Michael Crichton - Drug of Choice

“Oh, there’s no point in trying to hide it. We know what’s happening. For example,” he said, “I just got a call from the police. They notified me that the LA Memorial Hospital had just been robbed. A peculiar robbery—some ether and some oxygen. Now who would take ether and oxygen, Roger?”

Clark felt everything sliding away from him, his plans, his preparations, all of it disappearing into some awful master plan.

“I’ve been a fool,” he said. There were ten minutes left.

“NOT A FOOL, ROGER,” Harvey Blood said. “Just nearsighted. You mustn’t let it depress you. It could have happened to anybody. Speaking for the corporation, I must say we are all very pleased at the way you’ve worked out. You’ve been a great help to us, a great help. And now, when you destroy this building, you will have performed an invaluable service. We can’t thank you enough.”

There was still time, Clark thought, to go back and pull the plug. Still time to call it off…

“The fact is,” Blood continued, “that we’ve removed all our notes and data from the building. We did it four days ago, because we knew you’d make your move soon. Assuming you are an efficient deviser of homemade bombs—and ether and oxygen should be efficient enough—we can expect this entire building to be demolished. Think what that will mean: no building, no labs, nothing. Obviously we cannot complete our contractual obligations. Obviously, the insurance clauses which cover such contracts will be invoked. And obviously, the insurance on this building itself—five million dollars, and a little more—will go far toward financing our viable projects. So you see, it will all work out nicely.”

Clark found his voice at last. “And me?”

“Well, I admit you pose a problem. You’re quite mad. You’ve attacked a girl, you escaped from my care and flew around the Caribbean, and now you escaped again, threatening friends and acquaintances. And to climax it all, you destroy a corporation. Quite mad. I have no doubt that the courts will find you homicidal and destructive in the extreme, and will want to institutionalize you in a state hospital.”

“I see. But I’ll—”

“Talk? You will indeed. And that is why you pose a problem.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Well, not immediately, Roger. Not immediately.”

Clark stood up. “You have it all worked out,” he said. “You’ve always had it worked out, from the very beginning.”

“We like to think so,” Blood said.

Silently, Clark removed the syringe from his pocket and set it on the desk. The pink liquid was clearly visible.

“Have you thought about this?” he asked.

Harvey Blood did not move. His face was expressionless as he stared at the syringe.

“Roger, you’re being foolish.”

“I think I’m finally being smart.”

“Roger, there’s no need—”

“I disagree.” Clark picked up the syringe and held it to the light, squeezing the plunger slightly so that the air bubbles were pushed out. A fine stream of liquid shot into the air. “Roger, that’s a large dose—”

Blood was reaching into the desk drawer. In a swift movement, Clark came around the desk, shoved the drawer shut with his knee. Blood screamed.

Clark jabbed the needle into Blood’s arm, right through his clothing. He felt it enter the skin and muscle; he squeezed out the contents.

Blood did not move. His mouth fell open in horror, and he clutched his arm.

Clark pushed him away from the desk, opened the drawer, and removed the gun. Alongside it in the drawer was a small tuning fork.

He held it up to Blood and smiled.

“Listen Roger,” Harvey Blood said, speaking very rapidly, “listen, we can work something out.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Listen, Roger, you’re being ridiculous. If you think by all this that you can stop the corporation—”

“I can stop you.”

“—you’re wrong. I’m not alone. Advance is not alone. All over the country, corporations are springing up. What we don’t do, somebody else will carry out. It’s impossible to stop us. It’s the wave of the future. It’s coming, like it or not.” Clark held the tuning fork loosely in his hand. “Don’t you see?” Harvey Blood said. “Don’t you understand? You’re fighting for a principle that doesn’t exist. Already you are manipulated, pushed, pulled, tugged by your world. Do you think a car is beautiful? If you do, it is only because somebody paid millions in advertising to make you think so. Do you find a woman attractive? If you do, it is only because someone planned the fashion, the clothing, the walk, the talk—”

“No,” Clark said. “You’re wrong.”

“Are you against drugs? If you are, you’re in the minority. The largest-selling prescription drugs in this country are tranquilizers and sedatives. Everybody takes them. Everybody wants them. Everybody loves—”

“No,” Clark said. “You’re wrong.”

“Do you want to live in a certain neighborhood? Do you find certain food tasty? Do you prefer certain climates, clothes, cars, paintings, movies, books, films, toilet paper, soap, toothpaste, singers? Don’t you see your preferences are all conditioned? Don’t you see you are manipulated every minute of your life? You’re manipulated by Proctor and Gamble, by Ford, by MGM, by Random House, by Brooks, by Bergdorf, by Revlon, by Upjohn—”

“No,” Clark said. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m right,” Harvey Blood said, sweat pouring down his face. His eyes were fixed on the tuning fork. “I swear to God I’m right.”

“You’re wrong,” Clark said, and struck the tuning fork against the desk.

It hummed softly.

Harvey Blood did not move. He continued to stare at Clark, and his lips worked, but he did not speak. Clark watched with a kind of curiosity: he had never given the reversal drug in such a large dose before.

Harvey Blood screamed.

“They’re after me!” he cried. “They’re all after me!”

He sobbed, tears running down his cheeks. And then he began to pound his head against the desk.

Clark looked at his watch.

Four minutes.

He walked out of the room, hearing Harvey Blood’s cries, and the sound of his head thumping against polished mahogany.

The rest went quite smoothly. He hit the policeman at the front door across the back of the skull, then carried him, feet scraping, across the asphalt parking lot, dropping him onto the wet grass some distance from the building.

Three minutes.

He climbed into the limousine and started the engine. As he was about to pull out of the parking lot, a small sportscar came up and stopped by the entrance. A girl got out; he recognized Susan Ryle.

He called to her. She came over, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“There’s about to be an explosion,” he said, pointing to the building. “Right in there.”

“An explosion? What are you talking about?”

“Get into the car,” he said. She hesitated. “Get in!”

She climbed into the back seat. He checked his watch: a little more than two minutes.

He drove down to the road, turned left, and went two hundred yards. He pulled off and waited. From here, they could still see the building.

She said, “You’re really serious.” Her voice was awed and frightened.

“I really am, Susan.”

“My name isn’t Susan now. It’s Angela Sweet.”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s Susan once again.”

The seconds ticked by. Finally Susan said, “How do you know there’s going to be—”

She stopped. She understood. “You’re a madman,” she said.

“Apparently.” He grinned.

“You’re going to blow up that building?”