Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

“And the language of the day was totally different; there simply were no words – nor even systems of thought- to convey scientific conceptions. Thus every man who studied the stars was an astrologer, while the thoughtful investigator of elemental or molecular structure was only another alchemist seeking to create gold. And to be sure, many of these men were only superstitious dabblers in the occult. With the ignorance or even hostility of most writers of the day, fool and genius were lumped together, and the early scientist was categorized as being in league with the devil. He was ignored and mocked at best, more often persecuted by the authorities of the land. We know of several brilliant thinkers who were condemned to the stake for their efforts – or had near misses, like Galileo.

“It is any wonder then that Walker’s protoscientists kept their work secret, shared their discoveries only with a select brotherhood? At least, that was Kirk’s theory.”

Dr Thackeray considered his cigar. “Interesting. And, as you say, tragic. Medicine needs men of his caliber – and men like yourself, Dr Metzger.”

Geoff smiled at the compliment. Coming from the Grand Old Man, it meant a lot. “I consider myself fortunate to be associated with the medical center here.”

“Good. And I’ll say that we’re all delighted you decided to join us. You’re a capable man, Dr Metzger; your record is brilliant. Those of us who have watched you feel certain you’ll go far in medicine – farther, perhaps, than you might imagine.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. I’m merely stating facts. I knew your father during my residency, you know, and he was a splendid physician himself. So I’m pleased that you decided to take a position here at the Center. It’s good to learn the facilities are up to your expectations, and that you’re getting your lab set up to suit you.”

He gestured toward the sheaf of papers Geoff had carried with him. “I like the way you’ve drawn this together. I’d say it’s dead certain the grant will go through.”

“I’m counting on it, sir.”

Dr Thackeray brandished his cigar. “Oh, it will. It will. You’ve stated the scientific aspects of it beautifully – and now we’ll handle the political end of things. Politics, as you’ll learn, count for a great deal. A very great deal, Dr Metzger.”

“No doubt,” laughed Geoff drily.

It had been a good move, thought Metzger, pausing to look over his new lab facilities. A damn good move. He could make his name here at the Center.

It was a heady feeling to be in charge of his own research project – a major project at the medical center of considerable renown – and still a young man by his colleagues’ standards. But Geoffrey Metzger was inured to honors.

He was, after all, the Center’s prize catch – hotly contested for by any number of major institutions. Head of his class at St Johns and at Harvard Medical School, and he could have been one of the youngest men to finish, if he had not chosen the round-about course of a liberal arts education, a few sojourns in Europe, and a combined M.D.-Ph.D. (biochemistry) program at Harvard. Afterward he had taken his pick of the most prestigious internships and residencies, finishing as chief resident in one of the nation’s best hospital centers. Then a stint with the Public Health Service in the poverty belt – in effect voluntary, since his family connections were sufficient to keep him out of military service.

An uncle with a governorship, a brother doing Very Well in the vice-presidential ladder of a Very Big corporation, and a “good marriage”, socially. Another brother was becoming known in legal medicine, and his father-in-law was partner in a string of ENT clinics in Detroit. Medicine had called members of his family for several generations. Geoff had himself followed his father into internal medicine. His father, very influential in the A.M.A., had been supposedly slated for its top post at the time of his death from a coronary.

A good record, as Dr Thackeray had observed. And no reason why it should not continue to shine. Metzger’s previous research work – extending back to his undergraduate days and assuming considerable stature during his residency – had led to numerous publications and no little acclaim. Clearly he was a man who was going places, and the Center was quite proud when he accepted their extremely generous offer. They had given him a free hand in a superbly equipped lab in their newest research facility, with a position as attending physician on the medical staff. And they had made it plain that this was merely a start for him, that there shortly would be important vacancies in the hierarchy of the Center . . .

Yes, it had been a damn good move.

Geoff grimaced and crumpled his Styrofoam cup. And one of the first additions to his lab equipment was going to be a private coffee urn.

II

“Did you notice that ring Sid Lipton had on last night?” asked Gwen.

“What?” Geoff, a persistent headache reminding him of the cocktail party at Trelane’s the night before, was trying to watch the morning news.

“Sid had on a sort of signet ring,” Gwen persisted. “Did you notice?”

“What? No, guess I didn’t.”

“It was an ornate silver ring with a large black onyx, I think. Into the onyx was set a kind of silver medallion or seal. It looked like a fraternity ring or something, but I couldn’t place it. I thought maybe you knew what it was.”

“Haven’t noticed it. Dr Lipton’s usually scrubbed for surgery whenever I see him – or always looks that way. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything on his hands but rubber gloves.”

“Want some more orange juice? Well, it was strange, because when I went to the girls’ room I passed Sid and Brice Thackeray in the hall, and Brice seemed like he was upset or something because Sid had on the ring.”

“Upset?”

“Well, maybe not. But they were talking over something in a not-very-casual manner, and it seemed like the ring was part of it. They stopped when I walked by and moved back in with the party. Did you see that slutty dress Tess Gilman had on?”

“Huh? No.”

“I’ll bet. A see-through blouse with her figure! You could see where her body stocking had padded inserts. And all you men ogling her like she was Raquel or somebody.”

“Gwen, I’m trying to listen to the news.”

Her face tightened. “Screw the news! You spend all day between the hospital and your damn lab, and when you do get home in time to talk, all you do is tell me about the hospital, tell me about your research. Damn it, you might at least try to pay a little attention to me over the breakfast table!”

“Sweetheart, they’re talking about Senator Hollister. He had a CVA last night and died. Forgive me if I find the death of the front-running liberal candidate for the next Presidential election of somewhat greater interest than your rehash of the highlights of another boring cocktail party!”

“Well I’m sorry if you find spending an evening with your wife boring!” she returned hotly.

The news moved on to the latest catastrophe in Pakistan.

“Gwen, honey, that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Well, goddamn it, Geoff! You don’t have to brush off everything I say. I put up with that miserable last year of Harvard, and then your internship in that filthy city – gone all the time, and home every other nightjust to sleep. Then that endless residency period, when everything was supposed to get better and you’d have more free time – but you didn’t, because you were doing work on your own in that lab. And Jesus, that miserable stay in the heartland of coal mines and grits while you played the medical missionary! And all this was supposed to lead up to when you could be the big man in the big medical complex, and name your own hours, and pay some attention to me for a change. Remember me? I’m your wife! Would you like to stuff me away with some of those damn virus cultures you’re forever playing with!”