Strong Medicine

THREE 1975-1977

While Dr. Vincent Lord had some problems which were imaginary, he also had others that were real. One was the FDA. The Food and Drug Administration, with headquarters just outside Washington, D.C., represented a labyrinthine obstacle course which any new pharmaceutical drug and its sponsors had to run before the drug was approved for general use. Some drugs were never approved; they failed to complete the course. And since sponsors of drugs were almost always the companies which discovered, manufactured, and eventually sold them to the public, the big drug firms and FDA were, more often than not, locked in a combative state. That state ranged, according to the issue of the moment, from intellectual-scientific skirmishing to all-out war. As far as Vince Lord was concerned, it was war. Part of his jot) at Felding-Roth was to deal, or supervise dealings, with the FDA. He loathed it. He also disliked, and in some cases despised, the people who worked there. Adding to his problem was that, to achieve anything at all at FDA, he had either to subdue those feelings or keep them to himself. He found both things difficult, at times impossible. Of course, Dr. Lord was prejudiced. So were others, from other drug firms, who dealt with FDA. Sometimes that prejudice was justified. Sometimes not. This was because laws and custom required the FDA to be several things at once. It was a guardian of the public's health, its duty to protect the innocent from excessive avarice, incompetence, indifference, or carelessness, all of which sins were at times committed by pharmaceutical companies whose bottom line was profit. The reverse of that was FDA's function as a ministering angel: the covenant to make available, with utmost speed, those new and splendid drugs from the same pharmaceutical companies-which lengthened life or shortened pain. Another agency role was to be a whipping boy for critics--drug firms, consumer groups, journalists, authors, lawyers, lobbyists, other special interests-who accused FDA of being either too rigid or too lenient, depending on what camp the critics lived in. As well, the FDA was used regularly as a political platform by self-serving and self-righteous congressmen and senators who sought an easy way to get their names in print and on TV. Coupled with all this, the FDA was a bureaucratic mess-overcrowded, in critical areas understaffed, its medical and scientific experts overworked and underpaid. Yet the amazing thing was, amid all these roles, hindrances, and critics, the FDA did its job-on the whole-remarkably well. But without question there were glitches, and the so-called drug lag was one of them. Just how bad the drug lag was depended, like so much else surrounding the FDA, on your point of view. But that it existed, even the FDA itself conceded. Vincent Lord suffered through an example of the drug lag during the attempt by Felding-Roth to gain approval for United States marketing of Staidpace, a heart and blood-pressure medicine already in use in Britain, France, West Germany and several other countries. The FDA required that before Staidpace could go on American drugstore shelves and be prescribed by doctors, there must be additional, thorough, American testing of the product's safety and efficacy. And it was a good requirement. Nobody argued against it, including Vincent Lord and others at Felding-Roth. What they did protest-after all the required testing had been done successfully, and results submitted to the FDA-was two extra years of petty, indecisive quibbling by the government agency. In 1972 Felding-Rotb delivered its Staidpace NDA-new drug application-to FDA headquarters in a truck. The NDA consisted of 125,000 printed pages, contained in 307 volumes, enough to fill a small room. All this material was required by law and included information covering two years of U.S. testing on animals and humans. Although the information supplied was as complete as anyone could make it, there was an unspoken awareness on both sides that no one at FDA could possibly read it all. Similar amounts of material were received, with great frequency, from other manufacturers seeking approval of other drugs. From the FDA's medical-scientific staff, a reviewer was selected to oversee and adjudicate the Staidpace submission. He was Gideon R. Mace, M.D., who had been with FDA a year. Dr. Mace would be assisted by scientific specialists in the agency -that is, whenever they could spare time from work on other drugs. Another part of the procedure was that, as FDA's examination proceeded, scientists from Felding-Roth would be called in, perhaps to explain some of the submitted material or to add even more. This was normal. What proved to be less normal were the work habits and attitude of Dr. Mace. His pace was snail-like-slow even for the FDA. He was also petty, unreasonably querulous, and mean. This was how the name of Gideon Mace came to be added to the list of people at FDA whom Vincent Lord despised. Lord had personally overseen the Staidpace application and believed it to be as complete and thorough as any ever submitted by the company. Therefore, as months went by with no decision made, Lord's frustration grew. Then when Mace was finally heard from it was about trifling points, and later-as one of Lord's assistants put it-"he seemed to query every damn comma, sometimes having nothing to do with science.”

Equally maddening was that several times when Mace imperiously demanded extra data, it developed that what was being sought was already in the original submission. Mace simply hadn't looked for it or even asked whether it was there, When the facts were pointed out, he took still more weeks to acknowledge them-and then did so ungraciously. After a good deal of this, Vincent Lord took over from his staff and began doing what he disliked most-going to the FDA himself. The agency headquarters was in an inconvenient location-on Fishers Lane in Maryland, some fifteen miles north of Washington, an hour's tedious drive from the White House or Capitol Hill. It was housed in a plain brick building, shaped like an "E" and built cheaply in the 1960s without benefit of architectural imagination. The offices, where seven thousand people worked, were mostly tiny and crowded. Many were windowless. Others had so many occupants and were filled with so much furniture, it was hard to move around. What little space remained was filled with paper. Paper was everywhere. Piles of it, reams of it, stacks of it, tons of it.

Paper beyond imagination. The mailroom was a paper nightmare, each day subjected to an avalanche of more, moving two ways, though outgoing paper seldom equaled the inward flow. In corridors, messengers pushed delivery trolleys loaded down with still more paper. Dr. Gideon Mace worked in a room, not much better than a cupboard, on the tenth floor. In his late fifties, Mace was lanky and long-necked; people made unkind remarks about giraffes. He was red-faced, with a heavily veined nose. He wore rimless glasses and squinted through them, suggesting that his prescription needed changing. His manner was brusque. In conversation he could be sarcastic, and acidity came to him easily. Dr. Mace usually wore an ancient gray suit which needed pressing, and a faded tic. When Vincent Lord went to see him, Mace had to clear papers from a chair before the Felding-Roth research director could sit down. "We seem to be having trouble over Staidpace," Lord said, making an effort to be friendly.”I've come to find out why.”

"Your NDA is sloppy and disorganized," Mace said.”Also, it doesn't tell me nearly enough that I need to know.”

"In what way is it disorganized?" Lord asked.”And what more do you need to know?" Mace ignored the first question and answered the second.”I haven't decided yet. But your people will hear.”

"When will we hear?" "When I'm ready to tell you.”

"It would be helpful and perhaps save time," Lord. said, managing to subdue his anger, but only just, "if you could give me some idea of where we both have problems.”

"I don't have problems," Gideon Mace said.”You do. I'm doubtful about the safety of your drug; it could be carcinogenic. As to saving time, I'm unconcerned about that. There's no hurry, We have lots of time.”

"You may have," Lord retorted.”But how about people with heart disease who'll be using Staidpace? Many heart patients need that drug now. It's already saving lives in Europe where we gained approval for it long ago. We'd like to have it do the same thing here.”

Mace smiled thinly.”And just by coincidence, make Felding-Roth a potful of money.”

Lord bridled.”That part never concerns me.”

“If you say so," Mace said skeptically.”But from where I'm sitting, you sound more like a salesman than a scientist.”

Still Vincent Lord contained himself.”You mentioned safety a moment ago. As you must know from our NDA, side effects have been minimal, none dangerous, and there has been no trace of carcinogens. So will you tell me the basis of your doubts?" "Not now," Mace said.”I'm still thinking about them.”

"And meanwhile making no decision.”

"That's right.”

"Under law," Lord reminded the FDA official, "you have a time limit of six months...”

"Don't lecture me on regulations," Mace said testily.”I know them. But if I turn down your NDA temporarily, and insist on more data, the calendar goes back to zero.”

And it was true. Such procedural delaying tactics were used at FDA--sometimes with good reason, Vincent Lord conceded mentally, but at other times on an official's whim or merely to postpone decisions. Having reached the outer limit, Lord said, "Not making decisions is always the safe route for a bureaucrat, isn't it?" Mace smiled but didn't answer. In the end, the meeting produced nothing but an increase of frustration for Vincent Lord. It did, however, cause him to make a decision: he would find out more-as much as he could-about Dr. Gideon R. Mace. Sometimes that kind of information could be useful. Over the next few months, Lord had reason to make several other visits to Washington and FDA headquarters. Each time, through casual questions put to Mace's colleagues in the agency and discreet research outside, he managed to learn a surprising amount. In the meantime, Mace had faulted one of Felding-Roth's studies concerning Staidpace-a series of field tests on patients with heart problems. Plainly relishing his power, Mace ruled that the entire test sequence should be done again. Lord could see no valid reason for repeating the work; it would take a year and be costly, and he could have objected. But he also realized that any such objection might be self-defeating, resulting either in the Staidpace NDA's being stalled indefinitely or in the drug's rejection. Therefore, reluctantly, Vincent Lord gave orders for the testing program to be done again.

Soon afterward he informed Sam Hawthorne of the decision, and reported what he had found out about Gideon Mace. The two were in Sam's office. "Mace is a failed doctor," the research director said.”He's also an alcoholic, he's in money trouble, partly because he's paying alimony to two wives, and he moonlights by working evenings and weekends, helping in a private medical practice.”

Sam weighed what had been said.”What do you mean by 'a failed doctor'?" The research director consulted notes.”Since getting his medical degree, Mace has worked in five diffierent cities where he was employed by other physicians. After that, he was in practice on his own. As far as I can learn from those who know him, all those arrangements broke down because Mace doesn't get along with people. He didn't like the other doctors and, about quitting private practice, he says frankly he didn't like his patients.”

"From the found of it," Sam said, "they probably didn't love him. Why was he hired at FDAT' "You know the FDA situation. They have trouble getting anybody.” Sam said, "Yes, I do.”

Medical-scientific recruiting at FDA was a problem of long standing. Government salaries were notoriously low, and an M.D. Employed by FDA received less than half of what he or she could earn in private practice. In the case of scientists, the gap between those employed at FDA and drug company scientists with similar qualifications was even wider. There were other factors. One was professional prestige. In medical-scientific circles, working for FDA was not regarded as impressive. An appointment to the government's National Institutes of Health, for example, was much more sought after. Something else affecting M.D.'s at FDA was the absence of what most working doctors enjoyed-direct, "hands on" contacts with patients. There was only-as Sam once heard it described-"the vicarious practice of medicine through reading other people's case reports.” Again remarkably, and despite those limitations, the agency's ranks contained many highly qualified, dedicated professionals. But inevitably there were others. The unsuccessful. The soured and alienated who preferred comparative solitude to meeting many people. The dedicated self-protectors, avoiding difficult decisions. Alcoholics. The unbalanced, Clearly, as Sam and Vince Lord saw it, Dr. Gideon Mace was one of these. Sam asked, "is there anything I can do? Like going to the commissioner?" Lord answered, "I don't advise it. FDA commissioners are political; they come and go. But bureaucrats stay, and have long memories.”

"What you're saying," Sam said, "is that we might win with Staidpace but lose out badly later on.”

"Exactly.”

"What about Mace's alcoholism?" Lord shrugged.”Heavy drinking broke up his marriages, I hear. But he copes. He comes to work. He functions. He may keep a bottle in his desk, but if he does, no one I've talked to has seen him dipping into it.”

"Is the moonlighting, working in a private practice, against regulations?" "Apparently not, if Mace confines it to his free time, even though he may be tired next day when he comes to work. Other doctors at FDA do the same thing.”

"Then there's no way we can touch Mace?" "Not now," Lord said.”But he still has all that alimony to pay, and money troubles make people do strange things. So I'm going to keep watching. Who knows, something may turn up.”

Sam regarded the research director thoughtfully.”You've become a good company man, Vince. Handling this, which isn't pleasant. Looking out for all our interests. I'd like you to know that I appreciate it.”

"Well...”

Lord looked surprised, though not displeased.”I hadn't thought of it that way. All I've wanted is to nail that bastard, and have Staidpace approved. But maybe you're right.”

Vincent Lord, reflecting later, supposed that what Sam had said about his being a company man was true. Lord was now in his eighteenth year at Felding-Roth and, even if you didn't expect it to happen, in that length of time certain loyalties built up. Also, nowadays, introspective thoughts about whether he had been right or wrong in leaving academia for industry occupied him less than they once had. Much more of his thinking was directed toward his continuing research on the quenching of free radicals-whenever he could free himself from other responsibilities in the department. The answers Lord sought were still elusive. But he knew they were there. He would never, never give up. And there was a new incentive to his research. That was the company's institute in Britain where Peat-Smith, whom Vincent Lord had not yet met, was concentrating on the mental aging process. It was a competition. Who-Lord or Peat-Smith-would achieve a breakthrough first? It had been a disappointment to Lord when he had not been given authority over Felding-Roth research in Britain as well as in the United States. But Sam Hawthorne had been adamant about that, insisting that "over there" be independent and operate on its own. Well, Lord reasoned, as things had turned out, perhaps that was best after all. From rumors seeping back from Britain, it seemed that Peat-Smith was getting nowhere, had come up against a scientific brick wall. If true, Lord was divorced from any responsibility. Meanwhile, on the American pharmaceutical scene there was much to do. As to Dr. Gideon Mace, the opportunity Vincent Lord had hoped for-to "get" Mace--did arrive eventually, though not soon enough to help Staidpace which, after more delays and quibbling, was at last approved and went on sale in 1974. It was in January 1975, a day after he had returned from Washington, having been there to visit FDA about another matter, that Lord received an unusual telephone call.”There's a man on the phone," his secretary announced, "who won't give his name. But he's persistent and says you'll be glad if you speak to him.”

"Tell him no go to-no, wait!" Curiosity was inbred in Lord.”Put him on.”

Into the phone he said curtly, "Whoever you are, say what you want quickly, or I'll hang up.”

"You've been collecting information about Dr. Mace. I have some.”

The male voice sounded young, also educated. Lord was instantly curious.”What kind of information?" "Mace has broken the law. With what I have, you could send him to jail.”

"What makes you think I'd want to?" "Look," the voice said,- "you wanted me to be quick, but you're the one who's futzing around. Are you interested or not?" Lord was cautious, remembering that telephone conversations could be taped.”How has Dr. Mace broken the law?"

"He used confidential FDA information to make a profit for himself on the stock market. Twice.”

"How can you prove that?" "I have papers. But if you want them, Dr. Lord, I'll expect to be paid. Two thousand dollars.”

"Doesn't peddling that kind of information make you as bad as Mace?" The voice said calmly, "Perhaps. But that isn't the issue.”

Lord asked, "What's your name?" "I'll tell you when we meet in Washington.”

The bar was in Georgetown. It was elegantly decorated in subtle shades of red, beige and brown, with handsome bronze accoutrements. It was also, plainly, a rendezvous for homosexuals. Several faces looked up interestedly as Vincent Lord came in; he sensed himself being appraised and it made him uncomfortable. But before the feeling could persist, a young man who had been seated alone in a booth got up and came toward him. "Good evening, Dr. Lord. I'm Tony Redmond.”

He smiled knowingly.”The voice on the telephone.”

Lord muttered an acknowledgment and allowed his hand to be shaken. He had instantly recognized Redmond as an FDA employee; Lord recalled having seen him several times during other trips to Washington, though could not remember precisely where. Redmond, in his mid-twenties, had short, curly brown hair, baby blue eyes with prominent lashes, and was in other ways good-looking. He led the way back to the booth where they sat down, facing each other. Redmond already had a drink. Motioning, he asked, "Will you join me, Doctor?" Lord said, "I'll order myself " He had no intention of making this a friendly occasion. The sooner he finished what he had come here to do, the better he would like it.

"I'm an FDA medical technician," Redmond volunteered.”I've seen you come in and out of our department several times.”

Now Lord had the younger man pinpointed. He worked in the same general area as Gideon Mace. It would explain, in part, how he had come by the information he had been touting. Since the original call from the person now revealed as Redmond, there had been two further phone conversations. In one they discussed money. Redmond had been firm in repeating his original demand for two thousand dollars in exchange for documents he claimed to have. During the last call they had arranged this meeting, Redmond choosing the place. A few days before, at Felding-Roth headquarters, Lord had gone to see Sam Hawthorne in the president's office.”I need two thousand dollars," the research director had said, "and I don't want to have to account for it.”

When Sam raised his eyebrows, Lord continued, "It's for some information I believe the company should have. If you insist, I'll give you details, but in my opinion you're better off not knowing.”

"I don't like this kind of thing," Sam objected, then asked, "Is anything dishonest involved?" Lord considered.”I suppose it's unethical-a lawyer might say borderline-illegal. But I assure you we're not stealing anything like another company's secrets.”

Sam still hesitated, and Lord reminded him, "I said I'd tell you if you wish.”

Sam shook his head.”Okay, you'll have the money. I'll authorize it.”

"When you do," Lord said carefully, "it would be best if as few people as possible were involved. I was thinking that Mrs. Jordan doesn't need to know.”

Sam said irritably, "I'll decide that.”

Then he conceded, "All right, she won't know.”

Lord was relieved. Celia Jordan had a way of asking penetrating questions. Also, she might disagree with what he proposed to do. Later the same day Vincent Lord received a company check. A voucher showed the amount to be reimbursement for "special travel expenses.”

Lord converted the check to cash before leaving Morristown for Washington, and had brought the cash with him to this bar. It was in a pocket of his jacket, in an envelope. A waiter came to the booth. His manner matched that of Redmond, whom he addressed as "Tony.”

Lord ordered himself a gin and tonic. "A nice place, don't you think?" Redmond observed when the waiter had gone.”It's considered chic. People who come here are mostly from government and the university.”

"I don't give a damn who comes here," Lord said.”Let me see those papers.”

Redmond countered with, "Did you bring the money?" Lord nodded curtly and waited. "I suppose I can trust you," Redmond said. There was a briefcase on the seat beside him which he opened; from it he removed a large manila envelope. He passed the envelope to Lord.”It's all in there.” Lord's drink arrived as he began to study the envelope's contents. He sipped twice while reading. Ten minutes later he looked across the table and said grudgingly, "You've been thorough.”

"Well," Redmond acknowledged, "that's the first nice thing you've said to me.”

His face creased in a knowing smile. Lord sat silently, weighing possibilities. The scenario concerning Dr. Gideon Mace was clear. Redmond had sketched in some of it during the phone talks. The papers Lord was reading explained the rest. It hinged on United States patent laws, generic drugs, and FDA procedures. Vincent Lord was familiar with all three. When the patent on any major pharmaceutical drug expirednormally seventeen years after patent registration-a number of small manufacturers sought to produce that drug in generic form, afterward selling it at a cheaper price than the originating company. When that happened, the cash rewards to a generic company could be counted in the millions. However, before any generic drug could be manufactured, application had to be made to the FDA, and approval given. This held true even if the same type of drug was already on the market, with FDA approval long since given to its original developer. The procedure by which a generic company was authorized to manufacture and sell a previously patented drug was known as an abbreviated new drug application-ANDA for short. For any important drug whose patent was about to run out, a dozen or more ANDA's, from different generic manufacturers, might be filed with FDA. And, as with regular NDA's, such as Felding-Roth's for Staidpace, ANDA processing took time. Exactly how FDA dealt with all of these ANDA's internally was never entirely clear, What was clear was that one approval was usually announced first. The others followed later, usually singly, sometimes at widely spaced intervals. Thus, the manufacturing company that was first to receive approval of an important ANDA had an enormous advantage over competitors, with the probability of matching rewards. Also if that company's stock happened to be traded, it could jump in value, sometimes doubling overnight. However, because small generic companies were not listed on major exchanges, such as the New York Stock Exchange, their shares were traded on the Over-the-Counter market. Thus while professional traders might notice a sudden price surge in an O-T-C stock, the public mostly didn't, and individual O-T-C stocks rarely garnered headlines in daily newspapers or The Wall Street Journal. For all these reasons it was a situation made to order for someone dishonest and "in the know.”

That same someone, aware of which generic company was about to receive approval of an ANDA, could make a lot of money quickly by buying the company's shares low before FDA made the ANDA announcement and selling them high immediately after. Dr. Gideon Mace, inside FDA and privy to confidential information, had done just that. Twice. The proof was in photocopies which Vincent Lord held in his hand. It was all there: -broker's "buy" and "sell" transaction slips on which the customer's name appeared as Marietta Mace. Lord had already learned from Redmond that this was Mace's spinster sister, obviously a stand-in for Mace as a precaution, but one which hadn't worked; -two dated FDA announcements of ANDA approvals affecting generic companies called Binvus Products and Minto Labs. Both names corresponded to shares described on the brokerage slips; -two cancelled checks of Gideon Mace's, payable to his sister and for the exact bottom-line amounts on the two brokerage "buy" ordem, -two bank statements belonging to Gideon R. Mace, showing large deposits shortly after the dates of the "sell" orders. Lord had done a quick penciled calculation on the envelope in front of him. Mace, after his sister had deducted what appeared to be a ten percent commission, had reaped a total net profit of some sixteen thousand dollars. Perhaps more. It was possible that Mace had done something similar, more often-this being something a criminal investigation would reveal. "Criminal" was the operative word. Precisely as Redmond had promised in his original phone call, if Dr. Mace were exposed, he would almost certainly go to jail. Lord had been about to ask Redmond how all the material was obtained, then changed his mind. The answer was not hard to guess. Most likely, Mace had kept everything in his desk at FDA, perhaps believing it to be a safer place than at home. But Redmond, who was clearly resourceful, could have found a way of getting into the desk in Maee's absence. Of course, Redmond must have had suspicions to begin with, but an overheard phone call would have been sufficient to set them off. How could Gideon Mace, Lord wondered, have been so incredibly stupid? Stupid in believing he could do what he had and not be caught. Stupid in trading shares in a name identical with his own, then keeping incriminating papers in a place where someone like Redmond could reach and copy them. But then, clever people often did foolish thing. Lord's thoughts were interrupted by Redmond's voice, petulant. "Well, do you want all that stuff? Do we do business, or don't we?" Without speaking, Lord reached into his jacket for the envelope containing the money and handed it to Redmond. The younger man lifted the envelope flap, which was unsealed. As he withdrew the cash and handled it, his eyes and face lighted with pleasure. "You'd better count it," Lord said. "I don't need to. You wouldn't cheat me. This is too important.”

For some time Lord had been conscious of another young man, seated on a bar stool a few yards distant, who had occasionally glanced their way. Now he looked at them again, and this time Redmond returned the look and smiled, holding up the money before putting it away. The other smiled back. Lord felt a sense of distaste. Redmond said cheerfully, "I guess that's it, then.”

"I just have one question," Vincent Lord told him.”It's something I'm curious about.”

"Ask away.” Lord touched the manila envelope whose contents he had bought.”Why did you do this to Dr. Mace?" Redmond hesitated.”Something he said to me.”

"Like what?" "If you must know," Redmond said, his voice shrill and spiteful, "he called me a lousy fag.”

"What's wrong with that?" Lord said as he rose to go.”You are one, aren't you?" Before leaving the bar, he glanced back. Tony Redmond was glaring after him, his face contorted, white with rage.

For a week Vincent Lord debated within himself what to do, or not to do. He had still not decided when he encountered Sam Hawthorne. "I hear you were in Washington," Sam said.”I presume it had something to do with that money I authorized.”

Lord nodded.”Presumption right.”

"I'm not one for playing games," Sam said.”And if you think you're protecting me, forget it! I've a natural curiosity. I want to know.”

"In that case I need to get some papers from my office safe," Lord told him.”I'll bring them to you.”

A half hour later, when he had finished reading, Sam whistled softly. His face was troubled.”You realize," he told the research director, "that if we don't do something about this immediately, we're accessories to a crime.”

"I suppose so," Lord said.”But whatever we do, if it comes out in the open it will be messy. We'd have to explain how we got those papers. Also, at FDA, no matter who was right or wrong, they'd hate us and never forget.”

"Then why in hell did you get us into this?" Lord answered confidently, "Because what we have here will be useful, and there are ways of handling it.”

Lord was unperturbed; for reasons he was unclear about, he felt at ease in this situation, and in control. He had decided now, within the past few minutes, what was the best course to pursue. He told Sam, "Look, there was a time when I thought something like this would help move Staidpace along, but that problem is behind us. There will be other problems, though, and other drugs, and other NDA's we'll want approved without the unreasonable delay we had with Staidpace.”

Sam said, shocked, "Surely you're not suggesting...”

"I'm not suggesting anything. Except that sooner or later we're certain to come up against Mace again and, if he gives us trouble, we've ammunition we can use. So let's do nothing now, and save it until then.”

Sam was already standing. While considering what had just been said, he moved restlessly around the room. At length he growled, "You may be right. But I don't like it.”

" Neither will Mace," Lord said.”And permit me to remind you that he is the criminal, not us.”

Sam seemed about to say something more, but Lord spoke first.”When the time comes, let me do the dirty work.”

As Sam nodded reluctantly, Lord added silently to himself, I might even enjoy it.

Early in 1975, Celia was again promoted. Her new job was as director of pharmaceutical sales, a post that made her a divisional vice president and positioned her one notch below the vice president for sales and marketing. For anyone who had begun working in sales as a detail person, it was an excellent achievement. For a woman it was extraordinary. But there was one thing Celia noticed nowadays. Within Felding-Roth, the fact that she was a woman no longer seemed to matter. Her sex was taken for granted. She was judged-as she had always wanted to be-on how well she performed. Celia had no illusions that this acceptance held true in a majority of business firms, or for women generally. But it showed, she believed, that a woman's chances of reaching the top echelons of business were growing and would improve still more. As with all social changes, there had to be pioneers, and Celia realized that she was one. However, she still took no part in activist movements, and some of the newcomers to women's rights groups embarrassed her with their stridency and clumsy political pressures. They appeared to view any questioning of their rhetoric--even an honest difference of opinion by a man-as chauvinist. Also apparent was that many such women, without achievements of their own, were using women's activism as substitute careers. Although, in her new job, Celia would have less direct contact with Sam Hawthorne than she'd had for the preceding three years, Sam made it clear that she still had access to him at any time.”If you see something in the company that's important and wrong, or think of something we ought to be doing and aren't, I want to hear about it, Celia," Sam told her during her last day as special assistant to the president. And Lilian Hawthorne, during a pleasant dinner for Celia and Andrew at the Hawthornes' home, had raised a glass and said, "To you, Celia-though selfishly I wish you weren't moving on because you made life easier for Sam, and now I'll worry about him more.”

Also at dinner that night was Juliet Hawthorne, now nineteen and home briefly from college. She had become a beautiful, poised young woman who seemed to have suffered not at all from the attention lavished on an only child. Escorting her was a, pleasant, interesting young man whom Juliet introduced as "Dwight Goodsmith, my boyfriend. He's studying to be a lawyer.”

Celia and Andrew were impressed with both young people, Celia reflecting how short a time ago it seemed that Juliet and Lisa, as small children in pajamas, had chased each other through this same room where they were dining. After Lilian's toast to Celia, Sam said with a smile, "What Celia doesn't know yet, because I only approved a memo about it late today, is the real promotion. She now has her own parking slot on the catwalk level.”

"My God, Daddy!" Juliet said, and to her friend: "That's like being selected for the Hall of Fame.”

The so-called catwalk level was the top floor of a garage and parking structure alongside the Felding-Roth headquarters building. The level was reserved for the company's most senior officers who could park their cars, then use a convenient glassed-in ramp to reach the opposite story of the main building where a private elevator whisked them to the eleventh floor and "executive country.”

Sam was one of those who used the catwalk level and parked his silver-gray Rolls-Bentley there each day, preferring it to a chauffeured limousine to which, as president, he was entitled.

Others in the company with lesser status used lower parking levels, then had to take an elevator downward, cross to the other building in the open, and go up again. There was more good-natured banter about Celia's "double elevation" before the evening ended. In their car going home, Andrew, who was driving, said, "It turned out to be a wise decision you made, years ago, to hitch your career to Sam's.- "Yes," Celia said, then added, "lately I've been concerned about him.”

"Why?" 'He's more driven than he used to be, and he agonizes when something doesn't go right, though I suppose both things go with big responsibility. But there are also times when he's secretive, as if there are things he's worrying about but doesn't want to share.”

"You've enough responsibility of your own," Andrew reminded her, "without taking on Sam's psyche too.”

"I suppose so. You get wiser every day, Dr. Jordan.”

Celia squeezed her husband's arm gratefully. "Quit making sexual advances to the driver," Andrew told her.”You're distracting him.”

A few minutes later, he asked, "Speaking of hitching careers to stars, what's happened to that young man who hitched his to yours?" "Bill Ingram?" Celia laughed; she always remembered the first time Ingram had come to her favorable attention-at the QuadrilleBrown advertising meeting in New York.”Bill has been working in International as Latin-American Director-the job I had. Now we're thinking of bringing him to pharmaceutical sales with a promotion.”

"Nice," Andrew said.”Looks as if he made a good star-choice too.”

Amid Celia's happiness about her promotion, a note of grief intruded. Teddy Upshaw died, while working at his desk, from a heart attack. Teddy had remained as O-T-C sales manager, having found his niche, which he filled successfully and happily. At his death he was less than a year from retirement. It grieved Celia that she would never again hear Teddy's lively voice, watch his energetic stride, or see his bouncing-ball head while he talked enthusiastically. Celia, with Andrew, and others from the company, attended Teddy's funeral and accompanied the cortege to the graveside. It was a miserable, blustery March day, with showers of freezing rain, and the mourners huddled in their coats while sheltering under wind-besieged umbrellas. Some, including Celia and Andrew. went to the Upshaws' home afterward, and it was there that Teddy's widow, Zoe, took Celia aside. "Teddy admired you so much, Mrs. Jordan," Zoe said.”He was proud to work for you, and he used to say that as long as you were at Felding-Roth, the company would always have a conscience.”

Celia, moved by the words, remembered the first day she had become aware of Teddy-fifteen years earlier, immediately after her speech to the Waldorf sales convention, when she had been ordered from the meeting hall in apparent disgrace. His was one of the few sympathetic faces she had seen on the way out. "I loved Teddy, too," she told the other woman. Afterward Andrew asked, "What was it Mrs. Upshaw said to you?" Celia told him, adding "I haven't always lived up to Teddy's ideal. I remember that fight, the argument, you and I had in Ecuador when you pointed out some places where I'd ignored my conscience, and you were right.”

"We were both right," Andrew corrected her, "because you brought up some things that I'd done, or hadn't done, too. But none of us is perfect, and I agree with Teddy. You are FeldingRoth's conscience, I'm proud of you for it, and I hope you'll stay that way.”

The following month brought better news, for the world at large and, in a narrower sense, for Felding-Roth. The war in Vietnam was over. It was a crushing defeat for America, a nation not accustomed to defeats. Yet, the tragic slaughter had ceased and the task ahead-formidable but less bloody-was the healing of national wounds, more divisive and bitter than any since the Civil War. "In our lifetimes the bitterness won't end," Andrew predicted one evening, after he and Celia had watched on television the final, humiliating exodus of Americans from Saigon.”And historians, two centuries from now, will still be arguing the rights and wrongs about our being in Vietnam.”

"I know it's selfish," Celia said, "but all I can think of is, thank heaven it finished before Brucie was old enough to go!" A week or two later, the hierarchy of Felding-Roth was cheered by news from France that the drug Montayne had been approved for manufacture and sale in that country. It meant that under the licensing agreement between Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals and Laboratoires Gironde-Chimie, American testing of Montayne would now begin. As to the drug's purpose, Celia had suffered some unease on first learning that it was intended for pregnant women, to be taken early in their pregnancy when nausea and morning sickness were most prevalent conditions which Montayne would banish. Celia, like others, had strong memories of Thalidomide and its awful aftermath. She also remembered how glad in retrospect she had been that during both of her own pregnancies Andrew had insisted she take no drugs at all. She had confided her concern to Sam, who was understanding and sympathetic.”When I first heard about Montayne," he admitted, "my reaction was the same as yours. But since then I've learned more about it, convincing me it's a splendidly effective, yet totally safe drug.”

Since Thalidomide, Sam pointed out, fifteen years had passed during which time there had been enormous progress in pharmaceutical research, including scientific testing of new drugs. As well, government regulations in 1975 were stricter by far than in the 1950s. "Many things change," Sam insisted.”For example, there was a time when the idea of using anesthetics during childbirth was fiercely opposed by some who believed it would be dangerous and destructive. In the same way there can, and must, be safe drugs for use during pregnancy. Montayne is simply one whose time has come.”

He urged Celia to keep an open mind until she had examined all the data. She promised that she would. The importance of Montayne to Felding-Roth was underlined soon afterward when the vice president and comptroller, Seth Feingold, confided to Celia, "Sam has promised the board that Montayne will give us a big boost moneywise, which we sure as hell need. This year our balance sheet looks like we're candidates for a welfare handout.”

Feingold, a sprightly, white-haired company veteran, was past retirement age, but was retained because of his encyclopedic knowledge of Felding-Roth finances and an ability to juggle money in tight situations. Over the past two years he and Celia had become friends, their closeness aided by the fact that Andrew had successfully treated Feingold’s wife for arthritis. The treatment freed Mrs. Feingold from pain she had suffered over several years. "My wife thinks your husband could change water into wine," the comptroller had informed Celia one day.”Now that I know you better, I've a similar feeling about his wife.”

Continuing to discuss Montayne, he said, "I've talked with Gironde-Chimie's financial people, and the Frenchies believe their drug will be an enormous profit builder for them.”

"Even though it's early, all of us in sales are gearing up for the same thing here," Celia assured him.”But especially for you, Seth, we'll try a little harder.”

"Attagirl! Speaking of trying harder, some of us are wondering how hard those Brits are working in our research center over there. Or are they loafing, spending most of their time having tea breaks?" "I haven't heard much lately...”

Celia began. "I haven't heard anything, " Feingold said.”Except it's costing us millions, like the money's going in a bathtub with the plug out. That's one reason why our balance sheet is a disaster area. I'm telling you, Celia, a lot of people around here, including some members of the board, are worried about that British caper. Ask Sam.”

As it turned out, Celia did not need to ask Sam because he sent for her a few days later.”You may have heard," he said, "that I'm taking a lot of flak about Harlow and Martin Peat-Smith.”

"Yes," she answered.”Seth Feingold told me.”

Sam nodded.”Seth is one of the doubters. For financial reasons he'd like to see Harlow shut down. So would a growing number on the board, and I'm expecting tough questions from shareholders at the annual meeting.”

He added moodily, "Some days I feel like letting it happen.”

Celia reminded him, "It's not much more than two years since the Harlow research started. You had faith in Martin.”

"Martin predicted at least some positive result within two years," Sam answered.”Also there are limits to faith when we're hemorrhaging dollars and I have the board and shareholders on my back. Another thing-Martin's been obstinate about progress reports. He just won't make any. So I need some assurance there really is progress and that it's worthwhile going on.”

"Why not go to see for yourself?"

"I would, except that right now I can't take the time. So I want you to go, Celia. As soon as you can, and then report back to me.”

She said doubtfully, "Don't you think Vince Lord is better qualified?" "Scientifically, yes. But Vince is too prejudiced. He opposed doing research in Britain, so if Harlow closed it would prove him right, and he couldn't resist recommending it.”

Celia laughed.”How well you know us all!" Sam said seriously, "I know you, Celia, and I've learned to trust your judgment and your instincts. Just the same, I urge you-no matter how much you like Martin Peat-Smith-if you need to be tough and ruthless in your recommendation, do it! How soon can you go?" "I'll try for tomorrow," Celia said.

When Celia arrived at London's Heathrow Airport in the early morning for a two-day visit, no time was wasted. A waiting limousine transported her directly to the Felding-Roth Research Institute where she would review with Martin Peat-Smith and others what she now thought of mentally as "the Harlow equation.”

After that, having reached a decision about what to recommend to Sam, she would fly home. During her first day at Harlow she was made pointedly aware that the mood, with almost everyone she met, was upbeat. From Martin downward, Celia was assured how well the research on mental aging was progressing, how much had been learned already, and how hard-and as a coordinated team-all concerned were working. Only occasionally were there flashes-like fleeting, accidental glimpses through the doorway of a private donjon-of what seemed to her like doubt or hesitancy. Then they were gone, or instantly denied, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined them after all. To begin, on that first day Martin walked with her through the labs, explaining work in progress. Since their last meeting, he explained, he and others working with him had fulfilled their initial objective of "discovering and isolating an mRNA which is different in the brains of young animals compared with old ones.”

He added, "This will probably, in time, be found equally true of human beings.”

The scientific jargon flowed. “.

...extracted RNA from the brains of rats of varying ages... afterward the extraction incubated with 'broken cell' preparations of yeast with radioactive amino acids added... the yeast system manufactures the animal brain peptides which become mildly radioactive also... next, separate them by means of their electric charge, on special gels... following that, use an X-ray film and, where bands appear, we have a peptide...”

Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat-voila!-Martin slid several eight-by-ten negatives across a lab bench where he and Celia had paused. "These are films of the chromatograms.”

As Celia picked them up, they seemed to be almost clear, transparent films, but Martin commanded, "Look closely and you'll see two columns of dark lines. One is from the young rat, the other from the old. Notice...”

He pointed with a finger.”Here and here on the young rat column are at least nine peptides no longer being produced in the older animal's brain.”

His voice rose with excitement as he declared, "Now we have positive evidence that the brain RNA, and probably the DNA, change during the aging process. This is terribly important.” "Yes," Celia said, but wondered silently: was it really a triumph justifying more than two years of combined effort here at enormous expense? A reminder of the expense was all around-the spacious labs and modem offices, all with modular dividers permitting rearrangement when desired; the unobstructed corridors; a cozy conference room; and, in the elaborately equipped labs, a wealth of stainless steel and modem benches, the latter manufactured from synthetics-no wood allowed because, in scientific terms, wood was dirty. Air conditioning removed airborne impurities. Lighting was bright without glare. A pair of incubation rooms housed massive glass-faced incubators, specially designed to hold racks of petri dishes containing bacteria and yeast. Still other rooms had double-entry doors with "Danger: Radiation Hazard" signs outside. The contrast to the Cambridge laboratories that Celia had visited with Martin was startling, though a few familiar things remained. One was paper-a prodigious quantity piled high and untidily on desks, Martin's in particular. You could change a scientist's background, she thought, but not his work habits. As they moved away from the bench and the chromatograms, Martin continued explanations. "Now that we have the RNA, we can make the corresponding DNA... then we must insert it into the DNA of living bacteria... try to 'fool' the bacteria into making the required brain peptide...” Celia attempted to absorb as much as she could at high speed. Near the end of their inspection, Martin opened a door to a small laboratory where a white-coated, elderly male technician was confronting a half-dozen rats in cages. The technician was wizened and slightly stooped, with only a fringe of hair surrounding his head, and wore old-fashioned pince-nez secured by a black cord worn around the neck. Martin announced, "This is Mr. Yates, who is about to do some animal dissections.”

"Mickey Yates.”

He extended his hand.”I know who you are. Everybody does.”

Martin laughed.”That's right, they do.”

He asked Celia, "May I leave you here for a few minutes? I have to make a phone call.”

"Of course.”

When Martin had gone, closing the door behind him, she told ',,ates, "If it won't bother you, I'd like to watch.”

"Won't bother me at all. First, though, I have to kill one of these little buggers.”

He motioned to the rats. With quick, deft movements, the technician opened a refrigerator and, from the freezing compartment, took out a smallish, clear plastic box with a hinged lid. Inside was a slightly raised platform with a tray beneath containing crystalline material from which wisps of evaporation rose.”Dry ice," Yates said.”Put it in there just before you came.”

Opening one of the cages, he reached in and expertly grasped a large, squirming white-gray rat which he transferred to the plastic box, then closed the lid. Celia could now see the rat, on the small platform inside. "Because of the dry ice, in there it's a CO, environment," Yates said. "You know what that means?" Celia smiled at the elementary question.”Yes. Carbon dioxide is what we all breathe out after we've used the air's oxygen. We couldn't live on it.”

"Nor can chummy there. He's just about a goner.”

While they watched, the rat jerked twice, then was still, A minute passed.”He's stopped breathing," Yates said cheerfully. After another thirty seconds he opened the plastic box, removed the unmoving creature and pronounced, "Dead as a doornail. But it's a slow way to do it.”

"Slow? It seemed quick to me.”

Celia was trying to remember how rats were killed during her own laboratory days, but couldn't. "It's slow when you've got a lot to do. Dr. Peat-Smith likes us to use the CO, box, but there's another way that's faster. This one.”

Yates reached down. Opening a cupboard beneath the lab bench, he produced a second box, this time metal. The design differed from the first in that one end of the box had a small round aperture cut into it while immediately above was a hinged, sharp knife.”This here's a guillotine," Yates said, still cheerfully.”The French know how to do things.”

"But messily," Celia responded. Now she remembered; she had seen rats killed in a similar kind of device. "Oh, it ain't that bad. And it's fast.”

Yates glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then, before Celia could object, he took a fresh rat from a cage and swiftly thrust it in the second box, its head protruding through the round hole. As if slicing bread, he pushed the hinged knife down. There was a soft crunching sound, another which might have been a cry, then the rat's head fell forward as blood spurted from arteries in the severed neck. Celia, despite her familiarity with laboratories and research, felt sick , Yates casually tossed the rat's body, still bleeding and twitching, into a trash receptacle and picked up the head.”All I have to do now is remove the brain. Fast and painless!" The technician laughed.”I didn't feel a thing.”

Angry and disgusted at once, Celia said, "You did not have to do that for me!" "Do what?" It was Martin's voice behind her. He had come in quietly, and now took in the scene. After a moment, and with equal quietness, he instructed, "Celia, please wait outside.”

As Celia left, Martin was glaring at Yates and breathing heavily. While she waited, through the intervening door she heard Martin's angrily raised voice.”Don't ever again!... not if you want to go on working here... my orders, always to use the CO, box which is painless, no other way!... get that other monstrosity out of here o:- break it up... I will not have cruelty, do you understand?" She heard the voice of Yates saying weakly, "Yessir.”

When Martin emerged, he took Celia's arm and escorted her to the conference room where they were alone, a thermos jug of coffee between them, from which Martin poured. "I'm sorry that happened; it shouldn't have," he told her.”Yates got carried away, probably because he isn't used to having an attractive woman watch him at work-at which he's very good, incidentally, and it's the reason I brought him here from Cambridge. He can dissect a rat's brain the way a surgeon would.”

Celia said, her mild annoyance past, "It was a small thing. It doesn't matter.”

"It matters to me.”

She said curiously, "You care about animals, don't you?" "Yes, I do.”

Martin sipped coffee, then said, "It's impossible to do research without inflicting some pain on animals. Human needs come first, and even animal lovers have to accept that. But the pain should be kept to a minimum, which you ensure by an attitude of caring; otherwise it's all too easy to become callous. I've reminded Yates of that. I don't think he'll forget.”

The incident made Celia like and respect Martin even more than before. But, she reminded herself, likes or dislikes must not affect her purpose here. "Let's get back to your progress," she said briskly.”You've talked about differences in the brains of young and old animals, also your plans to synthesize a DNA. But you haven't yet isolated a protein-the peptide you're looking for, the one that counts. Correct?" "Correct.”

Martin gave his swift, warm smile, then continued confidently.. "What you just described is the next step, also the toughest. We're working on it, and it will happen, though of course it all takes time.”

She reminded him, "When the institute opened, you said, 'Allow me two years.' You expected to. have so mething positive by then. That was two years and four months ago.”

He seemed surprised.”Did I really say that?" "You certainly did. Sam remembers. So do L" "Then it was reckless of me. Working, as we are here, at the frontier of science, timetables can't apply.”

Again Martin seemed untroubled, yet. Celia detected strain beneath the surface. Physically, too, Martin seemed out of condition. His face was pale; his eyes suggested fatigue, probably from long hours of work; and there were lines on his face which had not been there two years ago. "Martin," Celia said, "why won't you send progress reports? Sam has a board of directors he must satisfy, and shareholders 11

T he scientist shook his head, for the first time impatiently.”It's more important that I concentrate on research. Reports, so much writing and paperwork, take up valuable time.”

He asked abruptly, "Have you read John Locke?" "At college, a little.”

"He wrote that man makes discoveries by 'steadily intending his mind in a given direction.' A scientific researcher must remember that.” Celia abandoned the subject for the time being, but raised it later that day with the administrator, ex-Squadron Leader Bentley, who suggested a different reason for the absence of reports. "You should understand, Mrs. Jordan," Nigel Bentley said, "that Dr. Peat-Smith finds it excruciatingly difficult to put anything in writing. A reason is that his mind moves forward so quickly that what was important to him yesterday may be out of date today, and even more so tomorrow. He is actually embarrassed by things that he wrote earlier-two years ago, for example. He sees them as naive even though, at the time, they may have been incredibly perceptive. If he could have his way, he'd wipe out everything he's written in the past. It's a trait not uncommon in scientists. I've encountered it before.”

Celia said, "Tell me some more things I should know about the scientific mind.”

They were sharing the privacy of Bentley's modest but neatly organized office where Celia was having increasing respect for this competent, sparrowlike man she had chosen to run the research institute's business side. Nigel Bentley considered, then began, "Perhaps the most important thing is that scientists stay so long in the educational process, become so involved in their chosen, sometimes narrow, specialties, that they come to the realities of everyday life much later than the rest of us. Indeed, some great scholars never come to grips with those realities at all.”

"I've heard it said that they stay, in some ways, childlike.”

"Precisely, Ws. Jordan, and in certain areas very much that way. It's why one sees, so often, childish behavior in academic circles-petty squabbles and the like, over trivial issues.”

Celia said thoughtfully, "I would not have thought any of that was true of Martin Peat-Smith.”

"Possibly not, within those specific limits," Bentley acknowledged.”But in other ways.”

"Tell me.”

"Well, something Dr. Peat-Smith has great trouble with is small decisions. Some days, as one might put it, he can't decide which side of the street to walk on. As an example, he agonized for weeks over which one of two technicians we employ should have preference in going on a three-day course in London. It was a minor matter, something you or I would have decided in a few minutes and, in the end, because my superior couldn't reach a decision, I made it for him. All this, of course, is in total contrast to Dr. Peat-Smith's mainstream purpose-his scientific clarity and dedication.”

"You're making several things much clearer," Celia said.”Including why Martin hasn't sent reports.”

"There's something else I believe I should point out," Bentley volunteered.”it may even have a bearing on your visit.”

"Go ahead,” "Dr. Peat-Smith is a leader and, as with any leader, it would be a mistake for him to show weakness or exhibit doubts about the progress being made here. If he did, the morale of those working with him would collapse. And something else: Dr. Peat-Smith has been usod to working alone, at his own pace. Now, suddenly, he has huge responsibilities, with many people depending on him, as well as other pressures-subtle and not so subtle-including your own presence, Mrs, Jordan, here and now. All those things are an enormous strain on any individual.”

"Then there are doubts about the work being done," Celia said.”Serious doubts? I've been wondering.”

Bentley, who was facing Celia across his desk, put the tips of his fingers. together and regarded her across them.”In working here I have an obligation to Dr. Peat-Smith, but an even larger responsibility to you and Mr. Hawthorne. Therefore I must answer your question-yes.”

"I want to know about those doubts," Celia said. ”In detail.”

Bentley answered, "I lack the scientific qualifications.”

He hesitated, and then went on, "it would be irregular, perhaps, but I believe you should speak privately with Dr. Sastri and instruct him, as you have authority to do, to open up totally and frankly.”

Dr. Rao Sastri, as Celia knew, was the nucleic acid chemist-a Pakistani, formerly a Cambridge colleague-whom Martin had recruited as his scientific second-in-command. "This is too important to worry about what's regular or isn't, Mr. Bentley," she said.”Thank you. I'll do as you suggest.”

"Is there any other way in which I can help?" Celia considered.”Martin quoted John Locke at me today. Is he a Locke disciple?" "Yes, and so am L" Bentley gave a small, tight smile.”The two of us share a conviction that Locke was one of the finer philosophers and guides this world has ever known.”

"I'd like something of Locke's to read tonight," Celia said.”Can you get it for me?" Bentley made a note. ”It will be waiting for you at your hotel.”

It was not until late afternoon, during her second day at Harlow, that Celia was able to have her talk with Dr. Sastri. In between that and her session the previous day with Nigel Bentley, she talked with others at the institute who were consistently cheerful and optimistic in their views about the Harlow research scene. Yet still Celia had a sense of something being held back, an instinct that those she had met were being less than forthright with her. Rao Sastri proved to be a handsome, dark-skinned, articulate and fast-speaking young man, still in his twenties. Celia knew he had a Ph.D. And a brilliant scholastic record, and both Martin and Bentley had assured her the institute was fortunate in having him. Sastri and Celia met in an annex to the plant cafeteria, a small room normally used by senior staff for working lunches. After shaking hands with Sastri, and before they sat down, Celia closed the door for privacy. She said, "I believe you know who I am.”

"Indeed, Mrs. Jordan. My colleague Peat-Smith has spoken of you frequently, and kindly. At this time I am honored to meet you.”

Sastri's speech was cultured and precise, with a Pakistani lilt. He also smiled frequently, though at times switching off the smile with a trace of nervousness. "I am happy to meet you also," Celia said, "and wish to discuss with you the progress of research here.”

"It is wonderful! Truly marvelous! A jolly good show all around.”

"Yes," Celia acknowledged, "others have told me the same. But before we go on I would like to make clear that I am here on behalf of Mr. Hawthorne, the president of Felding-Roth, and exercising his authority.”

"Oh, dear! My goodness! I wonder what is coming now.”

"What is coming, Dr. Sastri, is that I am asking you--ordering you, in fact-to be totally frank with me, holding back nothing, including any doubts you have, and which so far you may have kept entirely to yourself.”

"All this is damned awkward," Sastri said.”Also not entirely fair, as I pointed out to Bentley when he informed me of this line you would be taking. I do, after all, have an obligation to Peat-Smith, who is a decent chap.”

"You have an even bigger obligation to Felding-Roth," Celia told him sharply, "because the company pays your salary-a good one -and is entitled to your honest professional opinions in return.”

"I say, Mrs. Jordan! You don't mess about, do you?" The young Pakistani's tone mixed shock and awe. "Messing about-as you eloquently put it, Dr. Sastri-takes time, which I don't have a lot of, since I'm returning to America tomorrow. So please tell me exactly where, in your opinion, our institute research is, and where it's going.”

Sastri raised both hands in a submissive gesture, and sighed.”Very well. The research is not very far along. And, in my humble opinion and that of others in this project, it is going nowhere.”

"Explain those opinions.”

"In more than two years, all that has been achieved is to confirm a theory that there are brain DNA changes during aging. Oh yes, it is an interesting accomplishment, but beyond it we are facing a damned blank wall which we do not have techniques to penetrate, may not have for many years, and even then the peptide Peat-Smith has postulated may not be behind the wall.”

Celia queried, "You do not accept that postulation?" "It is my colleague's theory, Mrs. Jordan. I admit I shared it.”

Sastri shook his head regretfully.”But, in my inmost heart, no longer.”

"Martin informed me," Celia said, "that you have proved the existence of a unique RNA and "Which is, by golly, true! But perhaps what you were not told is that the isolated material may be too large. The mRNA strand is long, and codes for many proteins, possibly forty altogether. It is therefore unusable-just 'nonsense' peptides.”

Celia reached into her scientific memory.”Can the material be cleaved? Each peptide isolated?" Sastri smiled; his voice assumed a superior edge.”There is the blank wall. There are no techniques to take us further. Possibly in ten years from now...”

He shrugged. For another twenty minutes they talked science, Celia learning that, of the group of scientists now working at Harlow on the mental aging project, only Martin remained a true believer that it would produce worthwhile results. At the end she said, "Thank you, Dr. Sastri. You've told me what I crossed the Atlantic to find out.”

The young man nodded sadly.”I have done my duty as you insisted. But I will not sleep well tonight.”

"I don't expect to either," Celia said.”But that's a price which people like you and me pay sometimes-for being where we are.”

5

At Martin's invitation, Celia went to his home for drinks during her second and last evening at Harlow, Afterward they would go on to dinner which she had arranged at the Churchgate Hotel where she was staying. Martin lived in a small semi-detached house about two miles from the Felding-Roth Institute. The house, while modern and functional, was similar to dozens of others nearby which appeared to Celia to have been assembled on a mass-production line. When she arrived, by taxi, Mar-tin escorted her to a tiny living room and, as on other occasions, she was aware of his admiring inspection. For the brief trip to Britain she had traveled lightly, wearing a tailored suit during daytimes, but tonight had on a Diane von Furstenberg wraparound dress in an attractive brown and white print, with a single strand of pearls. Her soft brown hair was stylish in the short, blunt cut of the day. On the way in from the front hall Celia stepped over or around five animals-a friendly Irish setter, a growling English bulldog, and three cats. Within the living room was a parrot on an open perch. She laughed.”You really are an animal lover.”

"I suppose I am," Martin smilingly agreed.”I enjoy having animals around and I'm a sucker for homeless cats.”

The cats seemed to know this and followed him slavishly. Celia knew that Martin lived alone, with a "daily" woman coming to clean. The living-room furniture was minimal, consisting mainly of a leather armchair with a reading light beside it, and three bookcases, crammed with scientific volumes. Some bottles, mixes and ice were set out on a small table. Martin waved her to the armchair and began mixing drinks. "I've the makings of a daiquiri, if that's what you'd like.”

"I'd like it," Celia said, "and I'm touched you should remember.”

She wondered if they would be as relaxed and friendly at the evening's end. As on earlier occasions, she was aware of Martin's physical attractiveness as a man, yet before coming here she had reminded herself of Sam Hawthorne's parting words: "No matter how much you like Martin... if you need to be tough and ruthless... do itl" "I'll be seeing Sam the day after tomorrow," Celia said.”I have to make a recommendation about the future of the Harlow institute, and I'd like to know what you think it should be.”

"That's easy.”

He handed her a daiquiri.”You should urge a continuance of our present research for another year, longer if necessary.” "There is opposition to continuing. You know that.”

"Yes.”

The confidence which Martin had shown ever since Celia's arrival was still in evidence.”But then, there are always short-sighted people, unable to see the big picture.”

"Is Dr. Sastri short-sighted?" "I'm sorry to say it-yes. How's the drink?" "Fine.”

"Rao came here an hour ago," Martin said.”He wanted to see me because he felt I should know everything he told you this afternoon. Rao has a strong sense of honor.”

"And?"

"He's wrong. Totally wrong. So are the others who have doubts.”

Celia asked, "Can you refute factually what Sastri says?" "Of course not!" Martin's impatience flashed, as it had yesterday.”All scientific research is based on theory. If we had facts instead, we wouldn't need to research. What is involved is informed, professional judgment and some instinct; some call the combination scientific arrogance. Either way, it's a conviction of being on the right track, knowing that only time-in this case a short time-is standing between you and what you're searching for.”

"Time and a great deal of money," Celia reminded him.”Also the question of whether yours, or Sastri's and some others, is the right judgment.”

Martin sipped a scotch and water he had poured himself and paused, considering. Then he said, "Money is something I don't like to think about more than I have to, especially money made from selling drugs. But you mentioned it first, so I'll tell you this now because maybe it's the only way I can get through to you, to Sam, and others like you.”

Celia watched Martin intently, listening carefully, wondering what was coming. "Even in what you think of as my scientific remoteness," he said, "I know that Felding-Roth is in deep trouble. If things don't improve within the next few years, the company could go under.”

He asked sharply, "Right or wrong?" Celia hesitated, then nodded.”Right.”

"What I can do, given a little more time, is save your company. Not only save it, but make it productive, acclaimed and enormously rich. That's because, at the end of my research, there will be important medication-a drug.”

Martin grimaced before going on.”Not that I care about any commercial outcome. I don't. I'm also embarrassed to be talking about it now. But when it happens, what I want accomplished will happen too.”

The statement, Celia thought, had the same impressive effect as another made by Martin in his Cambridge lab the day of their first meeting. At that time, Sam had felt that effect too. But the earlier statement, made more than two years ago, had not been fulfilled. Why, she asked herself, should today's be different? Celia shook her head.”I don't know. I just don't know.”

"Dammit, I know mine is the right judgment!" Martin's voice rose.”We're close-so close-to finding a means to improve the quality of aging and retard brain deterioration, and maybe prevent Alzheimer's disease as well.”

He gulped what remained of the drink in his hand and slammed down the glass.”How in hell can I convince you?" "You can try again over dinner.”

Celia glanced at her watch.”I believe we should go now.”

The food at the Churchgate Hotel, while good, ran to large portions-too large for Celia. After a while she toyed with what remained on her plate, moving it around without eating, while she considered what to say next. Whatever it was would be important. Knowing it, she held back, hesitating, preparing her words carefully. Meanwhile the ambience was pleasant. More than six centuries before the Churchgate existed as a hotel, its site had been occupied by a chantry house-a priest's dwelling which, in Jacobean times, became a private home. Some portions of the Jacobean structure still remained in the charming hotel building, enlarged and refurbished when Harlow changed from a village to a town after World War IL The dining room was one of the historic holdovers. Celia liked the room's atmosphere-its low ceiling, upholstered window benches, white and red napery and pleasant service, including the placement of food at each table before diners were called in from an adjoining lounge-bar where earlier they had received menus and placed their orders. Tonight, Celia had one of the window benches. Martin sat facing her. Through the meal they continued the conversation begun at Martin's house, Celia listening, interjecting an occasional question, as Martin talked science confidently. But fresh in her memory were the words of Nigel Bentley, spoken yesterday.”Dr. Peat-Smith is a leader and, as with any leader, it would be a mistake for him to show weakness or exhibit doubts...” Did Martin, despite that persistent outward confidence, have an inward, private uncertainty? Celia considered a tactic to help her find out. It was an idea developed from the book she had read last night, after its delivery to the hotel-a promise fulfilled by Nigel Bentley. Having calculated and weighed her words, she looked at him directly and said, "An hour ago, when we were talking at the house, you said you had scientific arrogance.”

He riposted, "Don't misunderstand that. It's positive, not negative-a combination of knowledge, willingness to criticize one's own work, yet conviction also-something a successful scientist must have to 3urvive.”

As he said it, Celia wondered if for the first time there was the slightest crack, a hint of weakness, in the confident facade. She wasn't sure, but pressed on. "Is it possible," she insisted, "that scientific arrogance, or whatever else you call it, can go too far; that someone can become so convinced of what they want to believe that they indulge in wishful thinking which becomes unshakable?" "Everything's possible," Martin answered.”Though not in this case.”

But his voice was flat, with less conviction than previously. Now she was sure. She had probed his weakness, and he was close to concession, perhaps to breaking point. "I read something last night," Celia said.”I wrote it down, even though I think you may know of it.”

Her purse was beside her. From it she extracted a sheet of hotel stationery and read aloud:

"Error is not a fault of our knowledge, but a mistake of our judgment... Those who cannot carry a train of consequences in their heads; nor weigh exactly the preponderancy of contrary proofs and testimonies... may be easily misled to assent to positions that are not probable.”

There was a silence which, after a moment, Celia filled, aware she was being relentless, even cruel.”It's from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke. The man you believe in and revere.”

"Yes," he said, "I know.”

"So isn't it likely," she persisted, "that you are not weighing those 'contrary proofs' and you are holding to 'positions that are not probable just the way Locke said?" Martin turned toward her, in his eyes a mute appeal.”Do you think I am?" Celia said quietly, "Yes, I do.”

"I'm sorry you...”

He choked on the words and she scarcely recognized his voice. Now he said faintly, "Then... I give up.”

Martin had broken. The quotation from Locke, his idol-turned against him by Celia-had pierced him to the heart. More than that, like a suddenly failing machine that turns inward, devouring itself, he had lost control. His face was ashen, his mouth hung open, and his jaw sagged. Disconnected words emerged.”.

...tell your people to end it... let them close down... I do believe, but maybe I'm not good enough, not alone... What we've looked for will he found... it will happen, must happen... but somewhere else...”

Celia was aghast. What had she done? She had sought to shock Martin into what she perceived as reality, but had neither intended, nor wanted, to go this far. Clearly the accumulated strain over more than two years, the lonely and awesome responsibility he had carried, had exacted its toll, which was visible now. Again Martin's voice.”...tired, so tired...”

Hearing the defeated phrases, Celia had an overwhelming desire to take him in her arms and comfort him. Then, with the suddenness of a revelation, she knew what would happen next.”Martin," she said decisively, "let's get out of here.”

A passing waitress glanced toward them curiously. Celia, standing, told her, "Put the meal on my bill. My friend isn't well.”

"Certainly, Mrs. Jordan.”

The girl eased their table outward.”Do you need help?" "No, thank you. I'll manage.”

She took Martin's arm and propelled him toward the lounge-bar outside. From there a stairway ascended to a series of guest rooms. Celia's room was near the head of the stairway. She used her key to open it. They went inside. This portion of the building, too, had been preserved from Jacobean days. The rectangular bedroom had a low strapwork ceiling, oak-paneled walls and a fireplace framed in stone. Leaded-light windows were small, their smallness a reminder that in the seventeenth century glass was an expensive luxury. The bed was a roomy four-poster with a canopy. During the dinner hours a maid had been here, neatly turning down the bedsheets and leaving a negligee of Celia's draped across a pillow. Celia wondered how much history-of ancient families: their births and deaths, illnesses, loving passions, joys and sorrows, quarrels, assignations-this room had seen. Well, she thought, tonight there would be something more to add. Martin was standing, still dazed and suffering, regarding her uncertainly. She picked up the negligee and, turning toward the bathroom, told him softly, "Get undressed. Get into bed. I'll join you.”

As he continued to look at her, still unmoving, she came close and whispered, "You want this too, don't you?"

His body heaved with a groaning, gasping sigh.”Oh my God, yes”,

While they held each other, she comforted him as she would a child. But not for long. She felt Martin's passion rise, and her own accompanied it. Just as Martin had wanted this moment, Celia knew that she had sought it too. In a way, it had been inevitable, ever since their first meeting at Cambridge when something far stronger than instant, mutual liking had flashed between them. From then on, Celia realized, the question had never been "if", but merely "when?" The choice of consummation here and now had, in one sense, been accidental. It had happened because of Martin's sudden breakdown and despair, his obvious, urgent need to draw on outside strength and solace. Yet, if what was occurring now had not occurred tonight, some other time would have seen the same conclusion, with each of their meetings bringing the fateful moment closer. As Martin kissed her ardently, and she responded, feeling his rigid masculinity against her, she knew in a crevice of her mind that sooner or later moral issues must be faced and consequences weighed. But not now! There was no strength left in Celia for anything but the fulfillment of desire. Her own desire, all-encompassing, burning, blissful, overwhelming, coalesced with Martin's. Moments later they cried out to each other, lovingly, and with exquisite joy. Afterward they slept, Martin-it seemed to Celia--deeply, and no longer troubled. In the early morning hours they awakened and, this time more tenderly but with equal pleasure, made love again. When next Celia awoke, daylight was streaming in through the old-fashioned windows. Martin had gone. She found the note soon after.

Dearest: You have been, and are, an inspiration. Early this morning while you were sleeping--oh, so beautiful yet-an idea, a "perhaps" solution to our research impasse, came to me. I am going to the lab, even though I know I don't have long, to see if it has promise. Either way I shall keep the faith, carrying on until the eviction order comes. What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory. Don't worry about anything. I know that Paradise Found only happens once. I suggest you do not preserve this note.

Yours always,

Martin

Celia showered, ordered breakfast, and began packing for the journey home.

On the British Airways Concorde, after luncheon had been served, Celia closed her eyes and marshaled her thoughts. Personal things first. During the eighteen years of her marriage to Andrew, never until last night-had she had sexual relations with another man. It was not that opportunities had not arisen; they often had. She had even been tempted occasionally to avail herself of proffered sex, but always thrust the notion away, either out of loyalty to Andrew or because, in business terms, it seemed unwise. Sometimes her reasoning was a combination of the two. Sam Hawthorne had indicated, more than once, that he would enjoy an affair with Celia. But she had decided long ago that it would be the worst thing for them both, and discouraged Sam's rare overtures with politeness, but firmly. Martin had been different. From the beginning, Celia admired him, and also-she now admitted to herself-had wanted him physically. Well, that wish had been fulfilled, and the result was as good as any lover could have hoped for. There could also be, Celia knew-if their circumstances were different-a good deal more between herself and Martin. But Martin had wisely recognized that there was no future in their loving, and Celia saw that too. That is, unless she was prepared to abandon Andrew and risk estrangement with her children, which she wasn't, and never would be. Besides, she loved Andrew dearly. They had been through so much together, and Andrew had rich qualities of wisdom, tenderness and strength that no one else Celia knew-not even Martin-could ever come close to. Therefore Martin, sounding more like a poet than a scientist, had said it all that morning.”What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory... I know that Paradise Found only happens once.” She supposed there were people who would believe she ought to feel guilty about what happened last night. Well, she didn't-quite the reverse!-and that was that. Her thoughts moved from herself to Andrew. Had Andrew, she wondered, ever indulged in extramarital sex? Probably yes. He, too, would have had opportunities, and he was a man whom women found attractive. Then how, Celia asked herself, did she feel about that? Not happy, of course, assuming it had happened, because it was difficult, if not impossible, to be logical in such matters. On the other hand, she would never let herself become concerned over something that she didn't know about. Celia had once heard someone say cynically at a Morristown cocktail party, "Any normal man who has been married twenty years and claims not to have had some sex on the side is either a liar or a nebbish.”

It wasn't true, of course. For plenty of men such opportunities never arose, while others stayed monogamous from choice. Nonetheless, statements like the one she remembered held a core of truth. Celia knew from gossip, and sometimes public indiscretions, that there was plenty of sleeping around in the medical circles where she and Andrew moved, and in the pharmaceutical business too. Which led to a further question: Did occasional sexual side excursions matter in a solid marriage? She didn't think so-providing they were neither intensely serious nor became lasting affairs. In fact, Celia believed, many marriages broke up needlessly because spouses were prudish or jealous, or both, about what was often no more than some harmless sexual fun. Finally, about Andrew, she thought that whatever he had or hadn't done outside their marriage, he would always be considerate and discreet. Celia intended to be equally discreet, which was why she accepted the fait accompli of no more clandestine meetings between herself and Martin. End of personal lucubration. Now about Harlow. What, Celia asked herself, should her recommendation be, the recommendation she would make to Sam tomorrow? Obviously there was only one line for her to take: Close the institute. Admit that opening it had been a mistake. Cut losses quickly. Accept that Martin's mental aging project had been a disappointing failure. Or was it the only course? Or even the best one? Even now, despite all that she had seen and heard at Harlow, Celia was unsure. One thing in particular kept coming back to her: It was something Martin had said in his distress last night, moments before they left the Churchgate Hotel dining room. Since this morning, beginning while she was being driven by limousine to London Airport, Celia had repeatedly played Martin's words over in her mind as if they were recorded on tape.”"at we've looked for will be found... it will happen, must happen... but somewhere else.” When the words were spoken, she had taken little heed of them. But somehow, now, their significance seemed greater. Could Martin still be right and everyone else wrong? And where was "somewhere else"? Another country? Another pharmaceutical firm? Was it possible that if Felding-Roth abandoned Martin's mental aging research, some other company-a competitor-might pick it up and see it through to a successful conclusion, "successful" implying production of an important, profitable new drug? There was also the question of research, on the same subject, being done in other countries. Two years ago Martin had mentioned scientists working on projects in Germany, France, New Zealand. Celia knew from her inquiries that research in those other countries was continuing-though apparently with no more success than at Harlow. But supposing, after Harlow was discontinued, one of those other scientists had a sudden breakthrough, a breathtaking discovery which might have happened at Harlow had they carried on. If it turned out that way, how would Felding-Roth feel? And how would Celia feel-and appear to others in the company-if she recommended closing Harlow now? Therefore, for an array of reasons, there was a temptation for her to do nothing--"nothing," in this case, meaning: recommend carrying on at Harlow in the hope that something might develop. Yet, Celia reasoned, didn't that kind of decision-or, rather, in- decision-represent merely the safest way to go? Yes! It was a take- no-action-now, but wait-and-see philosophy which she had heard both Sam Hawthorne and Vincent Lord describe caustically as prevailing at FDA in Washington. All of which brought her full circle to Sam's pre-departure instruction: "If you need to be tough and ruthless... do it! " Celia sighed. It was no good wishing she did not have this difficult choice to make. The fact was, she did. Equally to the point: tough decisions were part of top-management responsibility, which she had once coveted, and now had. But when the Concorde landed at New York, she was still not positive about which way her advocacy should go.

As it turned out, Celia's meeting with Sam Hawthorne was delayed by a day because of Sam's own heavy schedule of appointments. By then, her conclusion about Harlow was strong and unequivocal. "Well," Sam said, wasting no time with preliminaries after she was seated facing him in the presidential office suite, "do you have a recommendation for me?" The direct question, and Celia's own instincts, made it clear that Sam was in no mood for details or a background briefing. "Yes," she said crisply.”Weighing everything, I believe it would be a shortsighted, serious mistake to close the Harlow institute. Also, we should carry on with Martin's mental aging research, certainly for another year, and possibly for longer.”

Sam nodded and said matter-of-factly, "All right.”

The lack of any strong reaction, and an absence of questions, made it clear that Celia's recommendation was accepted in toto. She also had a feeling that Sam was relieved, as if the answer she had given was what he had hoped for. "I've written a report.”

She put a four-page memo on his desk. Sam tossed it in a tray.”I'll read it sometime. If only to help me handle questions from the board.”

"Will the board give you a hard time?" "Probably.”

Sam gave a tired half smile and Celia sensed his current strain from pressures he was working under. He added, "Don't worry, though; I'll make it stick. Did you inform Martin we'll be carrying on?" She shook her head.”He thinks we're going to close.” "In that case," Sam said, "one of the pleasant things I shall do today is write to tell him otherwise. Thanks, Celia.”

His curt nod made it clear the interview was ended.

One week later a large bouquet of roses appeared in Celia's office. When she inquired about them, her secretary said, "There was no card, Mrs. Jordan, and when I asked the florists, they said all they had were telegraphed instructions to deliver the roses to you. Would you like me to try again to find out who sent them?" "Don't bother," Celia said.”I think I know.”

To Celia's relief, her travels diminished during the remainder of 1975. While she worked hard, it was mostly at Morristown, which meant that she could spend more time with Andrew, and also visit Lisa and Bruce at their schools. Lisa, in her final year at Emma Willard, had been elected senior class president and as well as maintaining a high grade average was involved in a wide range of school activities. One, of her own devising, was an intern program under which senior class members worked a half day each week in offices of the state government at Albany. The program got started after Lisa, demonstrating a belief that if you wanted something you went to the top to ask, wrote a letter to the governor of New York. An aide showed it to the governor, who was amused and-to the surprise of everyone at the school except Lisa-answered personally and positively. When word filtered back to Andrew, he observed to Celia, "No doubt about it; that girl is your daughter.”

Organization, it seemed, came to Lisa as naturally as breathing. Recently she had applied for admission to several universities, though her ambitions centered on Stanford. Bruce, now in his sophomore year at the Hill, had become more than ever a history buff, an interest which occupied him so exclusively that sometimes he barely managed a passing grade in other subjects. As Bruce's house master explained to Celia and Andrew during one of their visits to the school, "It isn't that Bruce is a poor scholar; he could be an excellent all-around one. It's simply that sometimes we have to pry him loose from the history books and insist that he study other things. What I think you have on your hands, Dr. and Mrs. Jordan, is a future historian. I expect to see your son's name on published works before many years have passed.”

While cautioning herself not to become smug, Celia reflected with relief that it was possible to be a working mother and still have successful, well-balanced children. An important part of it, of course, was that Winnie and Hank March had run the family house, as they continued to do, with cheerful efficiency. During a celebration of Winnie's fifteenth year of employment, which coincided with her thirty-fourth birthday, it was Andrew who remembered Winnie's long-abandoned plan to move on to Australia. He remarked, "What the Aussies lost, the Jordans gained.”

Only one adverse note obtruded on Winnie's sunny nature: her failure to have a child, which she dearly wanted. She confided to Celia, "Me an' 'Ank keep tryin'. Lordy, how we tryl-some days I'm fair wrung out. But it don't ever click.”

At Celia's urging, Andrew arranged fertility tests for Winme and her husband. The tests proved positive in each case.”Both you and Hank are capable of having children," Andrew explained one evening while he, Winnie and Celia were together in the kitchen.”It's simply a matter of timing, in which your gynecologist will help, and also luck. You'll have to go on trying.”

"We will," Winnie said, then sighed.”But I won't tell 'Ank till termorrer. I need one good night's sleep.”

Celia did make a brief trip for the company to California in September and she was in Sacramento, by chance standing not far from President Ford, when an attempt was made on the President's life. Only the ineptitude of the woman would-be assassin, who did not understand the firearm she was using, prevented another historic tragedy. Celia was shattered by the experience, and equally horrified to learn of a second assassination attempt, in San Francisco, less than three weeks later. Talking about it at home, with the family gathered for Thanksgiving, she declared, "Some days I think we've become a more violent people, not less.”

Then rhetorically: "Where do ideas about assassinations start?" She had not expected an answer, but Bruce supplied one. "Considering the business you're in, Mom, I'm surprised you don't know that historically they started with drugs, which is what the word 'assassin' means. It's from the Arabic hashish, or 'hashish-eater,' and in the eleventh to thirteenth centuries an Islamic sect, the Nizari Ismd'fifts, took hashish when committing acts of religious terrorism.”

Celia said irritably, "If I don't know, it's because hashish isn't a drug that's used pharmaceutically.”

"It was once," Bruce answered calmly.”And not so long ago, either. Psychiatrists used it against amnesia, but it didn't work and they stopped. "I'll be damned!" Andrew said, while Lisa regarded her brother with a mixture of amusement and awe.

The new year of '76 brought a pleasant interlude in February with the marriage of Juliet Hawthorne to Dwight Goodsmith, the young man Andrew and Celia had met and liked at the Hawthornes' dinner party a year earlier. Dwight, newly graduated from Harvard Law School, was about to begin work in New York City where he and Juliet would live. The wedding was a large and plush affair with three hundred and fifty guests, Andrew and Celia among them.”After all," Lilian Hawthorne told Celia, "it's the only wedding at which I'll be a bride's mother-at least, I hope so.”

Earlier, Lilian had confided her concern that Juliet, who was twenty, should be marrying so young and abandoning college after only two years. But on the day of the wedding Sam and Lilian seemed so radiantly happy that such thoughts had clearly been put away-with good reason, Celia thought. Watching Juliet and Dwight, an intelligent and talented, yet modest, unaffected couple, she was impressed with them and had a conviction that theirs was a marriage which would work. In May of that year, something of special interest to Celia was the publication of The Drugging of the Americas. It was a book which attracted wide attention and cataloged the shameful failure of American and other pharmaceutical firms doing business in Latin America to supply warnings about adverse side effects of their prescription drugs-warnings required by law in more sophisticated countries. Described and documented were the practices which Celia, during her years in international sales, had observed personally and had criticized at Felding-Roth. What made the book different from routine, acerbic attacks on the industry was the scholarly thoroughness of its author, Dr. Milton Silverman, a pharmacologist and faculty member of the University of California at San Francisco. Dr. Silverman had also testified a short time earlier before a congressional committee which listened to him with respect. In Celia's view it was one more warning that the pharmaceutical business should accept moral obligations as well as legal ones. She bought a half-dozen copies of the book and sent them to company executives who responded predictably. Typical was Sam Hawthorne who scribbled a memo:

Basically I share Silverman's views and yours. However, if changes are made there will have to be all-around agreement. No one company can afford to put itself at a disadvantage to all other competitors-especially ourselves at the moment be- cause of our delicate financial condition.

To Celia, Sam's seemed a specious argument, though she did not contest it further, knowing she would not win. A considerable surprise was the response of Vincent Lord, who sent a friendly note.

Thanks for the book. I agree there should be changes, but predict OUT masters will kick and scream against them until forced at pistol point to mend their ways. But keep trying. I'll help when I can.

Increasingly of late, the director of research seemed to have mellowed, Celia thought. She remembered sending him, thirteen years before, a copy of The Feminine Mystique which he returned with a curt remark about "rubbish.”

Or was it, she wondered, because Vince Lord had decided she was now high enough in the company to be useful to him as an ally? During April, Lisa telephoned home to report excitedly that she would be heading for California in the fall. She had been accepted at Stanford University. Then, in June, Lisa graduated from Emma Willard in a gracious outdoor ceremony which Andrew, Celia and Bruce attended. Over a family dinner in Albany that night Andrew observed, "Today's a high point, but otherwise I predict, worldwide, a dull year.”

Almost at once he was proved wrong by a daring Israeli airborne commando raid on Entebbe Airport, Uganda, where more than a hundred hostages were held captive, having been seized by Arab terrorists aided by the treacherous Uganda President Idi Amin. As the free world cheered, delighted to share some upbeat, inspirational news for a change, the Israelis freed the hostages and flew them back to safety. The dullness did return, however-as Andrew was quick to point out-when, at the Democratic national convention in New York, an obscure Georgia populist, leaning heavily on being a "bornagain" Southern Baptist, secured the nomination for President. Despite the American public's disenchantment, first with Nixon, now with Ford, it seemed unlikely the newcomer could win. In the Felding-Roth cafeteria Celia heard someone ask, "Is it conceivable that the highest office in this world could be held by someone who calls himself Jimmy. Yet, at the Morristown corporate headquarters there was little time for thoughts of politics. Most attention was focused on the exciting new drug soon to be released-Montayne.

It was almost two years since Celia had expressed to Sam her doubts and unease about Montayne but, at Sam's urging, had agreed to keep an open mind while studying research and testing data. In the meantime there had been voluminous material, most of which Celia read. As she did, her conviction grew that Sam was right: pharmaceutical science had made amazing advances in fifteen years, and pregnant women should not be denied a beneficial drug simply because another drug, long ago, had proven harmful. Equally significant: the testing of Montayne-first in France, subsequently in Denmark, Britain, Spain, Australia, and now in the United States-had clearly been as cautious and complete as human care could make it. Thus, because of authenticated results and her own reading, Celia was not only convinced of the safety of Montayne, but enthusiastic about its usefulness and commercial possibilities. At home, on several occasions, she attempted to share her knowledge with Andrew, seeking to convert him to her changed opinions. But, uncharacteristically, Andrew appeared to have a closed mind. He always managed to turn their conversation to other matters, making it clear that while wishing to avoid an argument, Montayne was a subject ne preferred to hold at arm's length. In the end Celia gave up, in Andrew's presence keeping her enthusiasm to herself. There would be, she knew, many other outlets for it once Felding-Roth's sale’s campaign began in earnest.

"The important thing all of us in sales must remember and emphasize about Montayne," Celia said into the podium microphone, "is that it is a completely safe drug for pregnant women. More than that- it is a joyous drug! Montayne is something which women plagued by nausea and sickness during pregnancies--have needed, longed for, and deserved for centuries. Now, at last, we of Felding-Roth, have become emancipators, freeing American women from their ancient yoke, making each day of pregnancy better, brighter, happier! The drug to end morning sickness forever is here! We have it! “There was a spirited burst of handclapping from the audience. It was October 1976. Celia was in San Francisco at a Felding-Roth regional sales meeting, attended by the company's detail men and women, sales supervisors and regional managers from nine western states, including Alaska and Hawaii. The three-day session was at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill, Celia and several other senior officials of the company were staying at the elegant Stanford Court across the street. Among them was Bill Ingram, once Celia's junior at O-T-C and now, as deputy director of pharmaceutical sales, her principal assistant. Marketing plans for Montayne were in high gear, and Felding-Roth hoped to have the product on the market by February, now only four months away. Meanwhile it was necessary that those who would be selling Montayne know as much about the drug as possible. Among the sales force, enthusiasm about the prospects for Montayne was running high, and someone at head office had composed a song to be sung to the tune of "America the Beautiful.”

Oh beautiful for carefree days, For dreams of motherhood, For now in safe and simple ways, All mornings can be good! Montayne, Montayne! Montayne, Montayne! Prescribed for pregnancy; Let's sell it strong, proclaim its joys, Its riskless potency!

The words had been sung cheerfully and loudly this morning by the assembled sales people, and would be repeated often over the next two days. Celia, personally, had reservations about the song, but others in sales had argued in its favor, so she agreed to its use, not wanting to dampen buoyant spirits. As to United States testing programs for the drug, these had been conducted over the preceding year and a half-on animals and five hundred humans-with only the mildest and occasional side effects, none medically significant. The good results were similar to those in other countries where Montayne was already on sale, enormously popular and being praised by prescribing physicians and their women patients. Following the United States tests, the usual voluminous new drug application had been submitted to FDA's Washington headquarters, with the hope of fast approval. Unfortunately, that hope had proved in vain. So far, FDA permission to sell the drug as a prescription product had not been given, and this was one of two small clouds now hovering over Felding-Roth's elaborate marketing scheme. At company headquarters, however, it was considered impossible to halt all preparations until approval was granted; otherwise six months or more of selling and important revenue would be lost. So the decision was made to proceed with manufacturing, preparation of advertising, and warm-up sessions like this one, on the assumption that the FDA green light would be given before the critical deadline. Sam Hawthorne, Vincent Lord, and others were confident the needed FDA approval would be forthcoming soon. They also noted that one factor working in Felding-Roth's favor was media publicity. Because of the progress and popularity of Montayne overseas, questions now being asked publicly were: Why was FDA taking so long to decide? Why was American womanhood being denied this beneficial medication when other women elsewhere were using it successfully and safely? The phrase "American drug lag" was once more being bandied around critically, the blame for it directed at the FDA. One of the pointed questioners was Senator Dennis Donahue, normally a critic of the pharmaceutical industry but now recognising which side of an issue was the popular one. In response to a reporter’s query, he described the FDA's indecision over Montayne as "clearly ridiculous in the circumstances.”

Donahue's comment Was Weleorn, - rd at Felding-Roth. The other small cloud was created by Maud Stavely, M.D., chairperson of the New York-based consumer group, Citizens for Safer Medicine. Dr. Stavely and her CSM were aggressively opposed to American approval of Montayne, arguing that the drug might be unsafe and should be given more prolonged testing. All who would listen were bombarded with this view, which received considerable media coverage. The basis of the Stavely argument was a civil lawsuit which had been argued several months earlier in the courts of Australia. A twenty-three-year-old woman living in the Australian Outback near Alice Springs had given birth to a female child. The mother, during pregnancy, had been one of the early users of Montayne. Later, tests showed the baby girl to be mentally deficient, her mind described by doctors as "a blank.”

Also, the child was unable to make any but the feeblest physical movements, even a year after birth. Examining physicians agreed the child would forever remain a vegetable and would never walk or sit up unaided. A lawyer hearing of the case persuaded the mother to sue the Australian company that distributed Montayne. The suit went to court and was dismissed. That judgment was appealed to a higher court, which ruled against the plaintiff, upholding the lower-court decision. During both-legal proceedings the evidence seemed overwhelming that Montayne was not responsible for the child's condition. The mother, a person of poor reputation who admitted not knowing who the baby's father was, had been taking other drugs throughout her pregnancy-methaqualone (Quaalude), diazepam (Valium), and several others. She was also a near-alcoholic, a chain smoker and a user of marijuana. An expert medical witness at the jury trial described her body as "a horrible cauldron of antagonistic chemicals from which anything could happen.”

He and other medical witnesses absolved Montayne from linkage with the baby's defects. Only an Outback "flying doctor" who had treated the woman during pregnancy and delivered the child at birth testified on the mother's behalf and blamed Montayne, which he himself had prescribed. However, under cross-examination the doctor admitted having no evidence to back his claim, only what he described as "a bloody strong hunch.”

In light of other, expert testimony, his views were not taken seriously. Subsequently, an Australian government-sponsored inquiry, where medical and scientific experts again testified, reached the same conclusion as the courts, confirming Montayne to be a safe drug. The American, Dr. Stavely, a notorious publicity seeker, had no other evidence to support her opposition to Montayne. Thus, though the Maud Stavely-CSM campaign was regarded at Felding-Roth as a nuisance, it did not represent a major problem. Now, at the San Francisco sales meeting, after waiting for applause to subside, Celia continued her address. "Something you may encounter," she cautioned her listeners, "is anxiety about our new drug, Montayne, from people with memories of an older drug, Thalidomide, which had terrible effects on the fetuses of pregnant women, causing them to give birth to deformed babies. I am mentioning this now, bringing it out in the open, so it is a subject we are all prepared for.”

There was silence in the hall as the men and women facing Celia listened attentively. "The differences between Montayne and Thalidomide are many and overwhelming. "in the first place, Thalidomide was developed some twenty years ago at a time when pharmaceutical research was not as thorough, or safety regulations as informed and rigorous as they are today. Another thing-and contrary to popular belief Thalidomide was never intended, or used specifically, as a drug for women. It was a general sedative, a sleeping pill.

"And going back to the subject of research, Thalidomide was not tried experimentally on a wide range of animals before it was put to human use. After the banning of Thalidomide, for example, experiments with animals showed that some breeds of rabbits produced the same deformed foetuses as humans, demonstrating that if those full animal studies had been done, the human tragedies would never have happened.”

Celia paused, referring to her notes which she had prepared carefully for this and later occasions. Still with the same attention focused on her, she said, "Montayne, on the other hand, has had the fullest possible range of tests-including tests on various types of animals, as well as on human volunteers-in five countries, all of which have strict laws affecting drug control. Moreover, in most of those countries Montayne has been used by many thousands of women for well over a year. Let me give you just one example of how thoroughly this research and testing program has been carried out.”

Celia described the decision of Laboratoires Gironde-Chimie, the French discoverers of Montayne, to do an additional year of medical testing over and above that required by French law, to be certain of their product's quality. "Probably no drug ever introduced before," she added, "has been tested more thoroughly for safety.”

Following Celia's speech, scientific spokesmen from the company endorsed her words and answered questions from the sales force.

"How did your sales presentation go?" Andrew asked an hour or so later in the comfortable luxury of their suite at the Stanford 'Court. He had taken a few days off from his practice to accompany Celia westward and, at the same time, visit Lisa, now a freshman at Stanford and living on campus. "Well enough, I think.”

Celia kicked off her shoes, stretched tiredly, and put her feet up on a sofa.”In some ways, regional sales meetings are like a traveling road show, so we should get better with each performance.”

She regarded her husband curiously.”Do you realize that was the first time you've asked me a question about anything to do with the progress of Montayne?" "Is it?" He tried to sound surprised. "You know it is. I'd like to know why.”

"Maybe it's because you tell me everything, so I've never needed to ask.”

"That isn't true," Celia said.”The truth is, you still have reservations, haven't you?" "Look," Andrew objected, putting aside a newspaper he had been reading when she came in, "I'm not qualified to make judgments about a drug I haven't used. You've a host of scientific people, here and abroad, who know much more than I do. They say Montayne is okay. So...”

He shrugged. "But would you prescribe it for a patient?" "I don't have to. Fortunately I'm not an obstetrician or a gynaecologist.” "Fortunately?"

"A slip of the tongue.”

Andrew said impatiently, "Let's talk about something else.”

"No," Celia persisted; there was an edge to her voice.”I want to talk about this because it's important to both of us. You always used to say no woman should take any drug during pregnancy. Do you still believe that?" "Since you ask-yes, I do.”

"Isn't it possible," Celia said, "that while you were right once, that view could now be out of date? After all, it's a long time since you began practicing medicine-twenty years-and many things have changed.”

She remembered something Sam had told her.”Weren't there doctors who opposed anesthesia for pregnant women because they said... T' Andrew was becoming angry.”I told you I don't want to talk about this.”

She snapped back, "But I do!" "Dammit, Celia! I'm not involved with your Montayne and don't intend to be. I've already admitted I don't have the knowledge-" "But at St. Bede's you have influence.”

"Which I will not use-one way or the other-about Montayne.”

They were glaring at each other when the telephone rang. Celia swung her legs down and reached out to answer. A woman's voice inquired, "Mrs. Jordan?" "Yes.- "This is Felditig-Roth, Boonton. Hold, please, for Mr. Hawthorne.”

Sam came on the line.”Hi, Celia. How is everything going so far?" "Very well.”

The positive mood in which she had left the Fairmont session returned.”The presentations have gone smoothly, Everyone in the field is keen, and anxious to begin selling Montayne.”

"Great!" "Of course, the question we're all asking is: How soon will we get FDA approval?" There was a silence during which Celia sensed Sam hesitating, then he said, "For the moment, this is confidential between you and me. But I can say positively we will get FDA permission, and very soon.”

"May I ask why you're so sure?" "No.,' "Okay.”

If Sam wanted to be mysterious, Celia thought, that was his privilege, though between the two of them she could see no reason for it. She asked, "Is everything good with Juliet?" "And with my soon-to-be grandchild?" Sam chuckled.”I'm delighted to say, yes.”

Three months ago, Juliet and Dwight Goodsmith had happily announced Juliet's pregnancy. The baby was due in January. "Give Lilian and Juliet my love," Celia said, "and tell Juliet that with her next pregnancy she'll be able to take Montayne.”

"Will do. Thanks, Celia.”

Sam hung up. While Celia was on the telephone, Andrew had gone into the bathroom to shower, then dress, prior to a thirty-five-mile drive to Palo Alto where they were due for dinner with Lisa and several newfound Stanford friends. During the drive and the dinner, which was relaxed and cordial, neither Celia nor Andrew referred to their argument at the hotel. At first there was a coolness between them, but it disappeared as the evening progressed. By that time, also, Celia had decided to leave well alone and not raise the subject of Montayne with her husband again. After all, everyone in the course of a lifetime had occasional mental blind spots and-though it disappointed herthis was clearly one of Andrew's.

Sam Hawthorne, replacing the telephone after his Boonton-San Francisco conversation with Celia, found himself wishing he had not made the impulsive, positive statement he had concerning FDA approval of Montayne. It was unwise and indiscreet. Why had he done it? Probably for no other reason than the human one of seeking to impress another person-in this case Celia. He must watch himself, he decided. Especially after his discussion an hour ago with Vincent Lord and the decision they had reached jointly. It was a decision that could have disastrous repercussions if it were found out, though it must not be--ever. All the more reason, then, to let the FDA's approval of Montayne, when it happened, seem natural and ordained. As it should have been, and would have been, except for that arrogant, insufferable, criminal bureaucrat at FDA I It was sheer bad luck that the new drug application for Montayne had drawn Dr. Gideon Mace as the reviewer. Sam Hawthorne had not met Mace, and didn't want to. He had heard more than enough about the man from Vince Lord and others, and about the trouble Mace caused Felding-Roth, first with the unreasonable delay two years ago over Staidpace, and now with Montayne. Why should people like Mace possess the power they had, Sam fumed, and have to be endured by honest businessmen who sought, from the Maces of this world, no more than equal honesty and fairness? Fortunately, people like Mace were a minority-at FDA a small minority; Sam was certain of that. Just the same, Mace existed. He was currently sitting on the Montayne NDA, using regulations, procedural tactics, to delay it. Therefore a way to circumvent Gideon Mace had had to be found. Well, they had a way. At least, Felding-Roth had, in the person of Vince Lord. Originally, when Vince had collected-no, make that bought evidence of criminality by Dr. Mace, purchased it with two thousand dollars of Felding-Roth cash, the voucher for that cash now buried deep in the travel expense account where auditors or the IRS would never find it... at that time Sam had been angry, critical of Vince, and shocked at the thought that the material might ever be used in the way which Vince envisaged. But not now. The existing situation affecting Montayne was too critical, too important, for that kind of scruples anymore. And that was another cause for anger. Anger because criminals Re Mace begat criminality in others-in this case, in Sam and Vincent Lord -who had to use those same low-grade tactics for reasonable self-defense. Damn Macel Still soliloquizing silently, in the quietness of his office, Sam told himself. A penalty you paid for appointment to the top job in any large company was having to make unpalatable decisions authorizing actions which, if they happened elsewhere or in a vacuum, you would consider unethical and disapprove of, But when you shouldered responsibilities involving so many people, all of them dependent on you-shareholders, directors, executive colleagues, employees, distributors, retailers, customers-it was necessary at times to swallow hard and do what was needed, however tough, unpleasant or repugnant it might seem. Sam had just done that, an hour ago, in okaying a proposal by Vincent Lord to threaten Dr. Gideon Mace with exposure and therefore criminal charges if he failed to expedite the approval of Montayne. Blackmail. No point in mincing words or hiding behind euphemisms. It would be blackmail, which was criminal too. Vince had laid his plan bluntly in front of Sam. Equally bluntly Vince declared, "If we don't make use of what we have, putting pressure on Mace, you can forget any idea of marketing Montayne in February, and maybe for another year.”

Sam had asked, "Could it really be that long-a year?" "Easily, and more. Mace has only to ask for a repeat of-" Lord stopped as Sam waved him to silence, canceling an unnecessary question, remembering how Mace had delayed Staidpace for longer than a year. "There was a time," Sam reminded the research director, "when you talked of doing what you're proposing without involving me.”

"I know I did," Lord said, "but then you insisted on knowing where that two thousand dollars went, and after that I changed my

258 mind. I'll be taking a risk and I don't see why I should take it alone. I'll still handle the frontline attack, the confrontation with Mace. But I want you to know about it, and approve.”

"You're not suggesting we have anything in writing?" Lord shook his head negatively.”That's another chance I'll take. If it came to a showdown, you could deny this conversation ever happened.”

It was then Sam realized that what Vince really wanted was not to be lonely, not to be the only one to know what he was going to do. Sam understood that. Loneliness was something else you experienced at the cop, or near the top, and Vince was simply sharing his. "All right," Sam said.”Much as I dislike myself for it, I approve. Go ahead. Do what we have to.”

He added facetiously, "I assume you're not wired for sound.”

"If I were," Lord answered, "I'd incriminate myself as well as YOU.”

When the research director was on his way out, Sam called after him. "Vince!" Lord turned.”Yes?" "Thanks," Sam said.”Just thanks, that's all.”

So all that was necessary now, Sam reasoned, was to wait. Wait, just briefly, with confidence that FDA's approval of Montayne would come quickly, inevitably, soon.

Since their previous encounter, Vincent Lord was aware, some changes had occurred in Dr. Gideon Mace. The FDA official looked older, which he was, but also better than before, which was surprising. His face was less red, the nose veins seemed less prominent. He had shed the shabby suit and bought a new one, also new glasses, so he no longer squinted. His manner seemed easier and, while still not friendly, was certainly less brusque and not aggressive. Perhaps one reason for the changes-a reason Vincent Lord had learned about through his contacts at the agency-was that Mace had stopped drinking and joined Alcoholics Anonymous. Apart from Mace personally, other things were the same or worse. The FDA Washington headquarters was the same impersonal, shabby beehive. In the cupboard like office where Mace was seated at his desk there was more paper than ever; it was piled high everywhere, like a rising flood tide. Even crossing the floor one had to step around paper and files, put there for lack of any other space. Gesturing about him, Lord asked, "Is our Montayne NDA here somewhere?" "Parts of it," Mace said.”I haven't room for it all. Montayne is what you've come about, I suppose.”

"Yes," Lord acknowledged. He was seated, facing the doctor, and even now hoping there might be no need to use the photo static copies that were in a briefcase at his feet. "I'm genuinely worried about that Australian case.”

Again in contrast to the past, Mace's tone was reasonable.”You know the one I mean?" Lord nodded.”The woman in the Outback. Yes, the case went to court where it was thrown out, and there was also a government inquiry. Both times the accusations were checked out thoroughly, and Montayne absolved.”

"I've read all that stuff," Mace said, "but I want more details. I've written to Australia for them, and when they come I may have still more questions.”

Lord protested, "But that could take months!" "Even if it does, I'll be doing what I'm here for.”

Lord made one last try.”When you held up our NDA for Staidpace, I assured you it was a good drug, free from adverse side effects and so-despite the unnecessary delay-it was. Now I'm promising you, based on my reputation as a research scientist, exactly the same is true of Montayne.”

Mace said stolidly, "It's your opinion, not mine, that the Staidpace delay was unnecessary. In any case, that has nothing to do with Montayne.”

"In a way it has," Lord said, knowing he now had no alternative, glancing behind him to be sure the outer door was closed.”It has, because I think what you are doing, to us at Felding-Roth relates not to our latest NDA, but to your own state of mind. You have a lot of personal problems which are getting the better of you, creating unfair prejudices, clouding your judgment. Some of those personal problems have come to my company's attention.”

Mace bridled and his voice sharpened.”What the hell are you talking about?" "This," Lord said. He had the briefcase open and extracted papers.”These are brokerage transaction slips, canceled checks, bank statements, and other items which show you made over sixteen thousand dollars illegal profit, utilizing confidential FDA information concerning two generic drug companies, Binvus Products and Minto Labs.”

Lord added the dozen sheets or so to the paper clutter already on Mace's desk.

”I think you should look these over carefully. I'm aware you've seen them all before, but it may be news to you that someone else has copies. And by the way, these are copies of copies. Keeping or destroying them will do no good.”

It was obvious that Mace recognized instantly the top itern--one of the brokerage transaction slips. His hands were shaking as he picked it up, then followed with the other papers, inspecting, them one by one and clearly with equal recognition. As he progressed, his face went ashen and his mouth worked spasmodically. Lord wondered if Mace would have a stroke or heart attack on the spot. But instead, putting the papers down, Mace asked in a whisper, "Where did you get these?" "That isn't important," Lord answered briskly.”What matters is: we have them and are considering making them available to the Attorney General and probably the press. In that event, of course, there will be an inquiry, and if you've been involved in more incidents of the same kind, those will come out too.”

From Mace's increasingly frightened expression, Lord knew his last random shot had hit home. There were more incidents. Now each of them knew it. Lord remembered something he had once said to Sam Hawthorne in foreseeing what was happening now.”When the time comes, let me do the dirty work.” Then he had added silently, I might even enjoy it. Well, now that it was happening, Lord realized, he was enjoying it. It gave him pleasure to wield power over Mace, to behold an adversary so expert in dishing out humiliation now experiencing the same, and suffering and squirming. "You'll go to jail, of course," Lord pointed out, "and I imagine there'll be a big fine which should clean you out financially.”

Mace said desperately, "This is blackmail. You could be . , .”

His voice was nervous, thin and reedy. Lord roughly cut him off. "Forget that! There are plenty of ways of handling this so our company's involvement isn't known, and there are no witnesses here, just you and me.”

Lord reached over, gathered up the papers he had shown to Mace, and returned them to his briefcase. He had remembered, just in time, that his own fingerprints were on them; no sense in taking a chance on leaving evidence behind. Mace was a broken man. Lord saw with disgust there was spittle on the other man's lips which bubbled as he asked feebly, "What do you want?" "I think you know," Lord said.”I guess you could sum up what we would like as 'an attitude of reasonableness.' “A despairing whisper.”You want that drug approved. Montayne.”

Lord remained silent. "Listen," Mace pleaded, half sobbing now, "I meant it when I said there is a problem... that Australian case, the doubts about Montayne... I truly believe there may be something there... you ought to...”

Lord said contemptuously, "We've already talked about it. Better people than you have assured us the Australian case was meaningless.”

Again a silence. "If it happens... the approval?" "in certain circumstances," Lord said carefully, "the papers from which the copies I have shown you were made would not be given to the Attorney General or the press. Instead they would be handed over to you with a guarantee that, to the best of our knowledge, no other copies exist.”

"How could I be sure?" "On that, you would have to take my word.”

Mace was attempting to recover; there was savage hatred in his eyes. "What's your word worth, you bastard?" "Forgive my mentioning it," Vincent Lord said calmly, "but you're in no position to call anybody names.”

It took two weeks. Even with Gideon Mace impelling them, the wheels of bureaucracy needed time to turn. But at the end of that time, approval of Montayne was a fait accompli. The drug could be prescribed and sold, with FDA approval, throughout the United States. At Felding-Roth there was joy that the company's February marketing target would now be met.

Taking no chances on the mail or another messenger, Vincent Lord travelled to Washington and delivered the incriminating papers personally to Dr. Mace. Lord had kept his word. All additional copies were destroyed. In the privacy of Mace's office, with both men standing, a minimum of words passed between them. "This is what was promised.”

Lord proffered a brown manila envelope. Mace accepted the envelope, inspected its contents, then turned his eyes toward Lord. In a voice dripping hatred, he said, "You and your company now have an enemy at FDA. I give you my warning: someday you'll regret this.”

Lord shrugged, made no reply, and left.

In November, on a Friday afternoon, Celia visited Dr. Maud Stavely at the New York headquarters of Citizens for Safer Medicine. The visit was an impulse decision. Celia was in Manhattan anyway, with two hours free between appointments, when she decided to satisfy her curiosity about an adversary she had never met. She did not telephone in advance, knowing that if she did, Stavely would almost certainly refuse to see her. That kind of turndown had been experienced by others in the pharmaceutical business. Celia remembered something which Lorne Eagledon, president of the Pharmaceutical Manufacturers Association in Washington, had told her not long before. Eagledon, genial and easygoing, had been a government lawyer before his present trade association job. "As head of PMA, representing all the major drug companies," he said, "I like to keep contact with consumer groups. Sure, we oppose each other, but sometimes they have useful things to say, and our industry should listen. That's why I invite Ralph Nader to lunch twice a year. True, Ralph and I don't have much common ground, but we talk, and listen to each other's viewpoints, which is a civilized thing to do. But when I invited Maud Stavely to have lunch for the same reason-oh, boy!" With prompting from Celia, the PMA chief had continued, "Well, Dr. Stavely informed me she had plenty to do in her full time fight against a thoroughly bad, immoral industry—ours without wasting her valuable time on a big-business lackey with unacceptable opinions-me. Furthermore, she said never mind lunch-she would choke on a chocolate bar paid for with drug firms' tainted money.”

Eagledon had laughed.”So we never met, which I regret.”

A dreary rain was falling as Celia's taxi stopped at a dingy sixstory building on Thirty-seventh Street near Seventh Avenue. The building's main floor was occupied by a plumbing supplies store whose front window had been broken, then patched with tape. From a dowdy hallway with peeling paint, a tiny, arthritic elevator grumbled its way to the top floor and CSM. As Celia left the elevator she faced an open door and, in a small room beyond, an elderly white-haired woman seated at a battered metal desk. A card facing outward read: Volunteer: Mr& 0. Thom. The woman had been pecking at an Underwood typewriter circa 1950. Looking up as Celia entered, she announced, "I keep telling them I won't do any more work here unless this wretched machine is fixed. It's the capital '1' that never works. How can you write to people without an '17' Celia said helpfully, "You could try using 'we' every time instead.”

Mrs. 0. Thom snapped, "What about this letter, then? It's supposed to go to Idaho. Should I rename the state Wedaho?" "I do see your problem," Celia said.”I wish I could help. Is Dr. Stavely in?" "Yes, she's in. Who are you?"

"Oh, just someone interested in your organization. I'd like to talk to her.”

Mrs. Thom looked as if she would ask more questions, then changed her mind. Getting up, she walked through another doorway and out of sight. While she was away, Celia caught glimpses of several other people working in adjoining rooms. There was a sense of busy activity, including the sounds of another typewriter clattering and brisk phone conversations. Closer to hand, brochures and leaflets, some prepared for mailing, were piled high. A stack of incoming mail awaited opening. Judging by appearances, though, CSM was not burdened with excess cash. The office furnishings, Celia thought, were either someone else's discards or had been bought at a junk dealer's. Long ago, the floors were carpeted, but now the carpeting was worn so thin it had almost disappeared, and in places bare boards were visible through holes. As in the downstairs lobby, what was left of the paint was peeling. Mrs. Thom returned.”All right. Go in there.”

She pointed to a doorway. With murmured thanks, Celia did so. The room she entered was as shabby as the offices outside. "Yes, what is it?" Dr. Maud Stavely, seated at another dented desk, looked up from a paper she was reading as her visitor entered. After her impression of these surroundings, coupled with what she had heard about the person she was facing, Celia was surprised to see an attractive, auburn-haired woman, slim and well groomed, with carefully manicured hands, and probably in her early forties. The voice, though incisive and impatient, was cultured, with a slight New England accent. The clothes she had on-a maroon wool skirt and a pink tailored blouse-were inexpensive, yet worn stylishly. The eyes-Stavely's strongest single feature-were blue, direct, penetrating, and conveyed to Celia that an answer to the question was overdue. "I'm a pharmaceutical executive," Celia said.”I apologize for barging in, but I wanted to meet you.”

There was several seconds' silence. The eyes boring into her had hardened, Celia thought, and were making an appraisal. "I suppose you're Jordan.”

"Yes.”

Celia was surprised.”How did you know?" "I've heard of you. There aren't many women executives in that rotten industry, and certainly no one else who has sold out decent womanhood as much as you.”

Celia said mildly, "What makes you so sure I've-as you put it sold out?" "Because you wouldn't work in the selling end of the drug business if you hadn't.”

"I worked originally as a chemist," Celia pointed out.”Then, like others, I moved up through our company.”

"None of that interests me. Why have you come here?" Celia tried countering antagonism with a smile.”I meant what I said about wanting to meet you. I had an idea we might talk, hear each other's opinions. Even if we disagree, we could both gain something.”

The friendliness achieved nothing. The other woman inquired coldly, "Gain what?" Celia shrugged.”I suppose, some understanding. But never mind. Obviously it wasn't a good idea.”

She turned away, prepared to go, unwilling to accept further rudeness. "What do you wish to know?" The words were a shade less hostile. Celia hesitated, uncertain whether to go or stay. Stavely pointed to a chair.”You're here, so sit down. I'll give you ten minutes, then I've other things to do.”

In different circumstances Celia would have expressed herself forcefully, but curiosity caused her to remain low-key.”One thing I'd like to know is why you hate the pharmaceutical industry so much.”

For the first time Maud Stavely permitted herself a faint smile, though it quickly disappeared.”I said ten minutes, not ten hours.”

"Why not make a start in the time we have?" "Very well. The most immoral segment of your business is precisely the one you are involved in-sales. Your company and all the others oversell-grossly, cynically, wickedly. You take what are essentially reasonable drugs, though with limited medical uses, then through massive, ruthless sales campaigns have those drugs prescribed for countless people who either don't need, can't afford, or shouldn't have them-sometimes all three.”

"'Immoral' and those others are strong words," Celia said.”No one disputes there's been some overprescribing. but-" "Some overprescribing! Excessive prescribing is a norm. But it's a norm you people work for, deliberately plan for, and most likely pray for! If you want an example, consider Valium and the others like it-probably the most overused, unnecessarily prescribed family of drugs in history, And because of overblown sales campaigns, launched because of insatiable greed by companies like yours, those drugs have left behind a trail of addicts, desperate people, suicides

"Also a good many," Celia said, "who really needed the drugs and benefited from them.”

"A minority, " the other woman insisted, "who could still have had them, but without the saturation advertising and sales promotion which brainwashed physicians into believing the Valium types were a panacea for everything. I know. I was one of the brainwashed doctors-until I saw how awful the drug scene was, and gave up private practice to start this organization.”

Celia said tentatively, "I know that you're an M.D.”

"Yes, and an internist. I was trained to keep people healthy and save lives, which I'm still doing here, though on a scale much larger than before.”

Stavely waved a hand to dismiss herself as subject.”Come back to Valium. It represents another way in which your business is unprincipled.”

"I'm listening," Celia said.”Not agreeing, but listening.”

"No one needed all the different variants of Valium which competing drug firms brought out. There is no benefit, no possible advantage in having five different Valiurns around. Yet after Valium was a huge financial success, other companies devoted months, even years, of research-precious scientific time, enormous sums of money-not with the aim of discovering something new and beneficial, but simply to have a Valium of their own under a different name. So they produced other Valiums-by shifting molecules around, making their drugs just different enough so they could be patented and sold profitably-" Celia said impatiently, "Everybody knows there are 'me-too' drugs, perhaps more than there should be. But they do sometimes lead to new discoveries; also they keep pharmaceutical companies -which society needs-solvent between other big breakthroughs.”

"Oh, my God!" Dr. Stavely put a hand to her head in an incredulous gesture. "Do you really believe that sophomoric argument? When it isn't just about Valium. When every major drug that one company brings out is copied by the others. That's why pharmaceutical research should be directed and controlled by government, though paid for by the drug firms.”

"Now I can't believe you're serious," Celia said.”You'd want drug research controlled by the same politicians who wrecked Social Security, fill pork barrels, can't balance a budget, and would sell their mothers for votes. Why, under that arrangement penicillin wouldn't be on the market yet! Okay, let's admit capitalist free enterprise is imperfect, but it's a country-mile better, and more ethical, than that.” Stavely went on as if she hadn't heard.”Your precious industry had to be beaten over the head with regulations before it would publish proper warnings about the dangers of its drugs. Even now, it fights for minimum warnings and usually wins. Not only that, after a new drug goes on sale, adverse effects are hidden--conveniently, callously, buried in company files.”

Celia protested, "That's nonsense! We're required by law to report adverse effects to FDA. Oh, there may have been a few instances where someone neglected...”

"There have been plenty of instances which this organization knows about, and I'll bet a lot more that we don't. Illegal withholding of information. But is it ever possible to get a prosecution launched by the Justice Department? Not when you people have that army of paid lobbyists working on Capitol Hill...”

Well, Celia thought, she had come here asking for opinions and she was getting them. While she continued listening, occasionally interjecting, the promised ten minutes lengthened to an hour. At one point Stavely mentioned a recent controversy which Celia knew about. A pharmaceutical company (not Felding-Roth) had experienced problems with one of its products, an intravenous fluid used in hospitals. Some bottles containing the supposedly sterile I.V. liquid had been found to have faulty caps, permitting the entry of bacteria which, in turn, caused septicemia-a blood disorder now blamed for several patient deaths. The dilemma was: the number of problem bottles was known to be small, and it was possible that all affected ones had now been found; also there would be no more, since the manufacturing problem had been discovered and corrected. Meanwhile, to place a ban on the entire supply of I.V. fluid in hospital inventories would cause acute shortages and conceivably more deaths than the original problem. The issue had been debated back and forth for several weeks between the manufacturer, FDA, and hospitals. Dr. Stavely criticized what she saw as "a disgraceful example of a drug company's dragging its feet while refusing to recall a dangerous product.” "I happen to know a little about that," Celia said, "and it's something which everyone concerned has tried to solve. Just this morning, though, I heard that FDA has decided to ban any more use of the existing LV. fluid supplies. They're preparing notifications over the weekend, and the decision will be announced at a press conference Monday morning.”

Stavely looked at her visitor sharply.”Are you certain of that?" "Absolutely.”

The information had come from an officer of the company concerned, whom Celia knew to be reliable. Stavely made a note on a desk pad and their exchange continued. Finally they came to Montayne. "Even now," Stavely said, "Citizens for Safer Medicine will do everything it can to stop that inadequately tested drug going on the market.”

Celia had become tired of the one-sided harangue and snapped, "To call Montayne inadequately tested is ridiculous! Besides, we already have FDA approval.”

"In the public interest, that approval must be withdrawn.”

"Why?" "There was a case in Australia Celia said wearily, "We know about the Australian case.”

She went on to explain how medical experts had refuted the allegations made in court and, both there and at the Australian government hearing, had given Montayne a clean bill. "I don't agree with those experts," Stavely said.”Have you read the transcript of the trial?" "I've read reports that have dealt with it thoroughly.”

"I didn't ask that. I asked if you had read the trial transcript.”

Celia admitted, "No.”

"Then read it! And do not presume to discuss Montayne until you have.”

Celia sighed.”I don't believe any more discussion will get you and me anywhere.”

"If you recall, that's what I told you in the beginning.”

For the second time there was a thin, faint smile below the other woman's piercing eyes. Celia nodded.”And you were right. Not about much else, but certainly about that.”

Dr. Stavely had already gone back to the paper she had been reading when Celia came in. She glanced up.”Good afternoon, Jordan.”

"Good afternoon," Celia said, and went out through the dismal offices to the equally dismal street outside.

Later in the afternoon, driving herself back from Manhattan to Morristown, Celia reflected on the nature of Dr. Stavely. Certainly Stavely was dedicated but also, to an extent, obsessed. It was equally clear that she was lacking in a sense of humor, unable to regard herself with less than total seriousness. Celia had met such people before; it was always hard to involve them in a thoughtful, objective conversation. They were so accustomed to thinking in black-and-white, antagonistic terms that they found it impossible to switch antagonism off and think in the shades of gray where much of life was lived. On the other hand, the CSM chairperson was clearly well informed, articulate, well organized, and had a keen, possibly brilliant mind. Her medical qualifications gave her stature and an automatic right to be heard on the subject of prescription drugs. Some of her views, too, were not all that far removed from Celia's, who remembered, fourteen years ago, describing "me-too" drugs and -molecular roulette" in much the same way as Stavely. It was Sam Hawthorne who, at that earlier time, had offered the arguments in response which Celia had used this afternoon. And despite using them, she was still not wholly convinced they were valid. But Stavely did become unbalanced when emphasizing the pharmaceutical industry's negative aspects while ignoring the many positive, humanitarian contributions to science and health the industry provided. Celia had once heard the United States drug industry described as "a national treasure," and believed the description was, on the whole, true. There was also Stavely's naive and absurd contention that drug research should be government controlled, and her gross misinformation and prejudice about Montayne. But all in all, Stavely and CSM were formidable opponents, neither to be ignored nor to be taken lightly. One thing Stavely had caught her out in, Celia thought ruefully, was the fact that Celia had not read the transcript of the Australian trial involving Montayne. Next week she intended to correct that omission, Still later that day, at dinner, Celia described her CSM experience and views to Andrew and he, as usual, had some wisdom to contribute. "You may not find those activist people-Maud Stavely, Sidney Wolfe, Ralph Nader and the others-easy to live with, and at times you may detest them," Andrew said.”But you need them, your industry needs them, just the way General Motors and the other auto companies needed Nader before he alighted on the scene. Nader helped make automobiles-for all of us-better and safer because of his needling and 1, for one, am grateful. Now, Stavely and Wolfe are keeping you and your people on your toes.”

"I admit it.”

Celia sighed.”But if only they were all more moderate and reasonable!" Andrew shook his head.”If they were that, they wouldn't be successful activists. Another thing-when they're ruthless and unethical, as they can be sometimes, you should ask yourself: where did they learn to be that way? The answer is: from companies like yours, my dear, because, when no one was watching them, ruthless and unethical is the way they were.”

Celia would have appreciated Andrew's last remark more if she had witnessed a scene at the Citizens for Safer Medicine offices a few minutes after she left on Friday afternoon. Summoning an assistant, Dr. Stavely asked, "Has that woman who was with me gone?" When the answer was yes, Stavely instructed the young man, "I want a press conference called for tomorrow morning-as early as you can arrange it. You will say that the subject is an urgent, life-and-death matter affecting hospitals and patients. Make sure you get the television networks and press wire services. There'll be a news release to be issued at the same time, which I'm going to write now. Someone will have to work tonight to...”

The brisk, efficient instructions continued, and at 10 A.M. next morning the press conference began. Facing reporters, and on camera, Dr. Stavely described the IN. fluid problem she had discussed with Celia the preceding day-the bacteria-contaminated bottles and the resultant septicemia, believed responsible for several deaths. What the CSM leader did not mention was either Celia or the information Celia had given her, namely that the FDA had already decided to forbid further use of all existing IN. fluid supplies from the company concerned, and that an announcement to that effect would be made on Monday. Instead, Stavely declared, "Citizens for Safer Medicine deplores the inaction both of the Food and Drug Administration and the manufacturer of this potentially deadly material. Further, we demand-yes, demand!-that all supplies of this IN. fluid be banned from use-and recalled . - .”

The effect was immediate. The major TV networks carried the story on their evening national news, while next day's Sunday newspapers gave it prominence, in many cases using an Associated Press photo of Stavely in action. Thus on Monday, when FDA delivered its announcement, most reporters-not bothering to check-began their stories, "Today, responding swiftly to a demand by Dr. Maud Stavely and her Citizens for Safer Medicine, the FDA announced a ban on further use by hospitals of...”

It was a triumphal coup d’état for CSM and, soon afterward, was used prominently in a mailed brochure appealing for donations. Celia, who followed the sequence of events with some embarrassment, kept the knowledge of her own involvement to herself. She had learned a lesson. She had, she realized, been foolishly indiscreet, and then had been made use of by a master tactician.

To Celia's surprise there was not, anywhere at Felding-Roth headquarters, a trial transcript of the Australian court case which had involved Montayne. Nor could the company's legal department locate one in the United States. There were plenty of reports that quoted it, but now Celia wanted to read the proceedings in their entirety. Although, obviously, Maud Stavely had a copy, Celia felt disinclined to ask Citizens for Safer Medicine to lend it; she therefore instructed the legal department to cable a correspondent law firm in Australia and have one sent by air. Meanwhile there were plenty of other things to do. The promotional program that would launch Montayne was now proceeding at a frantic tempo as the February deadline neared. Celia, aided by her deputy, Bill Ingram, was responsible for the several million dollars spent already; still more money was allocated for the months ahead. Elaborate advertising--expensive four-page multicolor inserts was appearing in a profusion of medical magazines, while an avalanche of direct mail was going out to the nation's physicians and pharmacists. Among promotional items being sent was a cassette tape--on one side, a recording of the beautiful Brahms "Wiegenlied" (Lullaby), on the other, a clinical description of Montayne. Backing up the advertising and direct mail, the company's detail men and women were delivering thousands of sample packages of Montayne to doctors, at the same time dropping on their desks golf tees and ball markers imprinted with "Montayne.”

At all levels of the company, as with any new drug launching. there was a mix of excitement, circus, nervousness and hope. Also creating hope, in an even wider dimension, was some news from the Felding-Roth Research Institute in Britain. There, it seemed, Martin Peat-Smith's scientific team had successfully broken through the technical barrier which had baffled them for so long. Complete details were lacking-Martin's report had been brief and in general terms only-but it appeared the now demolished barrier was the one of which Dr. Rao Sastri had said, when talking with Celia eighteen months earlier, "There are no techniques to take us further... possibly in ten years from now

Celia was delighted to learn that, in this specific at least, Sastri had been wrong and Martin right. What was known, via a letter from Nigel Bentley, the Harlow administrator, was that the British technical achievement involved purification of a brain peptide mixture obtained from rats, and maze tests on rats had shown it to be effective in improving the memories of older animals. More experimental work was proceeding. Clearly, while a medication to improve human memory was an unknown number of years away, it was much more of a possibility than at any previous time. The news was timely in that it forestalled the latest attempt, by some members of the board, to close the Harlow institute-again because of high costs and an absence of results. Now, with some positive results, Harlow and the mental aging project appeared safe for the time being. This, too, pleased Celia, who felt happier in having recommended against closure of Harlow a year and a half earlier. In mid-December the Australian trial transcript for which Celia had asked arrived on her desk. It was a bulky typewritten volume, several hundred pages long. By then, however, the pressures on Celia were such that she was obliged to put it aside for later reading. The transcript still had not been read by early January, when another event occurred ' which was totally unexpected and seemed likely to push her reading even farther into the future. Now that President-elect Carter had surprised the world by securing the White House tenancy for the next four years, outriders for the new administration were urgently recruiting candidates for the many government posts which Republicans would soon vacate. Among those recruited was Felding-Roth's corporate vice president for sales and merchandising, Xavier Rivkin. Xav Rivkin, a lifelong Democrat and more recently an ardent Carter supporter, had given time and money in the election campaign; be also knew the new President, having served with him in the Navy. From all this, a reward now arrived-the offer of a post as assistant secretary in the Department of Commerce. Within Felding-Roth, news of the offer was at first kept secret, as was the fact that Xav wanted to accept. Sam Hawthorne and a few members of the board, between whom the matter was discussed privately, believed he should. There was awareness that it would do the company no harm to have a friend in Washington at Commerce. Quietly, a special and generous early pension arrangement was made, with Rivkin due to leave soon after the January 20 presidential inauguration. In the second week of January, Sam sent for Celia and informed her of the Rivkin arrangements, of which she had not heard previously but which would be common knowledge in a day or two. "Quite frankly," he said, "no one, including me, expected this to happen so soon but when Xav leaves, you'll move up to be vice president of sales and merchandising. I've had discussions with the same members of the board who approved the arrangements about Xav, and we realize this has happened at an awkward time, with Montayne about to--" Sam stopped.”Is something wrong?" "Not really," Celia said. They had been standing, in his office, and she asked, "Do you mind if I sit down?" "Of course. Please do.”

He waved her to a chair. "And give me a minute to get my gears engaged.”

Her voice was huskier than usual.”You may not realize it, but you did just drop a thunderbolt.”

Sam looked contrite.”Oh, hell, I'm sorry! I should have made this more of an occasion. Some days I operate in such a damned hurry that-" Celia said, "This way is fine. In fact any way is fine. You were saying about Montayne...”

But the words were coming from a part of herself that was detached. Her mind whirling, she was remembering an occasion seventeen years earlier when the then vice president of sales, Irv Gregson, now long departed, had ordered her angrily from the company's New York sales convention while an audience of hundreds watched... and Sam had saved her-from the vice president and all the othersand now it was Sam who... Dammit! I'm not going to cry, she told herself But she did, a little, and looked up to see Sam holding out a handkerchief and smiling. "You earned it, Celia," he said gently.”All on your own, every step of the way, and what I should have said sooner is--congratulations! I told Lilian at breakfast and she's as pleased as I am; she said to tell you we'll all get together soon.”

"Thank you.”

She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes, then said matter-of-factly, "Please thank Lilian; and I thank you too, Sam, Now about Montayne.”

"Well," he explained, "because you've been so close to the plans for launching Montayne, I and those board members I spoke of would like you to see them through, even while you're taking over the bigger responsibility. It will mean a heavy load on you...”

Celia assured him, "That won't be a problem. And I agree about Montayne.”

"At the same time," Sam pointed out, "you should think about a successor as director of pharmaceutical sales.”

"Bill Ingram," Celia said without hesitation.”He's good and he's ready. He's also been working on Montayne.”

The hitching-your-wagon-to-someone-else's-star principle, she thought, just as she had described it to Andrew on their honeymoon ---also long ago. Celia had followed Sam upward, and how successfully her plan had worked! Now Bill had followed Celia,- and who, she wondered, had already attached themselves to Bill? With an effort-her mind for the moment split in two---she concluded her discussion with Sam.

That evening, when Celia told Andrew of her impending promotion, he hugged her and said, "I'm proud of you! But then I always have been.”

"Most of the time," she corrected him.”There were moments when you weren't.”

He grimaced.”That's all behind us.”

Then, with a brief, "Excuse me," he went to the kitchen, returning moments later with a bottle of Schramsberg champagne. Winnie March followed, beaming, with glasses on a tray. Andrew announced, "Winnie and I are going to drink to you. You can join us if you like.”

When the glasses were filled, Andrew raised his.”To you, my dearest love! To everything you are, have been, and will be.”

"Me too, Mrs. Jordan," Winnie said.”God bless you!" Winnie sipped her champagne, then looked at the glass and hesitated.”I'm not sure I should drink the rest of this.”

Celia asked, "Whyever not?" "Well... it may not be good for the baby.”

With a glance at Andrew, Winnie blushed, then giggled.”I just found out I'm preggers-an' after all this time.”

Celia ran to embrace her, "Winnie, that's wonderful news! Much more important than mine!" "We're happy for you, Winnie," Andrew said. He took the champagne glass from her.”You're right. You should do without this stuff now. We'll open another bottle when your baby's here.”

Later, when Celia and Andrew were getting ready for bed, Celia said tiredly, "It's been quite a day.”

"A joyous day all around," Andrew pronounced.”I hope everything stays that way. No reason why it shouldn't.”

He was wrong.

The first hint of bad news came precisely a week later. Bill Ingram, still boyish despite the passage of years, came into Celia's office, which would soon be his. Running a hand through his red hair, unruly as ever, he said, "I thought you should see this, even though I don't believe it's important. A friend in Paris sent it.”

"This" was a newspaper clipping. "It's a news item from France-Soir," Ingram explained.”How's your French?" "Good enough so I can understand.”

As Celia took the paper and began reading, she experienced a sudden sense of chill and premonition, felt a physical shiver as if her heart had skipped a beat. The news story was brief. A woman in a small French town, Nouzonville, near the Belgian border, had given birth to a female child, now one year old. Doctors had recently diagnosed the baby girl as having a central nervous system disorder which permanently precluded any normal movement of the limbs; also, tests showed a lack of any brain development. No possible treatment was foreseen. The child was-in the terrible descriptive term-a vegetable. The examining doctors expected her to remain one. During pregnancy the mother had taken Montayne. Now, she and others in her family were blaming the drug for the baby's birth defects. There was nothing in the news item to indicate whether Or not this view was shared by doctors. The France-Soir report concluded with a cryptic sentence: Un autre cas en Espagne, apparernment identique, a signal. Celia stood silent, meditating, weighing the significance of what she had just read. ... another case, apparently identical, in Spain. "Just as I said," Bill Ingram assured her, "I don't think there's any reason we should get concerned. After all, France-Soir is known for sensational reporting. It's not as if it was printed in Le Monde.” Celia did not reply. First Australia. Now France and Spain. All the same, common sense told her Bill was right. There was no reason for concern. She reminded herself of her own convictions about Montayne, the painstaking French research, the multicountry, lengthy testing, assurances sought after and obtained, Montayne's remarkable record of safety. No cause for concern, of course. And yet She said decisively, "Bill, I want you to find out, as quickly as possible, everything there is to know about those two cases, then report back to me.”

She touched the French news clipping, then put it on her desk.”I'll keep this.”

"Okay, if it's what you want.”

Ingram glanced at his watch.”I'll telephone Gironde-Chimie. There's still time today, and I have the name of one of their guys I've spoken to before. But I still don't think-" "Do it," Celia said.”Do it nowl" Bill reported back cheerfully an hour later. "Not to worry!" he pronounced.”I've had a long talk with my friend at Gironde-Chimie. He knew all about the two cases mentioned by France-Soir he says they've been investigated thoroughly and there is no cause for alarm, or even doubts. The company sent a medical-scientific team to Nouzonville, and flew the same people to Spain to look into the incident there.”

Celia asked, "Did he give you more details?" "Yes.”

Bill consulted a page of notes he had been carrying.”Incidentally, both cases seem remarkably similar to that Australian one which turned out to be a phony. You remember?" "I know about the Australian report.”

"Well, both women-the mothers of the babies born with CNS disorders-were taking a hodgepodge of other drugs and large amounts of alcohol throughout their pregnancies. Also, in the case of the French birth there's a history of mongolism in the family, while in Spain the baby's father, and his father, are epileptics.”

"But both mothers were taking Montayne?" "That's true. And my French contact-his name is Jacques Saint-Jean, with a Ph.D. in chemistry-told me Gironde-Chimie was enormously concerned at first, just as you were. As he pointed out, their company has as much at stake as Felding-Roth, maybe more.”

Celia said tersely, "Get on with it!" "Well, the verdict is: Montayne had absolutely nothing to do with the birth deficiencies of either baby. The scientists and doctors, including consultants from outside the company, were unanimous about that. What they did find was that some of the other drugs being taken by both women are dangerous in combination and could have - . .”

"I want to read the reports," Celia said.”How soon can we get copies?" "Both reports are here.”

"Here?" Bill nodded affirmatively.”In this building. Jacques Saint-Jean told me that Vincent Lord has them. They were sent a couple of weeks ago, as part of Gironde-Chimie's policy of keeping everyone informed. Would you like me to ask Vince-" "No," she said.”I'll get them. That's all, Bill.”

"Listen.”

His voice was troubled.”If you don't mind my saying so, I don't think you should get too exercised about-" She snapped, unable to control her mounting tension, "I said that's all!"

"Why do you want to see them?" Vincent Lord asked Celia. She was in the research director's office where she had come to ask for the recent reports about Montayne that she and Bill Ingram had discussed. "Because I think it's important that I read that kind of information for myself, rather than just hear about it second-hand.”

"If, by 'second-hand,' you mean through me," Lord observed, "don't you think I have more qualifications to read those kind of reports, then make a judgment-as I already have?" "What was your judgment?" "That in neither incident was there any possible involvement of Montayne. All the evidence supports that, and it was evidence investigated thoroughly by qualified, competent people. My additional opinion-now shared by Gironde-Chimie, by the way-is that the families concerned were simply trying to extort money. It happens all the time.”

Celia asked, "Has Sam been told about the reports-the incidents in France and Spain?" Lord shook his head.”Not by me. I didn't consider them significant enough to bother him.”

"All right," Celia said.”At this point I'm not questioning your decision. But I'd still like to read the reports myself" Lord's increased friendliness of late had cooled noticeably during their conversation. Now he said acidly, "If you have some pretensions about possessing scientific knowledge and making judgments yourself, let me remind you that your scrubby B.S. chemistry degree is a long way behind you, and out of date.”

While surprised at the research director's reluctance to let her have what she had asked for, Celia had no intention of turning this into an argument. She said quietly, "I have no pretensions, Vince. But please may I have the reports?" What came next also surprised her. She had assumed the reports would be in a general office filing system and that Lord would send for them. Instead, with a sour expression, he used a key to open a locked drawer of his desk from which he extracted a folder. Withdrawing papers, he handed them to Celia. "Thank you," she acknowledged.”I'll let you have these back.”

That evening, though tired when she arrived home, Celia stayed up late to read the Gironde-Chimie reports and most of the trial transcript from Australia. The latter caused her most concern. There were several significant points in the full transcript which the abridged, summarized version she had read earlier did not contain. The woman in the Australian case had been stated-in the abridged version-to be of poor character, a heavy drug user (apart from Montayne), a near-alcoholic, and a chain smoker. All true. But also true, and not appearing in the abridged report, was that despite her background the mother of the deficient child was intelligent, a fact to which several witnesses testified. Furthermore, there was no known history of mental impairment or physical deformity in the woman's family. A second piece of information new to Celia was that the woman had had two previous pregnancies which produced normal, healthy children. The abridged Australian report had stated that the woman did not know who was the father of her latest child. But-the full trial transcript revealed-she did know that the father had to be one of four men, all of whom were questioned by an investigating doctor. In no case, among the men or their families, was any history of mental or physical problems found. The French and Spanish reports, obtained from Vincent Lord, were much as Bill Ingram had described them earlier in the day. The detail they contained also confirmed Lord's opinion that the Gironde-Chimie investigations had been done thoroughly by competent people. Just the same, the totality of all three documents heightened, rather than diminished, the unease in Celia's mind. For what was inescapable, despite all other considerations and opinions, was the fact that three women, in widely separated places, had produced deformed and mentally defective babies-and all, during pregnancy, had taken Montayne. By the end of her reading she had reached a decision: Despite Vincent Lord's reluctance, Sam Hawthorne must be informed, not only of all known facts, but of Celia's personal, growing anxiety about Montayne.

It was late afternoon next day. A memo, flagged "URGENT," from Celia to Sam Hawthorne had reached him by midmorning. Soon after that, Sam summoned a senior management conference for 4:30 p.m. Now, as Celia approached the president's suite, she could hear through a doorway open to the corridor the sound of boisterous male laughter. At this moment, she thought it seemed incongruous. As she entered the outer office, one of Sam's two secretaries looked up and smiled.”Hello, Mrs. Jordan.”

Sounds like a party, Maggie," Celia said. In a way, it is.”

The secretary smiled again and motioned to another open doorway.”Why don't you go in? There's some news I think Mr. Hawthorne would like to tell you himself" Celia entered a room in which the air was heavy with cigar smoke. Sam was there; so were Vincent Lord, Seth Feingold, Bill Ingram, and several vice presidents, including Glen Nicholson, a company veteran who ran manufacturing, a Dr. Starbut from safety evaluation, and Julian Hammond, a youngish MBA in charge of public affairs. All were puffing at cigars, Ingram with some uncertainty; Celia bad never seen him smoke before. "Hey, here's Celia!" someone called out.”Sam, give her a cigar!" 'No, no!" Sam said.”I've something different for the ladies.”

Beaming, he went around to the far side of his desk, behind which was a small pile of chocolate boxes-Turtles. He handed one to Celia. "In honor of my grandson who"-Sam consulted his watch-"is now twenty minutes old.”

For the moment, her seriousness evaporated.”Sam, that's wonderful news! Congratulations!" "Thank you, Celia. I know it's usually fathers who do the cigar- and-chocolates routine, but I decided to begin a new tradition to include grandfathers.”

"A damn good tradition!" Nicholson, the manufacturing chief, said, and Celia added, "The Turtles were thoughtful-they're my favorites.”

She noticed that Bill Ingram, looking slightly pale, had stopped smoking his cigar. She asked, "Is everything okay with Juliet?" "Absolutely," Sam said happily.”I had a call from Lilian at the hospital just a few minutes before you all came, which is how I got the good news-'mother and a seven-pound baby boy, both doing well.' " "I'll go to see Juliet myself," Celia said.”Probably tomorrow.”

"Fine! I'll tell her to expect you. I'll be leaving for the hospital myself right after this meeting.”

It was clear that Sam was on a euphoric high. Dr. Starbut asked, "Why don't we postpone?" "No," Sam said, "we may as well get this over with.”

Then, glancing at the others, "I assume it won't take long.”

Vincent Lord said, "No reason why it should.”

Celia had a sudden sinking feeling, a conviction that all of this was going wrong, that the juxtaposition of the Montayne issue and Sam's grandchild was the worst thing that could have happened at this time. Sam's happy state, which others here were sharing, would eclipse their seriousness of purpose. Preceded by Sam, they moved to an office conference area, arranging themselves in chairs around a table. Sam was at the head. Without preliminaries, clearly wishing not to waste time, he began. "Celia, I sent a copy of your memo, late this morning, to everyone who's here. A copy went also to Xav Rivkin, who was about to leave on a two-day trip to Washington, which he offered to postpone so he could be with us; however, I assured him that would not be necessary.”

Sam moved his gaze around the table.”Has everyone read what Celia wrote?" There were affirmative nods and murmurs. Sam acknowledged, "Good.”

Celia, having drafted it carefully, was glad her memorandum had been read. In it she had referred to the Australian court proceedings concerning Montayne, setting out the facts that she had discovered during her reading of the trial transcript and that had not appeared in the summary version circulated through the company earlier. She also described the recent French and Spanish incidents which had resulted in accusations against Montayne, accusations receiving publicity in France-Soir and probably elsewhere. Finally, she explained the reasoning of Gironde-Chimie and the French company's conviction that all three allegations about Montayne were unjustified and need not cause alarm. What Celia did not do in her memorandum was offer any conclusions of her own, leaving those for this meeting, after hearing what others had to say. "Let me state right away, Celia," Sam said, "that you were absolutely correct in bringing these matters to our attention. They are important because others will hear of them and we must be ready to tell our side of the story-the true side-when Montayne goes on sale three weeks from now.”

He looked questioningly at Celia.”I'm sure that was your objective. Right?" The query was unexpected and she answered awkwardly, "Well, that is part of it...”

Sam, still in a hurry, nodded and went on.”Let's clear up something else. Vince, why wasn't I told of those Gironde-Chimie reports Celia referred to?" The research director's face muscles twitched.”Because, Sam, if I sent you every query that comes in concerning all of our products, in the first place I wouldn't be doing my job of assessing what's important scientifically and what isn't, and in the second you'd have a stack of paper on your desk so high you'd get no other work done.”

The explanation appeared to satisfy Sam because he instructed, "Give us your opinion of those reports.”

"They're both self-canceling," Lord declared.”They show, with a thoroughness that satisfies me entirely, that Gironde-Chimie's conclusion about the non-involvement of Montayne in either incident is correct scientifically.”

"And the case in Australia? Do those extra points Celia raised have any bearing on the earlier conclusion?" Celia thought: We're sitting here, all of us, speaking casually of "incidents" and "cases" and "conclusions" when what it's really about--even if Montayne is not involved-is babies who'll be "vegetables" throughout their lives, unable to walk or even move their limbs or use their brains in any normal way. Are we really so indifferent, or is it fear that stops us from using the real, unpalatable words? Perhaps, too, we're relieved those babies are in distant places, and we shall never see them... unlike Sam's grandson, close at hand, whose birth we're celebrating with chocolates and cigars. Lord was answering Sam's question, his displeasure with Celia only thinly veiled.”Those 'extra points,' as you choose to dignify them, change nothing whatsoever. In fact, I fail to see the slightest reason for bringing them up.”

There was an audible murmur of relief around the table. while we're here, though, and for the record," Lord continued, I’ve prepared a commentary, from a scientific viewpoint, of the three incidents- Australian, French and Spanish.”

He hesitated.”I know we're in a hurry...”

Sam asked, "How long will it take?" "I promise to be no more than ten minutes.”

Sam glanced at his watch.”Okay, but limit it to that.”

This is all wrong! Celia's mind was pleading, silently and frantically. This entire issue is too vital, too important to be hurried in this way. But she checked her racing thoughts, concentrating instead on Vincent Lord's words. The research director was at once authoritative, convincing, reassuring. Examining the backgrounds of the three defective babies and their parents, one by one, he pointed out how any one of many causes may disrupt a normal pregnancy, causing damage to a fetus. In particular, "an unregulated mix of chemicals in the human body, especially drugs and alcohol together," could have disastrous effects, of which examples were tragic and frequent. In all the cases under review, Lord argued, there were so many adverse possibilities, some of them compelling, that it became unreasonable and non-scientific to blame Montayne, especially when the worldwide record of Montayne was so immaculate and other probabilities so strong. He used the words "hysteria" and "probable fraud" in describing attempts to pin responsibility on the drug, plus the accompanying publicity. The other men listened gravely and seemed to be impressed. As perhaps they’re right to be, Celia thought. She wished she could be as unequivocal and confident as Vince. She truly wanted to be, and recognized that Lord's qualifications to make the judgments he had were far greater than her own. Yet she, who until only yesterday had been one of Montayne's strongest supporters, simply wasn't sure. Lord concluded eloquently.”With any new drug that is introduced, there are always claims that it is doing harm that adverse side effects exist, outweighing benefits. Such claims may be responsible and based on genuine concern by qualified professionals, or they may be irresponsible, made by unqualified people, based on nothing. "Yet each submission, both in the public interest, and to protect companies like ours which cannot afford to produce a dangerous drug, must be examined carefully, unemotionally, scientifically. For -make no mistake!-no complaint, no criticism concerning any pharmaceutical product can be totally ignored. "What must be determined, of course, is whether an adverse reaction in someone who has taken a particular drug is from that drug or from some other source, remembering there are many sources where adverse happenings can originate. "Well, I am satisfied that the most careful examinations have been done in the instances we are discussing. The charges have been examined and the bad effects described did not, it has been found, originate with Montayne. "Finally, there is one more fact it is essential to remember: If a drug should be falsely blamed for an adverse effect it has not caused, and because of that false accusation be withheld from general use, then countless people would be deprived of its therapeutic benefits. In my opinion they should not be so deprived of the benefits of Montayne.”

It was an impressive conclusion, as Celia admitted to herself. Sam clearly expressed the feeling of others when he said, "Thank you, Vince. I think you've made us all feel better.”

He eased his chair back from the table.”I don't believe we need any formal resolution. I am satisfied that it is perfectly safe to continue full speed ahead with Montayne, and I presume everyone else agrees.”

There were nods of assent from the other men. "Well," Sam said, "I guess that's everything. Now, if you'll all excuse me...”

"I'm sorry," Celia said, "but I'm afraid that isn't everything.”

Heads turned toward her. Sam said impatiently, "What is it?" "I'd like to ask Vince a question.”

"Well... if you must.”

Celia looked (town at notes she had made.”Vince, you stated that Montayne was not the cause of the three babies in Australia, France and Spain being born as 'vegetables'-babies, we ought to remember, who cannot move their limbs and lack normally functioning brains.”

If others were afraid of putting unpleasant truths into words, she decided, she would not be. Lord said, "I'm glad you were listening.”

She ignored the unpleasant tone and asked, "Since Montayne was not the cause of those deformities, what was?" "I thought I made clear it could be one of several, or even many, causes.”

She persisted, "But which one?" Lord said exasperatedly, "How do I know which one? It could have been a different cause in each case. All I know is, based on scientific judgment by experts on the spot, the cause was not Montayne.”

"So the truth is, no one knows with certainty what did damage those foetuses and cause the deformed births.”

The research director threw up his hands.”For God's sake, I've already said so! In different words, maybe, but-" "Celia," Sam interjected, "just what are you getting at?" "What I'm getting at," she answered, "is that despite everything Vince has said, I'm uncomfortable. No one knows. I'm still not satisfied. I'm having doubts.”

Someone asked, "What kind of doubts?"

"About Montayne.”

It was Celia's turn to survey the faces around her.”I have a feeling-if you like, call it instinct-that something is wrong, something we don't yet know about. Also that there are questions to which we ought to know the answers, but we don't.”

Lord sneered, "A woman's instinct, I suppose.”

She snapped, "What's wrong with that?" Sam ordered sharply, "Everybody cool it!" He told Celia, "If you have a suggestion, let's hear it.”

"My suggestion," she said, "is that we should delay the launching of Montayne.”

She was conscious of everyone in the room regarding her with incredulity. Sam's lips had tightened.”Delay for how long, and precisely why?" Celia said deliberately and carefully, "I suggest a postponement of six months. In that time there may be no more instances of defective births. Or there could be. I hope it doesn't happen, but if it does there could be information we do not have now, and which would give us, perhaps, greater confidence to proceed with Montayne.”

There was a shocked silence which Sam broke.”You can't be serious.”

"I am very serious.”

She met his eyes directly. When she came here she had been uncertain of her own feelings. She had been uneasy-but with ambivalence. Now she was ambivalent no longer because, far from reassuring her, Vincent Lord's emphatic certainty-too much certainty!-had reinforced her doubts. And yes, she admitted to herself in taking the stand she had just declared, she was relying on her instincts, and little more. But her instincts had been right before. Celia knew there was a difficult task ahead of her to convince the others, with Sam the most important. But they had to be convinced. They must be persuaded that it was now in everyone's best interest to delay Montayne's American debut-in the interest of pregnant women who might take the drug and have their babies endangered; of the company, Felding-Roth; and of all of them here who were responsible for what the company did. "Do you have any idea, " Sam was asking, still shocked, "what a delay in launching Montayne would involve?" "Of course I do!" Celia let her own voice take on an edge.”Who would know better than me? Has anyone been more involved with Montayne than I have?" "No," Sam said.”That's why what you're saying is so unbelievable.”

"It's also why you can be sure I'm not making the suggestion lightly.”

Sam turned toward Seth Feingold.”What do you estimate it would cost us to delay Montayne?" The elderly comptroller looked uncomfortable. He was Celia's friend. Also he was out of his depth where scientific matters were concerned and plainly wished he were not involved. Bill Ingram, too, appeared discomfited; Celia sensed that Bill was torn by inner conflicts-loyalty to her and probably his own ideas about Montayne. Well, we all have our problems, she thought, and I, at this moment, certainly have mine. One thing had been resolved, though. There was no longer any sense of haste. Clearly, Sam and others had accepted that the issue raised by Celia must be resolved, however long it took. Feingold had his head down and was making calculations with a pencil. Looking up, he advised, "In round figures we've committed thirty-two million dollars to Montayne. Not all of it has been spent, so perhaps a quarter would be retrievable. But there are substantial general costs I've not included. As to the real cost of a delay, it's impossible to guess. It would depend on the length of delay and the eventual effect on projected sales.”

"I'll tell you one effect there would be," Hammond, of public affairs, declared.”If we delay Montayne now, the press will have a field day. They'll discredit the drug and it might never recover.”

Sam acknowledged, "I've thought of that too. Delay at this point would, in some ways, be as bad as canceling.”

He swung back to Celia, his tone accusing.”If we did as you suggest-and for the vaguest of reasons-have you given any thought to the questions and angry reaction there would be from the board of directors and stockholders? And have you considered our employees who would have to be laid off, who might lose their jobs permanently?" "Yes," she said, trying to stay calm, concealing the agony this was causing her, "I have thought of all that. I thought about it last night and through most of today.”

Sam grunted skeptically, then returned to Feingold.”So one way or another we'd be taking a chance of losing twenty-eight million, more or less, to say nothing of a much greater loss of anticipated profits.”

The comptroller glanced regretfully at Celia as he answered, "That's the potential loss, it's true.”

Sam said grimly, "And we can't afford it, can we?" Feingold shook his head sadly.”No.”

"However," Celia pointed out, "the loss could be greater still if we ran into trouble with Montayne.”

Glen Nicholson said uneasily, "There is that to think about.”

It was the first support, even if tentative, which Celia had received and she shot the manufacturing chief a grateful glance. Vincent Lord chimed in, "But we don't expect to have trouble. That is, unless the rest of you"-he surveyed the others-"are willing to accept the lady as our ranking scientific expert.”

There was some half-hearted laughter, quickly snuffed out at an impatient gesture from Sam. "Celia," Sam said, "please listen to me carefully.”

His voice was serious, but more controlled than a few moments ago, and again their eyes met directly.”I'd like you to reconsider. It could be that you've spoken hastily and made a judgment without weighing all the implications. Each of us here does similar things at times. I certainly have, and have had to swallow my pride and backtrack, admitting I've been wrong. If you were to do that now, none of us would think an iota the worse of you, and what happened here will end here. I promise that, just as I urge you to change your mind. What do you say?" She was silent, not wanting to rush into a commitment either way without considering it first. Sam had just offered her-easily, graciously, as was his way--a dignified route out. All she had to do was utter a word, a phrase, and the impasse would be over, a crisis averted as swiftly as it came. The offer was extraordinarily tempting. Before she could answer, Sam added, "You have a lot at stake personally.”

She knew exactly what he meant. Her appointment as corporate vice president of sales and merchandising had not yet been confirmed. And if what was happening here proceeded to its logical conclusion, it might never be. Sam was right. There was a lot at stake. She took a moment more to consider, then told him quietly and decisively, "Sam, I'm sorry. I have weighed everything. I do know what's at stake. But I must still recommend that we delay the introduction of Montayne.”

It was done. As Sam's face clouded, then suffused with anger, she knew that now there could be no turning back. "Very well," he pronounced tautly.”At least we know where we stand.”

He considered, then went on, "Earlier I said there would be no formal vote here. Cancel that. I want us to go on record. Seth, please take notes.”

The comptroller, his expression still sad, again produced his pencil and held it poised. 'I have already made my own position clear," Sam said.”I am, of course, in favor of continuing our introduction of Montayne, as planned. I wish to know who agrees or disagrees. Those who agree, raise their hands.”

Vincent Lord's hand shot up. Those of Dr. Starbut, Hammond, and two other vice presidents followed. Nicholson, apparently overcoming his doubts, raised his hand too. Bill Ingram hesitated; he looked at Celia in mute appeal. But she turned away, refusing to help him; he must make his own decision. After a second more, Bill's hand went up. Sam and the others were looking at Seth Feingold. The comptroller sighed, put down his pencil and waveringly raised his hand. "That's nine to one," Sam said.”It doesn't leave any doubt that this company will continue with the launching of Montayne.”

Once more there was a silence, this time awkward, as if no one knew what to do or say next. Amid it, Sam stood up. "As you know," he said, "when all of this began, I was about to leave to see my daughter and grandson at the hospital. I'll go there now.”

But the earlier joy had left his voice. Sam nodded to the other men, but pointedly ignored Celia as he left. She remained in her seat. Bill Ingram, now standing, moved toward her. "I'm sorry...”, he began. She waved him to silence.”It doesn't matter. I don't want to hear.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she realized that everything she had built up for herself within the company-her position, authority, reputation, future prospects-had come tumbling down. Could she even survive here now? She wasn't sure. Bill said, "I have to ask this. What are you going to do?" When she didn't answer, he went on.”Surely, now that you've made your protest, now that everyone knows where you stand about Montayne... surely you can go on directing sales?" Celia responded dully, not wanting to make decisions now, "I don't know. I just don't know.”

But she did know that, at home tonight, she would have to think her position through. Seth Feingold told her, "I hated to vote against you, Celia. But you know how it is-I don't understand anything scientific.”

She glared at him.”Then why did you vote at all? You could have said that, and abstained.”

He shook his head regretfully, and left. One by one the others followed until Celia was alone.

13

"I know something is wrong," Andrew said at dinner, breaking a lengthy silence, "and my guess is, seriously wrong.”

He stopped, and when Celia made no immediate reply, continued.”You've been quiet since I came in, and I know your moods pretty well, so I won't bug you. But when you want to talk, and need me... well, my love, I'm here.”

She put down her knife and fork alongside the meal she had scarcely touched, and turned to him, her eyes brimming. "Oh, darling! How I need you!" He reached out, covering her hand with his, and said gently, "Take your time. Finish dinner first.”

She told him, "I can't eat.”

Soon after, in their living room and sipping a brandy which Andrew poured, Celia described the past two days' events, culminating in her failure to convince Sam and others this afternoon that the launching of Montayne should be delayed. Andrew listened carefully, injecting an occasional question. At the end he told her, "I don't see what else you could have done.”

"There was nothing else," Celia said.”But what I have to decide is-what do I do now?" "Do you have to make a decision, at least right away? Why not take some time or I could get away too, and we'll take a trip somewhere.”

He urged, "Away from pressures, you could think everything through, then do whatever seems right when you get back.”

She smiled gratefully.”I wish it would keep that long. But it's something I can't put off.”

Andrew came to Celia and kissed her, then assured her, "You know I'll help in any way I can. But remember one thing. I've always been proud of you, and I'll go on being that, whatever you decide.”

Looking at her husband fondly, she thought: A lesser man would have reminded her of their argument in the hotel in San Francisco, when Andrew had refused to concede his doubts about Montayne, or the use of any drug by pregnant women. That was when Celia had suggested-maliciously, as she saw it now-that his medical reasoning might be prejudiced or outdated, maybe both. Well, Celia was now the one who had come around to having doubts, but Andrew was too big a person ever to say, "I told you SO.”

If she were to apply Andrew's standards to her own present dilemma, she wondered, which way would it be decided? She didn't even have to ask. She knew. She remembered, too, some advice given to her years earlier. "There is something you have: a gift, an instinct, forjudging what is righ t... Use your gift, Celia... When you have power, be strong to do what you believe... Don't let lesser people dissuade you. Emotion surged as she remembered Eli Camperdown. The longago president of Felding-Roth had spoken those words, near death, in his home at Mount Kemble Lake. Andrew asked, "More brandy?" "No, thank you.”

She finished what was in her glass, met Andrew's eyes, then declared decisively, "I cannot take part in marketing Montayne. I'm going to resign.”

In all of her twenty-four years at Felding-Roth, it was the most painful thing she had ever done. Celia's letter, handwritten and addressed to Sam, was brief. With the greatest personal regret I am resigning as Director of Pharmaceutical Sales and from Felding-Roth. This letter will terminate my connection with the company. You are aware of my reasons. It seems unnecessary to repeat them. I wish to say that my years of employment here have been pleasurable and privileged. Not least among the privileges have been your support and friendship for which I have been-and remain-most grateful I am leaving without bitterness. I wish Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals and its people success in every way.

Celia sent the letter, hand delivered, to the president's office and followed it herself a half hour later. She was shown in immediately to Sam's inner office. Behind her a door closed quietly. Sam looked up from a paper he was reading. His features were set grimly and his voice was cold.”You asked to see me. Why?" She responded uncertainly, "I've been with the company a long time, most of it working for you. I felt I couldn't just walk out

He cut in, with a savage anger she had never seen before, "But that's exactly what you are doing! Walking out on all of us-your friends, colleagues, others who've depended on you. Quitting disloyally at the worst possible time, an important merchandising time, when the company needs you.”

She protested, "My leaving has nothing to do with loyalty or friendship.”

"Obviously not!" She had not been asked to sit down, so continued to stand. "Sam," she pleaded, "please understand! I cannot, simply cannot, help to sell Montayne. It's become a matter of conscience.”

He retorted, "You call it conscience. I could apply other names.”

She asked, curiously, "Other names like what?"

"For one: feminine hysteria. For another: phony, uninformed self-righteousness. Spitefulness at not getting your own way, so you quit.”

Sam glared as he went on.”Why, you're behaving no better than women who carry placards in the streets or chain themselves to fences. The truth is, you've been duped, made a sucker by that know-nothing bitch, Stavely.”

He motioned to that morning's New York Times, which lay open on his desk, turned to a news item featuring a statement by Dr. Maud Stavely who, too, had learned of the deformed baby cases in France and Spain and was using them in her own campaign to delay Montayne. Celia had read the Times story earlier. "What you just said isn't the truth," Celia insisted, "and I have not been duped.”

She decided to ignore the petty anti-feminist remarks. As if he had not heard Celia's disclaimer, he sneered, "Now, I suppose you'll go to join Stavely and her gang.”

"No," Celia said.”I'll be joining nothing, seeing no one, making no statement whatever about why I'm leaving.”

She added, in a voice she hoped was reasonable, "After all, I admitted yesterday that most of what I feel is instinct.”

Never before had she seen Sam in a mood so ugly. Despite it, she decided to make a last appeal, one final try. "I'd like to remind you," Celia said, "of something you once told me. It was when I was in London after we recruited Martin Peat-Smith.,' Earlier today, thinking about this meeting, she had remembered Sam's words when she managed to lure Martin into the Felding-Roth orbit after Sam had failed. Before it happened, Sam warned her against mentioning money to Martin, but Celia ignored the warning and it was money which, in the end, had tipped the balance where Martin was concerned. On learning the news, and an the telephone from Boonton, Sam declared, "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.” She reminded him now, and it was as if she had addressed an iceberg. "Even if that's true," he snapped, "and though you say it is, I don't remember, it's merely proof your judgment has gone to pieces in the meantime.”

Suddenly, great sadness and emotion seized her, so she had difficulty in speaking, but managed to say, "Goodbye, Sam.”

He didn't answer.

At home, it seemed extraordinary to Celia that the act of leaving Felding-Roth had been so simple. She had merely cleared her desk of personal things, said goodbyes to her secretary and a few others in the office, some of whom had been tearful, then driven away. In a way, she supposed, her abrupt departure had been inconsiderate, but in another it had been essential. In recent weeks almost all of Celia's work had centered on Montayne, and since it was work she could no longer do in good conscience, staying on would have achieved nothing. There was also the fact that everything in her department was in order; therefore Bill Ingram, who would have taken over anyway in a few weeks' time, could move in at once without disruption. The thought reminded her that she would never, now, be a corporate vice president-a poignant disappointment since the cup had come so close. But, she told herself, it was a disappointment she would learn to live with. Andrew telephoned Celia twice during the day, first at her office, then later at home. On learning that her resignation had already taken effect, he announced he would be home early, and arrived in time for afternoon tea which Celia prepared. The experience was new for her. She supposed that from now on she would be doing it more often. They greeted each other lovingly. Soon after, as Andrew sipped his tea, he told her gently, "You need a rest from decisions, so I've taken some for us both. One is that you and I are going to live a little.”

He produced a large manila envelope.”I stopped at a travel agency on the way home, about one of my other decisions. We are going on a tour.”

"To where?" "To everywhere. A world tour.”

She threw up her hands.”Oh, Andrew, you're wonderful! You're a comfort just to be with.”

"Let's hope you feel that way after six months of togetherness on ships and in hotels.”

He began pulling brochures from the envelope.”To begin, I thought we'd fly to Europe, do some touring there-France, Spain, Italy, anywhere else that interests either one of us-then take a ship through the Mediterranean...”

Despite her depression from the past few days, Celia's spirits lifted. A world tour was something they had often talked about, but always vaguely, as something for the future. She thought: so why not now? Would there ever be a better time? Andrew-with a small boy's enthusiasm, she observed affectionately-was already making the idea come alive.”We should go to Egypt and Israel, then stop at the United Arab Emirates... India, of course... Japan's a must, so is Singapore... we have to include Australia and New Zealand She said, "It's a magnificent idea!" "Something I'll have to do," Andrew explained, "is get another doctor in the practice-a locum tenens-to help out while I'm away. That will probably take a month to arrange, so we can get away by March.”

There would be no problem concerning the children, both of them knew, because Lisa and Bruce had committed themselves to summer jobs away from home. They went on talking, Celia aware that the pain of today would inevitably return, and perhaps never disappear entirely, but at the moment-with Andrew's encouragement-she succeeded in pushing it away. Later that evening Andrew asked, "I know it's early, but have you given any thought to what you'll do now that you're through at Felding-Roth? I can't see you staying at home forever.”

"No," she said, "I'm sure I won't do that. But as for anything else, I just don't know. I need time to think-which you're giving to me, darling.”

That night they made love, not with grand passion but with a sweet gentleness in which Celia found peace.

During the several weeks that followed, Celia kept her word about making no public statement concerning the reason for her departure from Felding-Roth. Not surprisingly, news of her resignation filtered quickly through the industry and became known to the business press. There was a good deal of curiosity, which remained unsatisfied. The Wall Street Journal, Business Week, and New York Times all telephoned Celia, requesting interviews. She refused. She also politely turned aside questions from her own and Andrew's friends. Only to Lisa and Bruce did Celia confide everything, and that on Andrew's urging.”You owe it to them," he told her.”The children admire you, just as I do. They're entitled to know why they can go on doing that. They should not be left wondering.”

It meant special trips, to Stanford in the case of Lisa, and to Pottstown where Bruce was now in his junior year at the Hill School, and in a way the diversion was good for Celia. Her days were no longer active and filled. The adjustment to having more time on her hands than she could use did not come easily. Lisa was sympathetic but-practical.”You'll find something else to do, Mom, and whatever it is will be important. But the best thing that could happen right now is you and Daddy going on that world tour.”

But it was Bruce who, with a sensitivity beyond his years, summed up the situation best.”If you're comfortable with yourself, Mom... if, now that time's gone by, you're sure what you did was right, that's all that matters.”

After talking with both children, Celia decided that she was comfortable, and in that mood, in early March, flew from New York to Paris with Andrew for the beginning of their get-away-from-it-all odyssey.

14

In his house at Harlow, Martin Peat-Smith had gone to bed for the night, but couldn't sleep. It was Saturday, a few minutes short of midnight, and the culmination of an exciting, eventful week. Deciding that sleep would come when it was ready, he lay relaxed and wakeful, letting his mind roam. Science, he thought whimsically after a while, could be like a woman who withholds her favors from a suitor until eventually he is close to giving up, ready to abandon hope. Then, in a sudden switch of mood, without warning, the woman capitulates, opens her arms, lets her clothing fall away, revealing and offering everything. Carrying the metaphor further, Martin mused, sometimes a whole series of orgasms followed (wasn't "rippling" the word women used?) as more and more of the hitherto unknown, and only dreamed of, continued to come clear. "y the hell, he asked himself, am I doing all this sexual fantasizing? Answering his own question: You know damn well why! It's because of Yvonne. Every time she comes near you in the lab, your mind leaps to one thing, which might be biology but sure as bell isn't science. So why haven't you done something about it? Why indeed? Come back to that question later. For the moment, Martin returned to thoughts of his own scientific pursuit and the truly remarkable progress made since... when was it? Well, the breathtaking, breakthrough part had begun barely a year ago. His mind went back. To that point and beyond.

The visit to Harlow by Celia Jordan had been two years earlier, in 1975. Mar-tin remembered showing her films of chromatograms and explaining, "Where bands appear, we have a peptide... you'll see two columns of dark lines... at least nine peptides.”

But the problem-insurmountable, it seemed-was that the mixture of peptides discovered in brains of younger rats occurred in amounts too small to be purified and tested. Also, the mixture contained extraneous material, causing Rao Sastri to describe it as "nonsense" peptides. Attempts to purify the mixture had continued, but results were desultory at best, seeming to confirm Sastri's view that the required techniques were a decade or more away. Among other members of the Harlow scientific team, morale had declined, along with faith in Martin's basic theory. It was then, at a time of lowest ebb, that it happened. After working patiently, using larger quantities of brains from young rats, they achieved partial purification. Then the new, enriched mix-of fewer peptides-was injected into older rats. Almost at once there was a startling improvement in the ability of the elderly rats to learn and to remember. Maze tests showed this clearly. Smiling as he remembered, Martin thought of the laboratory maze. It was a miniature of the mazes in which humans for centuries had amused themselves by entering, attempting to get out, then becoming lost or blocked by dead ends before the exit was attained. Probably the world's most famous maze, created in the seventeenth century, supposedly for Britain's King William 111, was at Hampton Court Palace, west of London. The plywood maze in the Harlow labs was a small-scale version of Hampton Court's, remarkably accurate in detail, and had been built by an institute scientist in his spare time. Unlike Hampton Court, however, it was used exclusively by rats. The rats, one at a time, were placed in the maze entrance, prodded if necessary but otherwise left to find their own way out. At the end a reward of food awaited them, and their ability to reach the food was observed and timed. Until the most recent series of tests, results had been predictable. Young and old rats introduced to the maze for the first time had trouble finding the exit, but eventually did. However, a second time around the young rats got out and reached the reward faster, a third time faster still, and so on. The young rats clearly learned from each experience, remembering which turnings to take or not take. In contrast, the old rats either failed to learn or were much slower than the younger animals. Until the injection of the latest peptide solution. After that, the improvement was extraordinary. When in the maze for the third or fourth time, the old rats literally raced through it, for the most part without hesitation or errors. There was now little difference in performance between the young rats and the old. As tests continued with the same results, excitement among the watching scientists became intense. One or two, after a spectacular performance by an elderly, fat rat, shouted with joy. At one point Rao Sastri wrung Martin's hand.”My goodness! All along you were right. It entitles you to say to the rest of us, 'O ye of little faith.' " Martin shook his head.”I was beginning to lose faith too.”

-I do not believe that," Sastri said.”Like the gentleman you are, you are attempting to make your humbled colleagues feel better.”

"Either way," Martin said, delighted himself, "I think we have something worth reporting to America.”

This report reached Felding-Roth in New Jersey at the time when preparations for launching Montayne were in high gear, and shortly before Celia's doubts about the wisdom of proceeding with that drug, Yet even while the report was being reviewed in New Jersey, at Harlow a new problem was having to be faced. Despite favorable signals, the latest peptide mix presented difficulties. Like its predecessor, it was available only in limited amounts. For the work of further refining, and to identify and isolate the single, critical memory peptide, larger quantities were essential. The route Martin chose to greater supplies was through the production of antibodies. These would bind with the desired peptide and isolate it. For that purpose rabbits would be used, since they produced antibodies in large amounts, more so than rats. Enter Gertrude Tilwick. The institute's supervisor of animals, a technician, was a severe, tight-lipped woman in her forties. She had been hired, fairly recently, by Nigel Bentley, and until the incident that brought them together, she and Martin had had little to do with each other directly. At Martin's request, Miss Tilwick brought several rabbits in cages to his personal lab. He had previously explained to her that the crude peptide mixture in an oily solution-an "adjuvant" would have to be injected into the rabbits' paws-a painful process. Therefore each animal must be held securely while it was done. Along with the rabbits, Tilwick brought a small flat board with four straps fastened to it. Opening a cage, she seized a rabbit and placed it on the board, belly up. Then, with the creature spread-eagled, she swiftly strapped each of its legs to the board's four corners. Throughout, her movements were rough and careless, her attitude indifferently callous. While Martin watched with horror, the terrified animal screamed-he had not realized before that a rabbit could scream; the sound was awful. Then there was silence and, by the time the fourth leg was secured, the animal was dead. Clearly, it had died from fright and shock. Once again, over an animal, Martin's rare anger surfaced and he ordered Tilwick from the lab. Exit Miss Tilwick. Martin then sent for Nigel Bentley and informed the administrator that no one as insensitive to suffering as the animals' supervisor could continue working at the institute. "Of course," Bentley agreed.”Tilwick must go, and I'm sorry about what happened. Her technical qualifications were good, but I didn't check her for TLC.”

"Yes, tender loving care is what we need," Martin said.”Can you send me someone else?" "I'll send Tilwick's assistant. If she's satisfactory we'll promote her.”

Enter Yvonne Evans. Yvonne was twenty-five, slightly overweight but cheerful and attractive, with long blond hair, innocent blue eyes and a milk-and-roses skin. She came from a small country town in the Black Mountains of Wales called Brecon, the locale reflected in her lilting voice. Yvonne also had stunning breasts and, quite obviously, she wore no brassiere. Martin was fascinated by Yvonne's ample bosom from the beginning, and especially when the series of injections began. "Give me a minute or two first," Yvonne told him. She ignored the strap board brought to the lab by Gertrude Tilwick and, while Martin waited with a hypodermic syringe ready, she lifted a rabbit gently from a cage, held it close to her face and began crooning to it, comforting it, murmuring soft words. Finally she pillowed the rabbit's head in her bosom and, holding the lower paws toward Martin, said, "Go ahead.”

In a remarkably short time six rabbits had been injected with the oily solution--one injection going into each toe pad. Though distracted by the closeness of those breasts, and though at moments Martin found himself wishing his own head were there instead of a rabbit's, he worked carefully and in unison with Yvonne. The animals were clearly soothed by her loving care, but there was some suffering, and after a while she asked, "Does it have to be the toe pads?" Martin grimaced.”I don't like it either, but that's a good site for making antibodies. Though the injection's painful, and it continues to irritate, the irritation attracts antibody-producing cells.”

The explanation seemed to satisfy Yvonne. When they had finished he said, "You care about animals.”

She looked at him in surprise.”Of course.”

"Not everyone does.”

"You mean Tilly?" A frown crossed Yvonne's face.”She doesn't even like herself.”

"Miss Tilwick doesn't work here anymore.”

"I know. Mr. Bentley told me. He also said to tell you that my qualifications are okay, and if you like me I can do the supervisor's job.,, "I like you," Martin said, then surprised himself by adding, "I like you very much.”

Yvonne giggled.”Goes both ways, Doctor.”

Although, after their first encounter, others took over the animal injections, Mar-tin continued to see Yvonne around the labs. Once, with his mind more on her than on the question, he asked, "If you love animals so much, why didn't you go to veterinary college?" She hesitated, then with unusual terseness said, "I wanted to.”

"What happened?" "I failed an exam.”

"Just one?" "Yes.,, "Couldn't you take the exam again?" "I couldn't afford the waiting time.”

She looked at him directly and he had no choice but to move his eyes upward, meeting hers. Yvonne continued, "My parents didn't have money to support me and I had to start earning. So I became an animal technician the next best thing.”

Then she smiled softly and he knew she was aware of where his eyes had been lingering. That was several weeks ago, and in between, Martin had become preoccupied with other matters. One was a computer analysis of continued tests in the rat maze; it showed that the earlier performances were no fluke and had remained consistent over intervening months. That alone was excellent news but, to top it, there had been a successful refinement of the peptide mix, eventually allowing isolation of a single active peptide. This-the much-sought-after peptide-proved to be the seventh band on the original chromatogram films and was immediately referred to as Peptide 7. Both successes were reported by telex to New Jersey and a congratulatory message came back promptly from Sam Hawthorne. Martin wished he could have communicated also with Celia, but news of her resignation from Felding-Roth had reached him a short time earlier. Though he had no idea what prompted her departure, the fact of it saddened him. Celia had been so much a part of the research project and the Harlow institute, it seemed unfair she would not share in the fruits of what she helped to begin. He knew, too, that he had lost a friend and an ally and wondered if the two of them would ever meet again. It seemed unlikely. Scientifically, only one factor troubled Martin as he lay in bed reviewing these events. It concerned the older rats that had been receiving regular peptide injections over several months. While the rats' memories had improved, their general health had apparently deteriorated. The animals had lost weight noticeably, becoming lean, almost emaciated. After so much recent success, certain newer possibilities were alarming. Could it be that Peptide 7, while beneficial to the mind, was harmful to the body? Would the peptide-treated rats continue to suffer weight loss, become enfeebled, and fade away? If so, Peptide 7 would be unusable, either by animals or humans, and all the scientific work so far-four years of it at Harlow, plus Martin's earlier labors at Cambridge-were tragically in vain. While the specter haunted Martin, he had tried to put it from his mind, at least for a few hours over the weekend. Now, on this Saturday night... No! It had just become Sunday morning... he shifted his thoughts back to Yvonne, returning to the question he had asked a short time earlier: So why haven't you done something? He could telephone her, he supposed, and wished he had considered it sooner. It was too late now. Or was it? Hell! "y not? To his surprise, the call was answered on the first ring. "Hello.”

"Yvonne?" "Yes.”

"This is "I know who it is.”

"Well," he said, "I was lying here, couldn't sleep, and just thought...”

"I couldn't sleep either.”

"I wondered if we might meet tomorrow.”

She pointed out, "Tomorrow's Monday.”

"So it is. Then how about today?" "All right.”

"What time would be best?" "Why not now?" He could hardly believe his good luck as he asked, "Shall I drive over to get you?" "I know where you live. I'll come to you.”

"You're sure?" "Of course.”

He felt he had to say something else. "Yvonne.”

"Yes?" "I'm glad you're coming.”

"So am U' He heard her soft laugh.”I thought you'd never get around to asking.”

In the words of a book title Martin recalled, it was a night to remember. Yvonne's arrival was at once delightful and uncomplicated. After she and Martin kissed warmly, and she had petted the several animals surrounding them in the hallway, she asked, "Where's your bedroom?" "I'll show you," he said, and she followed him upstairs, bringing with her a small overnight bag. In the softly lighted bedroom, Yvonne quickly removed all her clothing, revealing her nakedness while Martin watched, his pulse racing, admiring what he saw--especially those marvelous breasts. When she joined him in bed, they came to each other uninhibitedly, joyously, lovingly. Martin sensed within Yvonne a guileless and generous physical love, seeming to arise from some wellspring of her nature. Perhaps it was a love of life itself, and -of all living creatures, but it expressed itself now in her warm tongue, which seemed everywhere, and in her soft, moving lips which ceaselessly explored him, and in pressures and rhythms of her body, prompting him to respond in kind and in ways which had been alien until this night, but were suddenly instinctive. She murmured, "Don't hurry! Make it last.”

He whispered back, "I'll try.,, Despite the wish, before too long their mutual hunger swept them to a climax. Then the urgency receded, and a sense of peace and comfort came to Martin such as he had seldom known before. Even then his questioning, scientist's mind sought causes for the exceptional serenity. Perhaps, he reasoned, what he felt was simply a relief from built-up tensions. Yet instincts which were non-scientific told him it was something more: that Yvonne was a rare woman blessed with inner peace transmittable to others and with that thought, soon afterward, he fell asleep. He slept deeply and awoke to the sight of daylight and sounds of activity from his kitchen below. Moments later Yvonne appeared, wearing a dressing gown of Martin's and carrying a tray with a teapot, cups and saucers, and toasted crumpets with honey. Surrounding her was the house collection of two dogs and three cats, who seemed to recognize a newfound friend. Yvonne put the tray on the bed where Martin had just sat up. Smiling, she touched the dressing gown.”I hope you don't mind.”

"It looks better on you than me.”

She sat on the bed and began pouring.”You like milk in your tea, but no sugar.”

"Yes, but how did you-" "I asked at the lab. In case I needed to know. By the way, your kitchen is a mess.”

She passed him the tea. "Thank you. Sorry about the kitchen. It's because I live alone.”

"Before I go today, I'll clean it.”

The dressing gown had fallen open and Martin said, "About going. I hope you're not in any hurry.”

Allowing the garment to stay the way it was, she smiled again.”Mind your fingers on the plate; it's hot.”

He told her, "I'm not sure I believe all this. Breakfast in bed is a luxury I haven't had in years.”

"You should have it often. You deserve it.”

"But you're the guest. I should have done this for you.”

She assured him, "I like it this way. More tea?"

"Maybe later.”

He put down his cup and reached out for her. Yvonne shrugged off the dressing gown, let it slide to the floor, and came to him. Holding her, and this time unhurriedly, he moved his hands, exploring, over her breasts and thighs. Kissing her, he said, "You have a beautiful body.”

"Too much of it.”

She laughed.”I need to take off weight.”

Reaching downward, she pinched a thigh and held a roll of creamy flesh between her thumb and forefinger.”What I need is some of your Peptide 7. Then I could be thin, the way those rats are.”

"Not necessary.”

Martin's face was in her hair.”I like everything you have, just the way it is.”

As the minutes passed, their passion of the night before rekindled and grew. Martin was erect, Yvonne eagerly clasping him to her as he prepared to enter her. She urged, "Go on! Do it!"

But instead he stopped abruptly, his arms loosening. Then he grasped Yvonne's shoulders and held her away. "What did you say?" "I said, do it!" "No. Before that.”

She pleaded, "Martin, don't torture me! I want you now. ""at did you say?" "Oh, shit!" Frustrated, the mood between them shattered, she let herself fall back.”Why did you do that?" "I want to know what you said. About Peptide 7.”

She answered petulantly, "Peptide 7? Oh, I said that if I took some, maybe I could be thin like the rats. But what - - .”

"That's what I thought.”

He leaped from the bed.”Hurry up! Get dressed.”

"Why?" "We're going to the lab.”

She asked incredulously, "Now?" Martin had thrown on a shirt and was pulling on trousers. "Yes. Right now.”

Could it be true, he asked himself. Could it possibly be true? Martin stood, looking down from above, at a dozen rats that had taken turns in running through the maze. At his request, Yvonne had brought them from the animal room. They were a group which, for several months, had been injected with the partially purified peptide mix, and more recently with Peptide 7. All of the rats were thin-far thinner than when the injections had begun. Now Yvonne was returning the last rat to its cage. It was still early Sunday morning. Apart from the two of them and a watchman they had spoken to on the way in, the institute was silent and deserted. Like the other animals that preceded it, the twelfth rat began eating from a container in its cage. Martin observed, "They still feed well.”

"They all do," Yvonne agreed.”Now, will you tell me what this is about?" "All fight. Because the rats we gave peptides to have lost weight, got thin, and some of them are gaunt, all of us here assumed their general health is poorer.”

He added ruefully, "It wasn't very scientific.”

"What difference does it make?"

"Possibly a lot. Supposing their health hasn't worsened. Suppose they're all perfectly well? Maybe more so than before. Suppose Peptide 7, as well as improving memory, caused a healthy weight loss.11 "You mean "I mean," Martin said, "we may have stumbled on something for which people have been searching for centuries-a way to metabolize food in the body without producing fat and therefore weight gain.”

Yvonne regarded him openmouthed.”But that could be terribly important.”

"Of course-if it's true.”

"But it's something you weren't looking for.”

"Lots of discoveries have happened when scientists were seeking something else.”

"So what do you do next?" Martin considered.”I need advice from specialists. Tomorrow I'll arrange to get them here.”

"In that case," Yvonne said hopefully, "can we go back to your house now?" He put his arm around her.”I never heard a better idea.”

"I'll send you a detailed report, of course," the visiting veterinarian informed Martin, "and it will include measurement of body fat, blood chemistry, urine and stool analyses done in my own lab. But I can tell you right now that those are some of the healthiest rats I've come across, particularly remembering their advanced age.”

"Thank you, Doctor," Martin said.”It's what I'd hoped for.”

Today was Tuesday and the veterinarian, Dr. Ingersoll, an elderly specialist in small mammals, had come from London on a morning train. He would return that afternoon. Another expert, a nutritionist from Cambridge, was due at the Harlow institute two days later. "I suppose," Dr. Ingersoll said, "you wouldn't care to tell me precisely what it is you've been injecting into those rats of yours?" "If you don't mind," Martin replied, "I'd prefer not. At least not yet.,, The veterinarian nodded.”I rather thought you'd say that. Well, whatever it is, my dear fellow, you are obviously onto something interesting.”

Martin smiled, and left it there. On Thursday, the nutritionist, Ian Cavaliero, provided information that was even more intriguing. "Possibly what you have done in treating those rats," he pronounced, "is change the functioning of either their endocrine glands or their central nervous systems, or perhaps both. The result is, the calories they take in with food are converted to heat instead of fat. If not carried to extremes, there's no harm in that. Their bodies simply get rid of the excess heat through evaporation or some other means.”

Dr. Cavaliero, a young scientist whom Martin had known at Cambridge, was widely regarded as a leading authority on nutrition. "New data are emerging," he reported, "showing that different individuals---or animals-have differing efficiencies for utilizing calories. Some calories go into fat, but a lot get used for the kind of body work we never see or feel. For example, cells pumping ions, such as sodium, out of themselves and into the blood in a continuous cycling process.”

The nutritionist continued, "Other calories must go into heat, just to maintain body temperature. It's been discovered, though, that the proportion going to heat, metabolic work, or fat varies widely. Therefore if you can change and control that proportionas you appear to be doing with these animals-it represents a major advance.”

A small group whom Martin had invited to join the discussion with Cavaliero listened intently. It comprised Rao Sastri, two other staff scientists, and Yvonne. Sastri interjected, "That fat-work-heat variation is undoubtedly why some fortunate persons can eat large meals, yet never put on weight.”

"Exactly.”

The nutritionist smiled.”We've all met, and probably envied, those kind of people. But something else may be affecting your rats also--a satiety factor.”

Martin said, "Through the CNST' "Yes. The central nervous system is, of course, highly regulated by brain peptides. And since you inform me that the injected material affects the brain, it could be reducing brain signals of hunger... So, one way or another, your compound plainly has a desirable antiobesity effect.”

The discussion continued and, next day, Martin used Cavaliero's words, "desirable antiobesity effect," in a confidential report sent directly to Sam Hawthorne. "While an enhancement of memory through Peptide 7 remains our primary objective," Martin wrote, "we will experiment additionally with what, at first glimpse, appears as a positive, promising side effect which may have clinical possibilities.”

While the report was restrained, excitement among Martin and his Harlow colleagues was at fever pitch.