Arthur Hailey - Strong Medicine

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.”