Michael Crichton - Drug of Choice

“Perhaps they don’t,” Clark said.

“Exactly,” Andrews said. “There may be a retroactive amnesia. Clark, this could be a serious problem. Very serious. Have you investigated your two patients at all?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I have. I suspected a new drug, and I’ve looked into their history of ingestion as carefully as I could. I spent the morning with Sharon Wilder’s doctors—”

“Good man.”

“—and came up with nothing.”

Andrews sighed. “Very serious problem,” he repeated. “I can’t urge you strongly enough to follow it up. You know,” he said, “you and I must have a little talk soon.”

“Sir?”

“Well, the hospital has to decide on a chief resident for next year.”

“Yes sir.”

“This drug thing is a very serious problem, very serious indeed. Anyone who clears it up will be doing a great service to the medical community. An immense service. As I recall, you’re going on vacation soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have a good time,” Andrews said. “Ill talk to you when you get back.” And he hung up.

Clark stared at the telephone for several minutes, and then said aloud, “I’ve been bribed.”

He rummaged through his notebook and came up with the list of Sharon Wilder’s physicians. At the bottom of the list was George K. Washington. Office number: 754–6700, extension 126.

He dialed it. After a moment, a pleasant female voice said, “Advance, Incorporated. Good afternoon.”

“Extension one two six, please.”

“One moment, please.”

There was a click as the switchboard put him through. Then more ringing, and another woman’s voice.

“Dr. Washington’s office.”

“This is Dr. Clark calling from LA Mem—”

“Oh yes, Dr. Clark.”

Clark stopped. Oh yes?

“We’ve been waiting for your call,” the girl said. “Dr. Washington is in conference now, but he asked me to tell you an appointment has been set up for four this afternoon. You can discuss the job with him at that time.”

“The job?”

“Yes. You are applying for a job, aren’t you?”

“Uh…yes.”

“Well see you then, Doctor.”

Clark hesitated. There was obviously some mistake, but he might as well take advantage of it.

“One question,” he said. “How do I get there?”

“Take the Santa Monica Freeway to the Los Calos exit, then go north a quarter of a mile. You can’t miss it. There’s a black sign that says Advance, Incorporated by the road.”

Clark hung up and scratched his head. He thought about the name of the corporation; it seemed very familiar. But he could not remember where he had heard it before. After several minutes, he put his tie back on, slipped into his jacket, and headed for the parking lot.

The secretary had been right. It was impossible to miss the sign. It was constructed of black stone, with white lettering:

ADVANCE, INC. BIOSYSTEMS SPECIALISTS

He turned off the road, and parked in a lot alongside the main building, which was starkly modern, walls of green glass. The building was two stories high, and about as large as any of a dozen other small, specialized scientific firms around Los Angeles. In recent years, attracted by government contracts and good weather, scientists had flocked to Southern California, which now had a greater number and higher concentration of scientific minds than any other place in the history of the world.

He paused to look at the building, and wondered what went on inside. He couldn’t tell; it might have been anything from electronics to political science research. He went through the large glass doors to the area marked “Reception.” A woman looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Clark. I have an appointment with Dr. Washington.”

“Yes, sir.”

She telephoned, spoke briefly, then turned to Clark.

“If you’ll just have a seat, please.”

Clark sat down on a Barcelona chair in the corner, and thumbed through an issue of “The American Journal of Parapsychology” while he waited. In a few minutes, a heavyset guard appeared.

“Dr. Clark?”

“Yes.”

“Please come with me.”

Clark followed the guard down a corridor. They stopped at a nearby room. An old woman was there, surrounded by electronic equipment.

“He’s to see Dr. Washington,” the guard explained.

“All right,” said the woman. She nodded to a camera. “Look over there.”

Clark looked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her press a button; the camera clicked.

“State your name loudly and clearly for our voice recorders.”

“Doctor Roger Clark.”

“No, no,” the woman said. “That will never do. Just your name.”

“Roger Clark,” he said.

“Thank you,” the woman said. She produced a form. “Sign here, please. Waiver of liability.”

“Waiver?”

“It’s routine. Do you want to see Dr. Washington, or not?”

Clark signed. It was all so peculiar, he did not want to argue.

“Thank you,” the woman said, and looked down at her desk.

Clark went on, following the guard, to an elevator. As they walked down the corridor, Clark glanced at the doors, with their neatly stenciled markings:

ALPHA WAVE SYNCH LAB

MASSACT RES UNIT

K PUPPIES

HYPNOESIS 17

WHITE ENVIRON

Clark said, “What kind of work is done here?”

“All kinds,” the guard said.

They got into the elevator and went to the second floor. The guard led him down another corridor to a door marked ENERGICS SUBGROUP. He opened it, and waved Clark inside.

A secretary sat typing a letter, wearing earphones attached to a dictaphone machine. She turned off the machine and removed the earphones. “Dr. Clark? Dr. Washington is expecting you.” She pressed the intercom. “You may go right in.”

Clark passed through a second door, into the sloppiest office he had ever seen. The walls were lined with shelves, which contained pamphlets, notebooks, and stacks of loose paper; books and journals sat in unruly heaps on the floor and on the desk. From behind the debris on the desk, a thin, pale figure rose.

“I am George Kelvin Washington. Do sit down.”

Clark looked for a place to sit. There was a chair, but it was heaped high with manuscripts and journals.

“Just push that junk off,” Dr. Washington said. “It’s not important anyway. Make yourself comfortable.”

Dr. Washington sank back down behind the stacks on the desk. A moment later, he cleared a little tunnel, which allowed him to see Clark, sitting in the chair.

“You’ve come about the job,” Washington said.

“Yes, I—”

“Good, good. You seem a bright young man. I’m not surprised that your interest in Advance, Inc. has been aroused.”

“Yes, it—”

“There is no question that you would find our work challenging. We operate at the very forefront of several areas of investigation. The very forefront.”

“I see,” Clark said, not seeing.

“If I understand correctly,” Washington said, staring down at his desk, “you are a, ah, where is it, oh yes—you are a pharmacologist.”

“That’s correct,” Clark said. He wondered how Washington knew. He wondered what Washington was looking at, on the desk.

“Your job application,” Washington said, “is all in order. Quite complete. I needn’t tell you that we are most interested in your experience in clinical drug testing at the National Institutes. You did that instead of military service?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Excellent. And you’ve had some experience with human drug testing?”

“Limited.”

“Ummm. How limited?”

“Well, we did several tests on experimental drugs for cancer—”