Michael Palmer - Side Effects

Did you say Dr. Ferguson would be coming in with Mr. Redding, or did you say he wouldn't be?"

"I said might, Doctor. Mr. Redding wasn't sure." The woman smiled lovingly and shook her head. Vernon Drexler may have been a renowned endocrinologist, and a leading expert on the neuromuscular disease myasthenia gravis, but for matters other than medicine, his mind was a sieve. She and his wife had spent many amusing evenings over the years imagining the Keystone Comedy that would result were they not available to orchestrate his movements from appointment to appointment, lecture to lecture. The thought of Dr. Ferguson sent the office manager hurrying to the small, fire-resistant room housing their medical records, she returned to her desk with the man's file. John Ferguson, MD, afflicted, as was Cyrus Redding, with myasthenia, was a close friend of the tycoon.

The two men usually arranged to have their checkups on the sameday, and then for an hour or so they would meet with Dr. Drexler. Lurleen Fiske suspected, though Drexler had never made her party to their business, that the two men were in some way supporting his myasthenia research laboratory at the medical school. "Mrs. Fiske, " Drexler called out again, "perhaps you'd better get Dr. Ferguson's chart just in case."

"Yes, Doctor, I'll get it right away, " she said, already flipping through the lengthy record to ensure that the laboratory reports and notes from his last visit were in place. Drexler was nervous. She could tell from his voice. He was conducting himself with proper decorum!.. and professional detachment, but she could tell nonetheless. Once, years before, he had been ferried by helicopter to Onassis's yatch for a consultation on the man's already lost battle against myasthenia. That morning, he had calmly bid the office staff good day and then had strode out minus his medical bag, journal articles, and sport coat. Redding's limousine, slowed by the snow-covered streets, arrived five minutes late. Lurleen Fiske joined the two other employees at the window. Across the room, Drexler, a tall, gaunt man in his midfifties, watched his staff pridefully. "Look, look. There he is, " the receptionist twittered. "Is he walking? " Drexler wanted to see for himself, but was reluctant to disrupt the ritual that had developed over the years.

Lurleen Fiske craned her neck. "His wheelchair is out, " she said "but yes… yes, he's taking a few steps on his own. Another year, Dr.

Drexler. You've done it again." There was no mistaking the reverence in her voice. In spite of himself, Drexler, too, was impressed. In sixty-seven he had predicted three years for Redding, four at the most.

Now, after more than fifteen, the man was as strong as he had been at the start, if not stronger. You've done it again. Mrs. Fiske's praise echoed painfully in his thoughts. Myasthenia gravis, a progressive deterioration of the neuromuscular system. Cause, unknown. Prognosis, progressive weakness especially with exertion-fatigue, difficulty in chewing, difficulty in breathing, and eventually, death from infection or respiratory failure. Treatment, stopgap even at its most sophisticated. Yet here were two men, Redding and John Ferguson, who had, in essence, arrested or at least markedly slowed the progress of their disease. And they had performed the minor miracles on their own.

Though his staff thought otherwise, and neither patient would ever suggest so, they had received only peripheral, supportive help from him.

They were certainly a pair of triumphs, but triumphs that continually underscored the futility of his own life's work. From the hallway, Drexler heard the elevator clank open. For years, his two prize patients had been treating themselves with upwards of a dozen medications at once, most of them still untested outside the laboratory. For years he had dedicated his work to trying to ascertain which drug or combination of drugs was responsible for their remarkable results. The answer would likely provide a breakthrough of historic proportions. Perhaps this would be his year. Redding, seated in an unmotorized wheelchair, waved his aide on ahead and then wheeled himself to the doorway. Using the man's arm for some support, he pulled himself upright and took several rickety steps into the office. ' "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Vernon, " he said, extending his hand to give Drexler's a single, vigorous pump. "Mr. Nunes? " The aide, a sullen, swarthy man with the physique of an Olympic oarsman, slid the wheelchair into place for Redding to sit back down. Across the waiting room, Lurleen Fiske and the two other women beamed like proud grandmothers. "You look wonderful, Cyrus, " Drexler said. "Absolutely wonderful. Come on into my office."

"In a moment. First, I should like to wish your staff an early Merry Christmas. Mr. Nunes?"

The expressionless Nunes produced three gifts of varying sizes from the leather bag slung over his shoulder, and Redding presented them, one at a time, to the women, who shook his hand self-consciously.

Lurleen Fiske squeezed his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. "My limousine will go for Dr. Ferguson, " Redding said, as he was wheeled into Drexler's office. "He will be here to share notes with the two of us, but not to be examined. He would rather keep the appointment he has for next month, if that is agreeable to you."

"Fine, fine, " Drexler said. The two men, Ferguson and Redding, had met perhaps a dozen years before in his waiting room and had developed an instant rapport. By their next appointment, Redding had asked that a half day be set aside for just the two of them. The request, supported as it was by the promise of substantial research funds, was, of course, granted. Redding's bodyguard wheeled him into Drexler's office, set the bag of medications on the desk, and left to accompany the limousine to John Ferguson's house. Carefully, Redding arranged the vials and plastic containers on the blotter before Drexler. There were, all told, thirteen different preparations. "Well, Doctor, " he said, "here they are. Most of them you already know we have been taking. A couple of them you don't."

"Dr. Ferguson continues to follow exactly the same regimen as you?"

"As far as I know."

The endocrinologist made notes concerning each medication. There were two highly experimental drugs-still far from human testing — that he himself had only learned of in the past six or seven months. He bit back the urge, once again, to warn against the dangers of taking pharmaceuticals before they could be properly investigated, and simply recorded the chemical names and dosages. Somehow, the two men were screening the drugs for side effects. They had let him know that much and no more. As far as Vernon Drexler, MD, was concerned, with a goodly proportion of his own research at stake, there was no point in pushing the matter. "This one? " Drexler held up a half-filled bottle of clear, powderfilled gelatin capsules. "From Podgorny, at the Institute for Metabolic Research, in Leningrad, " Redding said simply. "He believes the theory behind the compound to be quite sound."

"Amazing, " Drexler muttered. "Absolutely amazing." Rudy Podgorny was a giant in the field, but so inaccessible that it had been two years since he had met with him face to face. Redding's resourcefulness, the power of his money, was mind-boggling. "Well, " he said when he had finished his tabulations, "these two preparations have finally had clinical evaluations. Both of them have been shown to be without significant effect. We can discuss my thoughts when Dr. Ferguson arrives, but I feel the data now are strong enough to recommend stopping Redding fingered the bottles. "One of these was your baby, yes?

" The physician shrugged helplessly and nodded. "Yes, " he said, "I am afraid I have hitched my wagon to a falling star." He failed in his attempt to keep an optimistic tone in his voice. Four years of work had, in essence, gone down the drain. "Then you must strike out in other directions, eh?"