"It's been a pleasure," Sam said.”And about working for us, though I regret your decision, I understand it.”

He got into the car. From the seat beside him, with the window down, Celia told Martin, "Cambridge is a beautiful place. I've never been here until today. I wish I had time to see more.”

"Hey, hold it!" Martin said.”How long are you staying in Britain?" She considered.”Oh, probably another two weeks.”

"Then why not come back for a day? It's easy to get here. I'd be happy to show you around.”

"I'd like that very much," Celia said. While Sam started the car, they arranged the visit for ten days later-the Sunday after next.

In the Jaguar, driving back to London, Celia and Sam were silent, busy with their own thoughts, until they were clear of Cambridge and on the A10, headed south. Then Celia said quietly, "You want him, don't you? You want him to head our research institute.”

"Of course.”

Sam answered tersely, frustration in his voice.”He's outstanding, my guess is a genius, and he's the best I've seen since coming here. But dammit, Celia, we won't get him! He's an academic, and he'll stay one. You heard what he said, and it's obvious nothing will change his mind.”

"I wonder," Celia said thoughtfully.”I just wonder about that.”

The days that followed were filled, -for Sam and Celia, with more arrangements for the physical aspects of the Felding-Roth research institute at Harlow. But the activity, while necessary, was unsatisfying. The frustration they shared-a conviction that Dr. Martin Peat-Smith would be the best possible choice as the institute's director, but Sam's equal certainty that Martin would never agree to move from the academic world to industry-hung over them as a pervasive disappointment. During the week after their journey to Cambridge, Sam declared, "I've seen several other candidates, but none are of the caliber of Peat-Smith. Unfortunately, he's spoiled me for everyone else.”

When Celia reminded Sam that she would he seeing Martin for a second time the following Sunday, for her conducted tour of Cambridge, Sam nodded gloomily.”Of course, do what you can, but I'm not optimistic. He's a dedicated, determined young man who knows his own mind.”

Then Sam cautioned Celia, "Whatever you do when you talk to Martin, don't bring up the subject of money-I mean the kind of salary we'd pay if he came to work for us. He knows, without our saying so, that it would be big, compared with what he's getting now. But if you talk about it, and make it sound as if we believe he can be bought, he'll think we're just two more brash Americans, convinced that everything in this world can be had with dollars.”

"But Sam," Celia objected, "if Martin came to work for Felding-Roth, you'd have to discuss salary at some point.”

"At some point, yes. But not initially, because money would never be the key issue. Believe me, Celia, I know how sensitive these academic types can be, and if-as you believe-there's a chance Martin might change his mind, let's not blow it by being crass!" "As a matter of interest," Celia queried, "what are the figures?" Sam considered.”According to information I have, Martin is earning about two thousand four hundred pounds a year; that's six thousand dollars, more or less. To begin, we'd pay him four or five times that amount-say, twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars, plus bonuses.”

Celia whistled softly.”I didn't know the gap was so wide.”

"But academic people know. And, knowing it, they still choose academia, believing there's more intellectual freedom, and for scientific people more 'purity of research' in a college environment. You heard Martin when he talked about 'commercial pressures,' and how he would resent them.”

"Yes, I did," Celia said.”But you argued with him, and said the pressures weren't great.”

"That's because I'm on the industry side of the fence and it's my job to think that way. But in private, between you and me, I'll admit that maybe Martin's right.”

Celia said doubtfully, "I agree with you about most things. But I'm less sure about all that.”

It was an unsatisfactory conversation, she felt, and brooded about it afterward. She also resolved, as she put it to herself, to get a "second opinion.”

On Saturday, the day before she was due to go to Cambridge, Celia talked by telephone with Andrew and the children, as she had done at least twice weekly during her month-long stay in Britain. Both they and she were excited by her impending homecoming, now less than a week away. After the usual family talk, Celia told Andrew about Dr. Peat-Smith, the disappointment concerning him, and her exchanges on the subject with Sam. She also informed Andrew that she was meeting Mar-tin the following day. "Do you think he might change his mind?" Andrew inquired. "I've an instinct it could happen," Celia answered.”Perhaps under certain circumstances, though I've no idea what they might be. What I don't want to do, when we talk tomorrow, is handle things badly.”

There was a silence on the telephone and she could sense her husband ruminating, turning things over in his mind. Then he said, "Sam's partly right in what he's said, but maybe not altogether. In my experience you'll never insult anyone by letting them know they have a high monetary value. In fact, most of us rather like it, even if we have no intention of accepting the money offered.”

"Keep talking," Celia said. She respected Andrew's wisdom, his knack of going directly to the nub of any situation. He continued, "From what you tell me, Peat-Smith is a straightforward person.”

"Very much so.”

"In that case, I suggest you deal with him the same way. By being complicated, trying to outguess him, you could defeat your own purpose. Besides, deviousness isn't your style, Celia. Be yourself. That way, if it seems natural to talk money-or anything else -just do it.”

"Andrew darling," she responded, "what would I do without you?" "Nothing important, I hope.”

Then he added, "Now that you've told me about tomorrow, I'll admit to feeling a mite jealous about you and Peat-Smith.”

Celia laughed.”It's strictly business. It will stay that way.”

Now it was Sunday. Alone, in a first class no-smoking compartment aboard an early morning London-to-Cambridge train, Celia allowed her head to fall back against the cushion behind her. Relaxing, she began using the hour-and-a-quarter journey to order her thoughts. Earlier, she had taken a taxi from her hotel to Liverpool Street Station-a grim, cast-iron-and-brick Victorian legacy, frenetically busy from Mondays through Fridays but quieter at weekends. The quietness meant that few people were aboard the diesel-electric train as it rumbled from the station, and Celia was glad of her solitude. Mentally she reconstructed the past two weeks' events and conversations, wondering once more whose advice she should take today-Andrew's or Sam's. The meeting with Martin, while outwardly social, could be important for Felding-Roth as well as for herself. Sam's warning came back to her: "Let's not blow it by being crass!" The rhythmic sound of wheels over rails lulled her, and the journey passed swiftly. As the train slowed and pulled into Cambridge, Martin Peat-Smith-his welcome expressed in that broad, cheerful smile-was waiting on the station platform.

At age forty-one, Celia knew she looked good. She also felt it. Her soft brown hair was trimmed short, her figure slim and firm, her high-cheekboned face tanned and healthy from recent weeks out of doors and the unusually benevolent British summer, which was continuing today. Nowadays her hair held beginning strands of gray. This reminder of time passing rarely bothered her, though occasionally she camouflaged the gray with a color rinse. She had used the rinse the night before. She was dressed for a summer's day in a cotton voile dress of green and white, with a lacy petticoat beneath. She had on white, high-heeled sandals and a broad-brimmed white straw hat. The entire outfit had been bought in London's West End the preceding week because, when packing in New Jersey, it had not occurred to her she would need such warm-weather clothes in Britain. As she stepped down from the train she was aware of Martin's admiring gaze. For a moment he seemed lost for words, then, taking her extended hand, he said, "Hello! You look wonderful, and I'm glad you came.”

"You look pretty good yourself.”

Martin laughed and flashed a boyish smile. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, white flannels and an open-necked shirt.”I promised you I'd wear my suit," he said.”But I found this old outfit which I haven't had on for years. It seemed less formal.”

As they walked from the station, Celia linked her arm in his.”Where are we going?" "My car's outside. I thought we'd drive around a bit, then walk through some colleges, and later we'll have a picnic.”

"It all sounds great.”

"While you're here, is there anything else you'd like to do or see?" She hesitated, then said, I 'Yes, there is one other thing.”

"What's that?" "I'd like to meet your mother.”

Martin, surprised, turned his head to look at her.”I can take you to my parents' home right after we've done our tour. If you're sure that's what you want.”

"Yes," she said, "it's what I want.”

Martin's car was a Morris Mini Minor of indeterminate age. After they squeezed themselves in, he drove circuitously through old Cambridge streets and parked on Queen's Road by the "Backs.”

He told Celia, "We walk from here.”

Leaving the car, they followed a footpath to King's Bridge over the River Cam. At the bridge, Celia stopped. Shading her eyes from the bright morning sun, she said with awe, "I've seldom seen anything more lovely.”

Beside her, Martin announced quietly, "King's College Chapel the noblest view of all.”

Immediately ahead were serene lawns and shady trees. Beyond was the great chapel-a vision of turrets, sturdy buttresses and lofty spires rising over a glorious vaulted roof and stained-glass windows. The pale stone buildings of colleges on either side conveyed a complementary sense of history and nobility. "Let me do my tour guide act," Martin said.”It goes like this: We're an old foundation. In 1441, King Henry VI began what you see here, and Peterhouse, over to the south, is even older. It started 'the Cambridge quest for knowledge' in 1284.”

Without thinking, Celia said impulsively, "How could anyone who truly belongs here ever leave this place?" Martin answered, "Many never have. There were great scholars who lived and worked at Cambridge until they died. And some of us-younger and living--have a similar idea.”

For two more hours they alternately walked and rode, and in the process Celia imbibed the lore and love of Cambridge. Place names stayed with her: Jesus Green, Midsummer Common, Parker's Piece, Coe Fen, Lammas Land, Trinity, Queens', Newnham. The list seemed endless, as did Martin's knowledge.”As well as scholars who stayed, others have taken this place elsewhere," he told her.”One was an M.A. from Emmanuel College, John Harvard. There's another place of learning named after him.”

He gave his familiar, twisted grin.”I forget just where.”

At length, as they eased back into the Mini, Martin asserted, "I think that will do. We'll save anything else for another time.”

Abruptly, his face became serious.”Do you still want to see my parents? I have to warn you-my mother won't know either of us, or why we're there. The effect can be depressing.”

"Yes," Celia said, "I still want to.”

The terraced house, small and undistinguished, was in a district called the Kite. Martin parked on the street outside and used a key to go in. From a small, dimly lighted hallway he called out, "Dad! It's me, and I have a guest.”

There was a sound of shuffling footsteps, a door opened, and an elderly man, wearing a faded sweater and baggy corduroy trousers, appeared. As he came closer, Celia was startled by the physical resemblance between father and son. The older Peat-Smith had the same stocky solidity as Martin, a similar rugged, square-jawed face -though more seamed with age-and even a quick, shy smile as they were introduced seemed a duplicate of Martin's. When the older man spoke, the similarity ceased. His voice revealed a discordant, coarse, provincial twang; his sentences, roughly framed, suggested little education. "Pleased to meet yer," he told Celia. And to Martin-"Didn't know as you was coming, son. Only just got yer ma dressed. She ain't bin none too good today.”

"We won't stay long, Dad," Martin said, and told Celia, "The Alzheimer's has been a big strain on my father. That's often the way it is-it's harder on the families than the patient.”

As they moved into a modest, nondescript living room, Peat-Smith, Senior, asked Celia, "Yer wan' a cuppa?" "That's tea," Martin translated. "Thank you, I'd love some tea," Celia said.”I'm thirsty after our tour.”

While Martin's father walked into a tiny kitchen, Martin went to kneel beside a gray-haired woman who was seated in a baggy armchair with a flowered cover. She had not moved since they came in. Putting his arms around her, he kissed her tenderly. Once, Celia thought, the older woman had been beautiful and even now was handsome in a faded way. Her hair was neatly combed. She was wearing a simple beige dress with a row of beads. At her son's kiss she appeared to respond a little, and gave the slightest smile, but not, it seemed, of recognition. "Mother, I'm your son, Martin," Martin said; his voice was gentle.”And this lady is Celia Jordan, She's from America. I've been showing her around Cambridge. She likes our little town.”

"Hello, Mrs. Peat-Smith," Celia said.”Thank you for letting me visit your home.”

The gray-haired woman's eyes moved, again with that tantalizing hint of understanding. But Martin told Celia, "There's nothing there, I'm afraid. No memory left at all. But where my mother's concerned I allow myself to be non-scientific and keep trying to get through.”

"I understand.”

Celia hesitated, then asked, "Do you think that if your research progresses, if you discover something important soon, there might be a chance...”

"Of helping her?" Martin answered decisively, "Absolutely none.

No matter what's discovered, nothing will revive a dead brain cell. I've no illusions about that.”

Standing, he looked down at his mother sadly. "No, it's others who'll be helped someday soon. Others who haven't advanced this far.”

"You're sure of that, aren't you?" "I'm sure some answers will be found-by me or someone else.”

"But you'd like to be the one who finds them.”

Martin shrugged.”Every scientist would like to be first in making a discovery. That's human. But"-he glanced toward his mother-"it's more important that someone discover the cause of Alzheimer's.”

"So it's possible," Celia persisted, "that someone other than you could get there first.”

"Yes," Martin said.”In science that can always happen.”

Peat-Smith, Senior, came in from the kitchen with a tray containing a teapot, cups and saucers, and a milk jug. When the tray was set down, Martin put his arm around his father.”Dad does everything for mother--dresses her, combs her hair, feeds her, and some other things less pleasant. There was a time, Celia, when my father and I weren't the closest of friends. But we are now.”

"Tha's right. Used ter have a lot of hot arguments," Martin's father said. He addressed Celia.”You want milk in the tea?" "Yes, please.” "Was a time," the older man said, "when I din't think much of all them scholarships Martin an' his ma was set on, I wanted 'im to go to work wi' me. But 'is ma got the best of it an', the way it worked out, Vs been a good lad to us. Pays for this place, an' most else we need.”

He glanced at Martin, then added, "An' over at that college, I hear he ain't done bad.”

"No," Celia said, "he hasn't done badly at all.”

It was almost two hours later. "Is it okay to talk while you're doing that?" Celia inquired from the comfortably cushioned seat where she was reclining. "Sure. Why not?" As he spoke, Martin, who was standing, thrust a long punt pole away from him; it found purchase on the river's shallow bottom, and the awkward flat-bottomed craft they were sharing glided easily upstream. Martin seemed to do everything well, Celia thought, including handling a punt-something at which few people were skilled, judging by others they had passed on the river and who, by comparison, were bumbling their way along. Martin had rented the punt at a Cambridge boatyard and they were now on their way to Grantchester, three miles southward, for what would be a late picnic lunch. "This is personal," Celia said, "and maybe I shouldn't ask. But I was wondering about the difference between you and your father. For example, the way you each speak-and I don't just mean being grammatical...”

"I know what you mean," Martin said.”When my mother was talking, before she forgot how to, she spoke much the same way. In Pygmalion, Bernard Shaw called it an 'incarnate insult to the English language.'" "I remember that from My Fair Lady, " Celia reminisced.”But you managed to avoid it. How?" "It's one more thing I owe my mother. Before I explain, though, there's something you have to understand about this country. In Britain, the way people speak has always been a class barrier, a social distinction. And despite some who'll tell you otherwise, it still is.”

"In the academic world too? Among scientists.”

"Even there. Perhaps especially there.”

Martin busied himself with the punt pole while considering his next words. "My mother understood that barrier. Which was why, when I was very small, she bought a radio and made me sit for hours in front of it, listening to the BBC announcers. She told me, 'That's the way you'll speak, so start copying those people. It's too late for your Dad and me, but not for you,' "Listening to Martin's pleasant and cultured, though unaffected, voice, Celia said, "It worked.”

"I suppose so. But it was one of many other things she did, including finding out what interested me at school, then discovering what scholarships there were, and making sure I went after them. That was when we had those fights at home my father talked about.”

"He believed your mother was overreaching?" "He thought I should be a stonemason, like him. My father believed in that English rhyme that Dickens wrote.”

Martin smiled as he quoted: let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper station.

"But you don't hold a grudge against your father for that?" Martin shook his head.”He simply didn't understand. For that matter, nor did 1. Only my mother understood what could be accomplished through ambition-and through me. Perhaps you realize now why I care so much about her.”

"Of course," Celia said.”And now that I know, I feel the same way.”

They lapsed into a contented silence as the punt progressed upriver between green banks and leafy trees on either side. After a while, Celia said, "Your father said you pay for most of what both your parents need.”

"I do what I can," Martin acknowledged.”One thing I do is send in an agency nurse two mornings a week. It gives my father a break. I'd like to use the nurse more often, but...”

He shrugged, left the sentence unfinished, and expertly brought the punt alongside a grassy bank under the shade of a willow tree.”How's this for a picnic site?" "Idyllic," Celia said.”Straight from Camelot.”

Martin had packed a hamper with some prawns, a Melton Mowbray pork pie, a fresh green salad, strawberries and thick, yellow Devonshire cream. There was wine-a respectable Chablis-and a thermos of coffee. They ate and drank with gusto. At the end of the meal, over coffee, Celia said, "This is my last weekend before going home. It couldn't have been nicer.”

"Was your trip here a success?" About to reply with a platitude, she remembered Andrew's advice on the telephone and answered, "No.”

"Why not?" Martin sounded surprised. "Sam Hawthorne and I found the ideal director for the Felding-Roth research institute, but he didn't want the job. Now, everyone else seems second-rate.”

After a silence, Martin said, "I presume you're talking about me.,, "You know I am.”

He sighed.”I hope you're going to forgive me for that delinquency, Celia.”

"There's nothing to forgive. It's your life, your decision," she assured him.”It's simply that, thinking about it just now, there were two things...”

She stopped. "Go on. What two things?" "Well, a little while ago you admitted you'd like to be first in finding answers about Alzheimer's and mental aging, but others might get there ahead of you.”

Martin leaned back in the punt, facing Celia; he had folded his blazer behind him and was using it as a pillow.”Others are doing similar research to mine. I know of someone in Germany, another in France, a third in New Zealand. They're all good people and we're pursuing the same objectives, exploring the same trail. It's impossible to know who, if anyone, is ahead.”

"So it's a race that you're in," Celia said.”A race against time.”

Unconsciously, her voice had sharpened. "Yes. But that's the way science is.”

"Do any of those others you mentioned have better facilities or more staff than you?" He considered.”Probably 'yes' to both in Germany. I don't know about the other two.”

"How much laboratory space do you have now?" "Altogether"-Martin calculated mentally-"about a thousand square feet.”

"Then wouldn't it help you get closer, faster, to what you're searching for if you had five times that space, plus equipment to go into it--everything you needed, and all for your project-plus a staff of maybe twenty people working for you, instead of two or three? Wouldn't that move things along, and not only find the answers, but get you to them first?" Suddenly Celia was aware that the mood between them had changed. This was no longer a social occasion; whatever innocence there had been had fled. Subtly, it was now a challenge of intellect and wills. Well, she thought, this was why she had come to Britain, and to Cambridge today. Martin was staring at her in amazement.”Are you serious about all that? Five thousand square feet and twenty people!" "Dammit! Of course I'm serious.”

She added impatiently, "Do you think, in the pharmaceutical business, we play games?"

"No," he said, still staring, "I didn't think that. You said there were two things. What's the other?" Celia hesitated. Should she go on? She sensed that what she had just said had made a deep impression on Martin. Would she now destroy that, wiping out any advantage gained? Then, once more, she remembered Andrew. "I'll put this crudely and bluntly, in the usual crass American way," Celia said, "and I'm saying that because I know dedicated researchers like you aren't motivated by money and can't be bought. But if you worked for Felding-Roth, became director of our institute and brought your project with you, you'd most likely be paid twelve thousand pounds a year, plus bonuses, which can be substantial. I've reason to believe that's about five times what you're earning now. Furthermore, having met your parents and knowing what you do for them, and having an idea that there's more you'd like to do, I think you could use that extra cash. You could certainly send a nurse in more than twice a week, move your mother to better surroundings...”

"That's enough!" Martin had sat up and was glaring at her; he had become intensely emotional.”Damn you, Celia! I know what money can do. What's more, don't hand me that bilge about people like me not caring for it. I care like hell, and what you've just told me is mind-boggling. You're trying to undermine me, tempt me, take advantage She snapped, "That's ridiculous! Take what advantage?" "Of meeting my parents, for one thing. Seeing how they live and how much I care. So, using that, you're offering me a golden apple, playing Eve to my Adam.”

He glanced around them.”In Paradise, too.”

"It isn't a poisoned apple," Celia said quietly, "and there's no serpent in this boat. Look, I'm sorry if-" Martin cut her off savagely.”You're not sorry at all! You're a businesswoman who's good at her job-bloody good; I can testify, to-that! But a businesswoman going all out, no holds barred, to get what she wants. You're quite ruthless, aren't you?" Now Celia was surprised.”Am I” He answered emphatically, "Yes.”

"All right," Celia said; she would give back as good as she got, she decided.”Supposing I am. And supposing all of what you said is true. Isn't it what you want too? The answers to Alzheimer's!

That brain peptide you're searching for! Scientific glory! Is any of that cheating you?" "No," Martin said, "whatever else it is, it isn't cheating.”

He gave his twisted smile, though this time with a touch of sourness.”I hope they pay you well, Celia. As a crass American, which is what you called yourself, you do one helluva job.”

He stood up and reached for the punt pole.”It's time to go.”

They returned downstream in silence, Martin thrusting the punt forward with a fierceness he had not shown on the outward journey. Celia, busy with her thoughts, wondered if she had gone too far. Near the town and the boatyard, Martin stopped his poling and let the craft drift. From his perch on the stern above her, he regarded Celia solemnly. "I don't know the answer. I only know you've unsettled me," he told her. "But I still don't know.”

It was early evening when Martin dropped Celia at the Cambridge railway station and they said a formal, somewhat strained, goodbye. Celia's return train was a painfully slow local which stopped at almost every station, and it was past 11:30 P.m. by the time she arrived at the London terminus, this time King's Cross. She took a taxi to the Berkeley, reaching the hotel shortly before midnight. During most of the journey Celia reconstructed the day's events, especially her own part in them. What had jolted her, as much as anything, was Martin's cutting accusation: You're quite ruthless, aren't you? Was she ruthless? Looking in a mental mirror, Celia admitted that perhaps she was. Then she corrected herself: Not 'perhaps.” Make that "certainly.” But, she reasoned, wasn't some ruthlessness necessary? Necessary, especially for a woman-to have carved a career, as Celia had, and to have made it to where she was? Yes. Of course! Furthermore, she reminded herself, ruthlessness was not-or, rather, need not be-equated with dishonesty. In essence it was a commitment to be tough in business, to make unpleasant hard decisions, fight through to the essentials, and dispense with an excess of worry concerning other individuals. Equally to the point: If her own responsibilities increased in future, she would need to be even tougher, even more ruthless, than before. Why, then, if being ruthless was a fact of business life, had Martin's remark so bothered her? Probably because she liked and respected him, and therefore wished him to feel the same way about her. Well, did he? Celia wondered about that briefly, then decided obviously not, after their showdown of this afternoon. However, did Martin's opinion of her really matter? The answer: nol One reason: there was still something of the child in Martin, even at thirty-two. Celia had once heard someone say of research scientists, "They spend so much of their lives becoming more and more educated that they have time for little else and, in some ways, stay children forever.”

For sure, some of that seemed true of Martin. Celia knew that she was much more a person of the world than he. What was important, then? Not Martin's personal feelings, nor Celia's either, but the outcome of today. True? Yes, again. As to that outcome---Celia sighed within her-she wasn't optimistic. In fact, she almost certainly did, to use Sam's phrase, "blow it by being crass.”

The more she thought about that, the less she liked what she had done, the more the memories of the day depressed her. The downbeat mood persisted as far as the hotel. In the lobby of the Berkeley she was greeted by a uniformed concierge. "Good evening, Mrs. Jordan. Did you have a pleasant day?" "Yes, thank you.”

In her mind she added: Just some parts of it. In turning to reach for her key, the concierge gathered up several message forms which Celia accepted. She would read them later in her room. Then, about to turn away, she heard, "And, oh yes, Mrs. Jordan. This one came in a few minutes ago. A gentleman phoned. I took it down myself. It doesn't seem to make much sense, but he said you'd understand.”

Tired, and without interest, Celia glanced at the slip of paper. Then her eyes were riveted. The message read

TO EVERY THING THERE IS A SEASON INCLUDING CRASS AMERICANS BEARING GIFTS. THANK YOU. I ACCEPT. -MARTIN.

Unusually, and to the frowning disapproval of the concierge, the staid lobby of the Berkeley echoed to a loud and piercing cry from Celia. “Yippee!"

A few days before Celia's Sunday tour of Cambridge, Sam and Lilian Hawthorne had left Britain for a brief visit to Paris and from there had flown directly to New York on Saturday. Therefore it was not until Monday, at 3:30 P.m. London time, that Celia reached Sam by telephone in his office at Felding-Roth, New Jersey. When she informed him of the news about Martin Peat-Smith, he reacted enthusiastically, telling her, "I'm delighted, though astounded. Celia, you're incredible! How the devil did you do it?" She had been expecting the question and said cautiously, "I'm not sure you'll like this.”

Then she reported her conversation with Martin about money, and how that, as much as anything else, had influenced his change of mind. At the other end of the line, Sam moaned audibly.”Oh, shit!-if you'll pardon me.”

Then he said, "I was the one who warned you not to mention money, and how could I have been so wrong?" "You couldn't have known," she assured him.”I just probed, and uncovered some of Martin's problems. By the way, he called me ruthless for doing that.”

"Never mind! What you did produced the result we wanted. I should have done the same, but didn't have your insight and persistence.” Celia thought, You also didn't have Andrew to advise you. Aloud, she said, "Sam, for goodness' sake stop blaming yourself! It isn't necessary.”

"All right, I will. But I'll make you a little pledge.”

She asked, "What's that?" "If ever, someplace down the road, you and I differ on a matter of judgment that's important, you have my permission to remind me of this incident, and that your judgment was right and mine wrong.”

"I hope it never happens," Celia said. Sam changed the subject.”You're coming home this week, aren't you?" "The day after tomorrow. I love London, but I love Andrew and the children more.”

"Good! As soon as you're home, you'd better take some days off to be with their. But then, in a few weeks, I'll want you back in Britain again. There'll be more things to do. in setting up the institute; also we'll need to hire an administrator. Martin's research skills are too important to waste on organization and office work.”

"I agree," Ceila said, "and all of that sounds fine.”

"Something else that's fine," Sam said, "is that during the few days I had in Paris last week I acquired the American rights to a new French drug for Felding-Roth. It's still experimental and won't be ready for at least two years. But it looks extremely promising.”

"Congratulations! Does it have a name?" "Yes," Sam said.”It's called Montayne. You'll hear much mere about it later.”

The remainder of 1972 and into '73 was, for Celia, an exciting, stimulating time. She made five more trips to Britain, each of several weeks' duration. On two of them, Andrew joined her for part of the time; ori another, Lisa and Bruce flew over. While Andrew was in Britain he and Martin met; the two men liked each other and later Andrew told Celia, "The only thing Martin needs is a woman like you to share his life. I hope he finds one.”

While the children were visiting her, and during times when she was not working, Celia, Lisa and Bruce inspected the sights of London to---in Celia's words-"exhaustion point.”

Bruce, now twelve, revealed himself as a history addict. As he explained it one Sunday morning while the three of them walked around the Tower of London, "It's all there, Mom, for anybody to find out-what went right, and all the mistakes. You can learn so much from what's already happened.”

"Yes, you can," Celia said.”Unfortunately, most of us don't.”

Bruce's fascination with history continued during a second tour of Cambridge. conducted, this time for the children, by Martin Peat-Smith. Celia met regularly with Martin during her working trips to Britain, though their total time together was not great because each was busy in differing ways. Martin, now that his decision to join Felding-Roth was made, showed himself very much in charge, and aware of his requirements of equipment and staff. He recruited another nucleic acid chemist, a young Pakistani, Dr. Rao.Sastri, who would be second-in-command on the scientific side. There were specialist technicians, including a cell culture expert and another skilled in electrophoretic separation of proteins and nucleic acids. A woman animal care supervisor would safeguard the hundreds of rats and rabbits to be used in experiments. During visits to Harlow, Martin discussed the location of laboratories, staff, and equipment in the building where conversion work was already under way. However, such visits were brief, and until the institute was ready Martin would continue research in his Cambridge lab. Apart from the necessary excursions to Harlow, Martin insisted that his time not be taken up by administrative matters which others could handle-a strategy already endorsed by Sam Hawthorne and implemented by Celia. Celia hired an administrator whose name was Nigel Bentley. A smallish, confident, sparrowlike man in his mid-fifties, Bentley had recently retired from the Royal Air Force where, with the rank of squadron leader, he was in charge of the administrative side of a large RAF hospital. The ex-officer's qualifications for the new post were excellent; he also understood what was expected of him. In Celia's presence, Bentley told Martin, "The less I bother you, sir-in fact, the less you see of me-the better I'll be doing my job.”

Celia liked the statement, also the "sir," which was a gracious way of making clear that Bentley understood what the relationship between himself and the much younger scientist was expected to be. In between trips to Britain, and while Celia was back in the United States, a personal milestone-at least, as she saw it--occurred in her life. That was in September 1972 when Lisa, at age fourteen, excitedly left home to enter boarding school. The school was Emma Willard in upstate New York, and the whole family accompanied Lisa on her odyssey. At home during dinner the night before, Celia asked Andrew nostalgically, "Where did all those years go?" But it was Lisa--ever practical-who answered, "They happened while you were getting all those promotions at work, Mommy. And I've figured out that I'll just be graduating from college when you get to sit in Mr. Hawthorne's chair.”

They all laughed at that, and the good time extended through the next day when they, with other parents, families and new girls, were initiated into the beauty, enlivening spirit, and traditions of Emma Willard School. Two weeks later Celia returned once more to Britain. Sam Hawthorne, deeply involved with other requirements of the company presidency, was now leaving almost all details of the British scene to her. Eventually. in February 1973, the Felding-Roth Research Institute (U.K.) Limited was officially opened. At the same time, Dr. Martin Peat-Smith's research project into Alzheimer's disease and the mental aging process was transferred from Cambridge to Harlow. It had been decided, as a matter of company policy, that no other research wouid be embarked on in Britain for the time being. The reasoning, as Sam confided it to the board of directors at a meeting in New Jersey, was that "the project we now have is timely, damned exciting, and with big commercial possibilities; therefore we should concentrate on it.”

No public fanfare was made about the Harlow opening.”The time for fanfare," declared Sam, who had flown over for the occasion, "is when we have something positive to show, and that isn't yet.”

When would there be something positive? "Allow me two years," Mar-tin told Sam and Celia during a relaxed private moment.”There ought to be some progress to report by then.”

After the institute's opening, Celia's visits to Britain became fewer and shorter. For a while she went, as Sam's representative, to help smooth cut initial working problems. But, mostly, Nigel Bentley seemed to be justifying the confidence placed in him by his appointment as administrator. From Martin, as months went by, there was no specific news except, via Bentley, that research was continuing. At Felding-Roth's New Jersey headquarters, Celia continued as special assistant to the president, working on other projects Sam gave her. It was during this period that, on the national scene, the putrescent boil of Watergate burst. Celia and Andrew, like millions of others worldwide, watched the parade of events nightly on television and were caught up in the unfolding drama's fascination. Celia reminisced about how, a year earlier when driving to Harlow with Sam, she had dismissed the first published report of a Watergate burglary as insignificant. Near the end of April, while tension mounted, two haughty presidential aides--Haldeman and Ehrlichman-were thrown to the wolves by President Nixon in an attempt to save himself Then, in October, adding to Nixon's and the nation's misery, Vice President Agnew was ejected from office for other corruption, unconnected with Watergate. Finally, ten months later, Nixon himself reluctantly became the first American President to resign. As Andrew remarked, "Whatever else history may say, at least he'll be in The Guinness Book of Records.” Nixon's successor promptly granted his predecessor a pardon-inadvance against criminal prosecution and, when asked if it was all tit-for-tat pol&cs, proclaimed, "There was no deal.”

Watching and hearing the statement on TV, Celia asked Andrew, "Do you believe that?" "No.,' She said emphatically, "Nor do L" Around the same time-less significant on the larger scene, but important to the Jordan family-Bruce, too, left home to enter prep school-the Hill School, at Pottstown, Pennsylvania. Through the entire period and into 1975 the fortunes of FeldingRoth, while not spectacular, maintained an even keel. They were helped by two products developed in the company's own laboratories-an anti-inflammatory for rheumatoid arthritis and a betablocker called Staidpace, a medicine to slow heartbeat and reduce blood pressure. The arthritis drug was only moderately successful but Staidpace proved an excellent, lifesaving product which became widely used. Staidpace would have contributed even more to Felding-Roth revenues had its United States approval not been delayed by the Food and Drug Administration for what seemed an unconscionable time-in the company's view, two years longer than necessary. At FDA's Washington headquarters there seemed, in the frustrated words of Felding-Roth's research director, Vincent Lord, "an infectious unwillingness to make a decision about anything.”

The opinion was echoed by other drug firms. Reportedly, one senior FDA official exhibited proudly on his desk a plaque with the famed promise of France's Marshal P6tain in World War 1, "They shall not pass.” It appeared to sum up neatly the attitude of FDA's staff to any new drug application. It was about this time that the phrase "drug lag"--describing the non-availability in the United States of beneficial drugs in use else- where-began to be used and gain attention. Yet, always, a routine reply to any plea for faster action on new drug approvals was: "Remember Thalidomide!" Sam Hawthorne tackled this attitude head-on in a speech to an industry convention.”Strong safety standards," he declared, "are necessary in the public interest, and not long ago, too few of them existed. But pendulums swing too far, and bureaucratic indecision has now become a national disservice. As to critics of our industry who point back to Thalidomide, I point forward to this: The number of Thalidomide-deformed babies is now exceeded by the number of those who have suffered or died because effective drugs, held back by American regulatory delays, are failing to reach them in their time of need.”

It was tough talk and the beginning of what would be a fiercely argued, pro-and-con debate extending over many years.

At Felding-Roth, one keenly anticipated project was now on "hold.,, The deal made by Sam for the American rights to a new French drug, Montayne, still had not reached a point where tests for safety and efficacy, as required by law, could begin in the United States. Thus there was a long way to go even before a new drug application could be made to FDA. Montayne was a drug to combat morning sickness in pregnant women; it held great promise, especially for working women whom it would free from a burden that made life difficult and sometimes threatened their employment. The drug's discoverers Laboratoires Gironde-Chimic, a reputable house-were convinced they had something of highest quality and safety, as shown by unusually extensive tests on animals and volunteer humans. The tests, the Paris-based firm informed Felding-Roth, had so far produced excellent results and no adverse side effects. Still, as the head of Gironde-Chimic explained in a personal letter to Sam: Because of past occurrences, and the nature fragile of this drug, we have need of being extremely prudent. Therefore we have decided to make a few more series of tests on different types of animals, and also more humans. This will take a little more of time.

In the climate of the times, Sam agreed, the additional precautions seemed wise. Meanwhile, Felding-Roth continued to wait for a green light from the French before beginning their own work on Montayne.