Arthur Hailey - Strong Medicine

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

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

"Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very much so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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