Arthur Hailey - Strong Medicine

Yates, a lab technician, was the oldest of the Peptide 7 volunteers. He had gone out of his way to be helpful to Martin ever since the incident, several years earlier, involving Celia and the guillotined rat. Being in the testing program was Yates's latest contribution. "Well, I saw his wife in the market and she said how good it was that Mickey's work was making him feel young again.”

"Meaning what?" "I asked her. So she went red and said nowadays Mickey was feeling so 'bouncy and energetic'-those were her words-he was keeping her busy in bed.”

"Did she mean just recently?" "I'm sure of it.”

"And he hadn't before?" "According to her, hardly ever.”

"I'm amazed she'd talk about it.”

Yvonne smiled.”You don't know women very well.”

Martin was thoughtful, then he said, "Let's get in the car. We'll talk on the way to Cambridge.”

At first, while driving, they listened to the news on the radio, which was mostly of politics. It was an exciting, optimistic time in Britain. Two months earlier, a general election had brought to power the first woman prime minister in British history. Now, Margaret Thatcher and her government were injecting new enterprise into a nation which had suffered from too little of it since World War II. At the end of the news, Martin switched off the radio and returned to closer concerns. "I'm worried," he said, "and I don't want any general talk about what we've discussed this morning. You're to keep to yourself what you told me about those rats breeding. Also, don't tell anyone else about the new study. We have to do it, even though I don't like the idea, but keep the results locked up until you give them to me. And no more stories about Mickey Yates and his wife.”

"I'll do all of that," Yvonne said.”But I don't understand why you're worried.”

"Then I'll tell you. It's because we've produced a drug which I hope will be significant, be taken seriously, and become an important disease fighter. But if word gets around that it's some kind of aphrodisiac-as well as inducing weight loss, which may or may not be good after all-it could be the worst thing to happen. It would throw everything we've done into disrepute, could make us look as if we reinvented snake oil.” "I think I understand," Yvonne said.”And now you've explained it, I won't talk. But it'll be hard to stop others.”

Martin said grimly, "That's what I'm afraid of

It was midmorning when they reached Cambridge. Martin drove directly to the nursing home where his mother was being cared for. She was in bed, which was where she spent most of her time, having to be lifted out when necessary. She remembered nothing, not even the simplest things, and-as had been the case for many years gave no flicker of recognition when Martin came close. His mother, Martin thought as he stood with Yvonne beside him, seemed visibly to be wasting away day by day. Her body was emaciated, cheeks gaunt, hair thinning. Even in the earlier declining years-around the time when Celia had visited the old house in the Kite-some vestige of a younger beauty still remained. But now that, too, was gone. It was as if the Alzheimer's, which had eaten away his mother's brain, was devouring her body too. "It's been my dream," Martin said softly to Yvonne, "to help find something to prevent most, or some, of this. It will be years, of course, before we know if we've succeeded. But it's because our research into aging has been so important that I don't want anything to cheapen what we've found.”

Yvonne said, "I do understand. Especially now.”

On previous occasions when Martin had brought Yvonne to see his mother, Yvonne had taken the older woman's hands and sat holding them, saying nothing. Though no one could be sure, Martin had had an impression it gave his mother comfort. Today Yvonne did the game thing, but even that thin communication seemed no longer there.

From the nursing home, they drove to see Martin's father. The flat rented by Martin was northwest of the city, not far from Girton College, and they found Peat-Smith, Senior, in a tiny work area behind the building. The tools of his old trade were spread around, and he was chipping experimentally at a small piece of marble, using a chisel and a mallet. "I think you know," Martin said to Yvonne, "that my father used to be a stonemason.”

"Yes. But I didn't know you were still working at it, Mr. Peat-Smith.” "Ain't," the old man said.”Fingers get too damn stiff. Thought, though, I'd make an 'eadstone for your ma's grave, son. About the only thing left to do for 'er.”

He looked at Martin inquiringly.”Is that all right, seem' she ain't dead yet?" Martin put his arm around his father's shoulders.”Yes, it is, Dad. Is there anything you need?" "I need an 'unk of marble. Costs a bit, though.”

"Don't worry about that. Just order what you want, and get them to send the bill to me.”

When Martin looked at Yvonne, he saw that she was crying.

16

"I agree with you totally about the sex stimulant effect," Celia told Martin.”If Peptide 7 became thought of as some kind of aphrodisiac, it would fall into disrepute as a serious product.”

"I think the chances are fair that we can keep it to ourselves," Martin said. "I'm less sure," Celia acknowledged, "though I hope you're right.” It was the second day of her visit to the Harlow institute, and she was having a private meeting with Martin in his office. Earlier, he had advised her formally, "I can report that we have what appears to be a beneficial medication to retard mental aging and aid acuity, the two things going together. All signs look good.”

It seemed, Celia thought, a long way from the time when, on Sam's instructions, she had visited Harlow to consider closing the institute, and even longer-it was seven years-since the memorable first meeting at Cambridge between Sam, herself and Martin. She said, "There doesn't seem much doubt that you've achieved something great.”

They were relaxed and comfortable with each other. If either, from time to time, remembered the intimacies of their night as lovers, it was never mentioned. Clearly that was a moment, an interlude, belonging solely to the past. While Celia was having her talk with Martin, a half-dozen other executives who had accompanied her from Felding-Roth headquarters were having separate, specialized discussions about the future of Peptide 7. These covered a range of subjects-manufacturing, quality control, materials and sources, costs, packaging, product management-all facets of what would become a master plan determining how the drug would be introduced and marketed worldwide. Rao Sastri, Nigel Bentley, and other Harlow staff were responding to questions from the U.S. team. Although more than a year of clinical trials still lay ahead and, after that, approval for Peptide Ts use had to be obtained from governments, many decisions about the future had to be made now. A major one was the extent of Felding-Roth's investment in a new manufacturing plant, which would be either a costly, unprofitable gamble or a shrewd, successful act of faith. The way in which the drug would be ingested by those who used it was also important. Martin told Celia, "We've researched this exhaustively, and recommend delivery by nasal spray. This is the modem, coming system. There'll be more and more medicines taken that way in future.” "Yes, I know. It's being talked about for insulin. Anyway, I'm thankful you've not produced an injectable.”

As both knew, it was a pharmaceutical fact of life that any drug delivered by injection never sold as well as one which could be taken easily by patients at home. "To be used as a nasal spray," Martin explained, "Peptide 7 will be in an inert saline solution mixed with a detergent. The detergent assures the best absorption rate.”

Several detergents had been experimented with, he disclosed. The best nontoxic one, creating no irritation of nasal membranes, had been found to be a new Felding-Roth product recently available in the United States. Celia was delighted.”You mean we can keep it all in-house?" "Exactly.”