“Precisely, Mrs. Jordan, and in certain areas very much that way. It’s why one sees, so often, childish behavior in academic circles—petty squabbles and the like, over trivial issues.”
Celia said thoughtfully, “I would not have thought any of that was true of Martin Peat-Smith.”
“Possibly not, within those specific limits,” Bentley acknowledged. “But in other ways.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, something Dr. Peat-Smith has great trouble with is small decisions. Some days, as one might put it, he can’t decide which side of the street to walk on. As an example, he agonized for weeks over which one of two technicians we employ should have preference in going on a three-day course in London. It was a minor matter, something you or I would have decided in a few minutes and, in the end, because my superior couldn’t reach a decision, I made it for him. All this, of course, is in total contrast to Dr. Peat-Smith’s mainstream purpose—his scientific clarity and dedication.”
“You’re making several things much clearer,” Celia said. “Including why Martin hasn’t sent reports.”
“There’s something else I believe I should point out,” Bentley volunteered. “It may even have a bearing on your visit.”
“Go ahead.”
“Dr. Peat-Smith is a leader and, as with any leader, it would be a mistake for him to show weakness or exhibit doubts about the progress being made here. If he did, the morale of those working with him would collapse. And something else: Dr. Peat-Smith has been used to working alone, at his own pace. Now, suddenly, he has huge responsibilities, with many people depending on him, as well as other pressures—subtle and not so subtle—including your own presence, Mrs. Jordan, here and now. All those things are an enormous strain on any individual.”
“Then there are doubts about the work being done,” Celia said. “Serious doubts? I’ve been wondering.”
Bentley, who was facing Celia across his desk, put the tips of his fingers together and regarded her across them. “In working here I have an obligation to Dr. Peat-Smith, but an even larger responsibility to you and Mr. Hawthorne. Therefore I must answer your question—yes.”
“I want to know about those doubts,” Celia said. “In detail.”
Bentley answered, “I lack the scientific qualifications.” He hesitated, then went on, “It would be irregular, perhaps, but I believe you should speak privately with Dr. Sastri and instruct him, as you have authority to do, to open up totally and frankly.”
Dr. Rao Sastri, as Celia knew, was the nucleic acid chemist—a Pakistani, formerly a Cambridge colleague—whom Martin had recruited as his scientific second-in-command.
“This is too important to worry about what’s regular or isn’t, Mr. Bentley,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll do as you suggest.”
“Is there any other way in which I can help?”
Celia considered. “Martin quoted John Locke at me today. Is he a Locke disciple?”
“Yes, and so am I.” Bentley gave a small, tight smile. “The two of us share a conviction that Locke was one of the finer philosophers and guides this world has ever known.”
“I’d like something of Locke’s to read tonight,” Celia said. “Can you get it for me?”
Bentley made a note. “It will be waiting for you at your hotel.”
It was not until late afternoon, during her second day at Harlow, that Celia was able to have her talk with Dr. Sastri. In between that and her session the previous day with Nigel Bentley, she talked with others at the institute who were consistently cheerful and optimistic in their views about the Harlow research scene. Yet still Celia had a sense of something being held back, an instinct that those she had met were being less than forthright with her.
Rao Sastri proved to be a handsome, dark-skinned, articulate and fast-speaking young man, still in his twenties. Celia knew he had a Ph.D. and a brilliant scholastic record, and both Martin and Bentley had assured her the institute was fortunate in having him. Sastri and Celia met in an annex to the plant cafeteria, a small room normally used by senior staff for working lunches. After shaking hands with Sastri, and before they sat down, Celia closed the door for privacy.
She said, “I believe you know who I am.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Jordan. My colleague Peat-Smith has spoken of you frequently, and kindly. At this time I am honored to meet you.” Sastri’s speech was cultured and precise, with a Pakistani lilt. He also smiled frequently, though at times switching off the smile with a trace of nervousness.
“I am happy to meet you also,” Celia said, “and wish to discuss with you the progress of research here.”
“It is wonderful! Truly marvelous! A jolly good show all around.”
“Yes,” Celia acknowledged, “others have told me the same. But before we go on I would like to make clear that I am here on behalf of Mr. Hawthorne, the president of Felding-Roth, and exercising his authority.”
“Oh, dear! My goodness! I wonder what is coming now.”
“What is coming, Dr. Sastri, is that I am asking you—ordering you, in fact—to be totally frank with me, holding back nothing, including any doubts you have, and which so far you may have kept entirely to yourself.”
“All this is damned awkward,” Sastri said. “Also not entirely fair, as I pointed out to Bentley when he informed me of this line you would be taking. I do, after all, have an obligation to Peat-Smith, who is a decent chap.”
“You have an even bigger obligation to Felding-Roth,” Celia told him sharply, “because the company pays your salary—a good one—and is entitled to your honest professional opinions in return.”
“I say, Mrs. Jordan! You don’t mess about, do you?” The young Pakistani’s tone mixed shock and awe.
“Messing about—as you eloquently put it, Dr. Sastri—takes time, which I don’t have a lot of, since I’m returning to America tomorrow. So please tell me exactly where, in your opinion, our institute research is, and where it’s going.”
Sastri raised both hands in a submissive gesture, and sighed. “Very well. The research is not very far along. And, in my humble opinion and that of others in this project, it is going nowhere.”
“Explain those opinions.”
“In more than two years, all that has been achieved is to confirm a theory that there are brain DNA changes during aging. Oh yes, it is an interesting accomplishment, but beyond it we are facing a damned blank wall which we do not have techniques to penetrate, may not have for many years, and even then the peptide Peat-Smith has postulated may not be behind the wall.”
Celia queried, “You do not accept that postulation?”
“It is my colleague’s theory, Mrs. Jordan. I admit I shared it.” Sastri shook his head regretfully. “But, in my inmost heart, no longer.”
“Martin informed me,” Celia said, “that you have proved the existence of a unique RNA and should be able to make the corresponding DNA.”
“Which is, by golly, true! But perhaps what you were not told is that the isolated material may be too large. The mRNA strand is long, and codes for many proteins, possibly forty altogether. It is therefore unusable—just ‘nonsense’ peptides.”
Celia reached into her scientific memory. “Can the material be cleaved? Each peptide isolated?”
Sastri smiled; his voice assumed a superior edge. “There is the blank wall. There are no techniques to take us further. Possibly in ten years from now …” He shrugged.
For another twenty minutes they talked science, Celia learning that, of the group of scientists now working at Harlow on the mental aging project, only Martin remained a true believer that it would produce worthwhile results.
At the end she said, “Thank you, Dr. Sastri. You’ve told me what I crossed the Atlantic to find out.”
The young man nodded sadly. “I have done my duty as you insisted. But I will not sleep well tonight.”
“I don’t expect to either,” Celia said. “But that’s a price which people like you and me pay sometimes—fo
r being where we are.”
5
At Martin’s invitation, Celia went to his home for drinks during her second and last evening at Harlow. Afterward they would go on to dinner which she had arranged at the Churchgate Hotel where she was staying.
Martin lived in a small semidetached house about two miles from the Felding-Roth Institute. The house, while modern and functional, was similar to dozens of others nearby which appeared to Celia to have been assembled on a mass-production line.
When she arrived, by taxi, Martin escorted her to a tiny living room and, as on other occasions, she was aware of his admiring inspection. For the brief trip to Britain she had traveled lightly, wearing a tailored suit during daytimes, but tonight had on a Diane von Furstenberg wraparound dress in an attractive brown and white print, with a single strand of pearls. Her soft brown hair was stylish in the short, blunt cut of the day.
On the way in from the front hall Celia stepped over or around five animals—a friendly Irish setter, a growling English bulldog, and three cats. Within the living room was a parrot on an open perch.
She laughed. “You really are an animal lover.”
“I suppose I am,” Martin smilingly agreed. “I enjoy having animals around and I’m a sucker for homeless cats.” The cats seemed to know this and followed him slavishly.
Celia knew that Martin lived alone, with a “daily” woman coming to clean. The living-room furniture was minimal, consisting mainly of a leather armchair with a reading light beside it, and three bookcases, crammed with scientific volumes. Some bottles, mixes and ice were set out on a small table. Martin waved her to the armchair and began mixing drinks.
“I’ve the makings of a daiquiri, if that’s what you’d like.”
“I’d like it,” Celia said, “and I’m touched you should remember.” She wondered if they would be as relaxed and friendly at the evening’s end. As on earlier occasions, she was aware of Martin’s physical attractiveness as a man, yet before coming here she had reminded herself of Sam Hawthorne’s parting words: “No matter how much you like Martin … if you need to be tough and ruthless … do it!”
“I’ll be seeing Sam the day after tomorrow,” Celia said. “I have to make a recommendation about the future of the Harlow institute, and I’d like to know what you think it should be.”
“That’s easy.” He handed her a daiquiri. “You should urge a continuance of our present research for another year, longer if necessary.”
“There is opposition to continuing. You know that.”
“Yes.” The confidence which Martin had shown ever since Celia’s arrival was still in evidence. “But then, there are always shortsighted people, unable to see the big picture.”
“Is Dr. Sastri shortsighted?”
“I’m sorry to say it—yes. How’s the drink?”
“Fine.”
“Rao came here an hour ago,” Martin said. “He wanted to see me because he felt I should know everything he told you this afternoon. Rao has a strong sense of honor.”
“And?”
“He’s wrong. Totally wrong. So are the others who have doubts.”
Celia asked, “Can you refute factually what Sastri says?”
“Of course not!” Martin’s impatience flashed, as it had yesterday. “All scientific research is based on theory. If we had facts instead, we wouldn’t need to research. What is involved is informed, professional judgment and some instinct; some call the combination scientific arrogance. Either way, it’s a conviction of being on the right track, knowing that only time—in this case a short time—is standing between you and what you’re searching for.”
“Time and a great deal of money,” Celia reminded him. “Also the question of whether yours, or Sastri’s and some others, is the right judgment.”
Martin sipped a scotch and water he had poured himself and paused, considering. Then he said, “Money is something I don’t like to think about more than I have to, especially money made from selling drugs. But you mentioned it first, so I’ll tell you this now because maybe it’s the only way I can get through to you, to Sam, and others like you.”
Celia watched Martin intently, listening carefully, wondering what was coming.
“Even in what you think of as my scientific remoteness,” he said, “I know that Felding-Roth is in deep trouble. If things don’t improve within the next few years, the company could go under.” He asked sharply, “Right or wrong?”
Celia hesitated, then nodded. “Right.”
“What I can do, given a little more time, is save your company. Not only save it, but make it productive, acclaimed and enormously rich. That’s because, at the end of my research, there will be important medication—a drug.” Martin grimaced before going on. “Not that I care about any commercial outcome. I don’t. I’m also embarrassed to be talking about it now. But when it happens, what I want accomplished will happen too.”
The statement, Celia thought, had the same impressive effect as another made by Martin in his Cambridge lab the day of their first meeting. At that time, Sam had felt that effect too. But the earlier statement, made more than two years ago, had not been fulfilled. Why, she asked herself, should today’s be different?
Celia shook her head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Dammit, I know mine is the right judgment!” Martin’s voice rose. “We’re close—so close!—to finding a means to improve the quality of aging and retard brain deterioration, and maybe prevent Alzheimer’s disease as well.” He gulped what remained of the drink in his hand and slammed down the glass. “How in hell can I convince you?”
“You can try again over dinner.” Celia glanced at her watch. “I believe we should go now.”
The food at the Churchgate Hotel, while good, ran to large portions—too large for Celia. After a while she toyed with what remained on her plate, moving it around without eating, while she considered what to say next. Whatever it was would be important. Knowing it, she held back, hesitating, preparing her words carefully.
Meanwhile the ambience was pleasant.
More than six centuries before the Churchgate existed as a hotel, its site had been occupied by a chantry house—a priest’s dwelling—which, in Jacobean times, became a private home. Some portions of the Jacobean structure still remained in the charming hotel building, enlarged and refurbished when Harlow changed from a village to a town after World War II. The dining room was one of the historic holdovers.
Celia liked the room’s atmosphere—its low ceiling, upholstered window benches, white and red napery and pleasant service, including the placement of food at each table before diners were called in from an adjoining lounge-bar where earlier they had received menus and placed their orders.
Tonight, Celia had one of the window benches. Martin sat facing her.
Through the meal they continued the conversation begun at Martin’s house, Celia listening, interjecting an occasional question, as Martin talked science confidently. But fresh in her memory were the words of Nigel Bentley, spoken yesterday. “Dr. Peat-Smith is a leader and, as with any leader, it would be a mistake for him to show weakness or exhibit doubts …”
Did Martin, despite that persistent outward confidence, have an inward, private uncertainty? Celia considered a tactic to help her find out. It was an idea developed from the book she had read last night, after its delivery to the hotel—a promise fulfilled by Nigel Bentley.
Having calculated and weighed her words, she looked at him directly and said, “An hour ago, when we were talking at the house, you said you had scientific arrogance.”
He riposted, “Don’t misunderstand that. It’s positive, not negative—a combination of knowledge, willingness to criticize one’s own work, yet conviction also—something a successful scientist must have to survive.”
As he said it, Celia wondered if for the first time there was the slightest crack, a hint of weakness, in the confident façade. She wasn’t sure, but pressed on.
“Is it
possible,” she insisted, “that scientific arrogance, or whatever else you call it, can go too far; that someone can become so convinced of what they want to believe that they indulge in wishful thinking which becomes unshakable?”
“Everything’s possible,” Martin answered. “Though not in this case.”
But his voice was flat, with less conviction than previously. Now she was sure. She had probed his weakness, and he was close to concession, perhaps to breaking point.
“I read something last night,” Celia said. “I wrote it down, even though I think you may know of it.” Her purse was beside her. From it she extracted a sheet of hotel stationery and read aloud:
“Error is not a fault of our knowledge, but a mistake of our judgment … Those who cannot carry a train of consequences in their heads; nor weigh exactly the preponderancy of contrary proofs and testimonies … may be easily misled to assent to positions that are not probable.”
There was a silence which, after a moment, Celia filled, aware she was being relentless, even cruel. “It’s from An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke. The man you believe in and revere.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
“So isn’t it likely,” she persisted, “that you are not weighing those ‘contrary proofs’ and you are holding to ‘positions that are not probable’ just the way Locke said?”
Martin turned toward her, in his eyes a mute appeal. “Do you think I am?”
Celia said quietly, “Yes, I do.”
“I’m sorry you …” He choked on the words and she scarcely recognized his voice. Now he said faintly, “Then … I give up.”
Martin had broken. The quotation from Locke, his idol—turned against him by Celia—had pierced him to the heart. More than that, like a suddenly failing machine that turns inward, devouring itself, he had lost control. His face was ashen, his mouth hung open, and his jaw sagged. Disconnected words emerged. “… tell your people to end it … let them close down … I do believe, but maybe I’m not good enough, not alone … What we’ve looked for will be found … it will happen, must happen … but somewhere else …”