A Fierce Radiance (35 page)

R
utherford was alert with expectation. Yes, at his age, and with his experience, this still meant something. He had a place at the table. A metaphor that in this case was also literally true: here he sat at the Harvard Club, in the Harvard Hall, surrounded by a stuffed elephant, the directors of the pharmaceutical industry, and various government bureaucrats. Vannevar Bush himself was at the head of the table. Tapestries covered the top part of the walls, with the bottom part taken up with carved wood paneling and two huge mantelpieces. An old ship model dangled from the ceiling on a chain. Gigantic chandeliers could cause death on impact. Old men stared at him from old paintings.

Dr. Bush was going around the table, asking each man to give a report on the current status of his group’s penicillin research and production. To the left and slightly behind Bush (not actually at the table, denoting thereby a secondary position) sat a bow-tied and officious man whom Bush referred to as “Dr. Barnett.” James Stanton, Rutherford’s future (he hoped) son-in-law wasn’t here. Must be traveling. Just as well. Rutherford didn’t want to appear beholden to a younger man. Nick Catalano
was
here; they’d shaken hands coming in. Rutherford was still hoping that an opportunity would present itself for them to get to know each other better. But Rutherford wouldn’t push this; he’d let his wish take its natural course. Looking around, Rutherford recognized George Merck from photographs in the newspapers. The
others he didn’t know, but he tried to memorize their faces with their nameplates, so that at the next meeting he could walk right in and say, “Mr. Smith, a pleasure to see you again.” And, “John O’Donnell, isn’t it? In from Peoria for the meeting? How’s the weather out there, this time of year?”

He was also paying attention because he wanted to learn how they did it. Not so much the penicillin part—his researchers were ahead on that, he quickly realized. No, he wanted to learn their manner. Learn to put himself into this scene and become the master of it. Exactly what he’d been doing all his life. Although he’d never gone to college, by now he was accustomed to fitting in with men who had—and at the best places, too. Nobody would ever guess that Edward Rutherford wasn’t formally educated.

“Mr. Edward Rutherford, on behalf of Hanover and Company,” Bush’s secretary, sitting slightly behind him on the right, intoned from her list.

“I’m happy to report that we’ve had progress on all fronts, except the elusive synthesis,” he added with a touch of irony, guaranteed to make the others smile. No one had success on synthesis. “We’re making exceptionally good progress on the issue of deep-tank fermentation, more similar to beer production than we ever would have imagined.” Laughter all around. “Now then, as you know…” He proceeded to give a seemingly full, detailed, and properly scientific report—while holding back, just as the other companies did, on anything truly groundbreaking—and punctuating his remarks with well-planned humor. A few months ago, he hadn’t known any of this stuff. Now he sounded like an expert. Correction: he
was
an expert.

“Excellent news,” Dr. Bush said when Rutherford finished. “And thank you for your frankness. Next.”

The secretary read from her list, and the Lederle man began his report.

Rutherford congratulated himself. He’d done it. His place at the
table was secure. A remarkable moment for him. This industry made money by saving lives. Nothing more profitable or more worthwhile (in both the financial and moral sense of the term) than that.

Now he could relax and analyze what the others were saying. None of the esteemed gentlemen here at the table mentioned the cousins. No, they all had their secrets and kept them close. Bush had demanded that all their time be given to penicillin research, but no one followed that edict. Certainly they were working very hard on penicillin production, despite numerous setbacks and problems. The lure of the cousins, however, was too great to ignore. With the cousins you could control the future. You could control the nature of life itself. At Hanover, however, they still didn’t have anything. As far as Rutherford knew—and he had spies at all the companies, just as he presumed they had spies at his company—nobody else had anything yet, either. Soon they would, though; he had no doubt. In this business, he felt he was constantly on the edge of his seat, the level of expectation was so high.

On the patent issue, Rutherford predicted that when the first company went to the patent office with a viable, nonpenicillin antibacterial, the company would get a patent—for both the substance itself
and
for the means of mass production. Some excuse would be found to justify the new regulations: “These medications are so complicated to produce that new rules must be put into place to govern them.” Something like that. It would be the unspoken quid pro quo to make up for the industry’s commercial sacrifices on penicillin. Once upon a time, you couldn’t patent natural products. Now you could. Such an elegant solution, accomplished in the background, without a fight, as smooth as could be. Rutherford was just waiting for it to happen.

The meeting was over. The men stubbed out their cigarettes. Gathered their papers. Getting up, they talked in small cliques. Rutherford didn’t have any friendships here. Not yet, at least. At the moment, he didn’t need any. Let them get used to him being at the table, then he’d
start befriending them. Besides, he needed to write down the discussion, both what the others had said and the details that would match the faces with the nameplates. He didn’t allow himself to take notes during the meeting. He liked to project an image of someone who had no need of notes. A man who could remember everything—that was Edward Rutherford.

Except the image wasn’t the reality. If he wanted to remember the details, he’d have to write them down. He needed to find a secluded corner.

He looked around. Wasn’t there a library someplace at the Harvard Club? A gray-haired butler-type guarded the door, an aged retainer, as the saying went. Rutherford approached him.

“Excuse me, young man,” Rutherford said in his best making-requests-to-aged-retainers voice, “I need a quiet place to write myself some notes. Old head isn’t what it used to be. Any suggestions?”

“Certainly, sir. Follow me.”

They went up some stairs—elk, moose, and antelope heads regarding him from lofty perches on the walls—then along a short corridor, through the library, down a few more stairs, and there he was, on a kind of balcony overlooking the meeting room.

“Here you are, sir. Quite private.” The fellow was old and black but had a touch of an English accent.

“Perfect,” Rutherford said. “Thank you.” A tip was in order. Never knew when this gentleman would come in handy for a few tips of a different sort on whatever the high and mighty were discussing in various secret meetings they might conduct here. Rutherford gave him a five, more than generous, which the man slipped into his pocket.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“And to you, my friend.”

The man disappeared. Rutherford made himself comfortable despite the two stuffed water buffalo heads now regarding him from the corners of the balcony. He took an unused pad out of his briefcase. Leaving the first page blank, he turned to the second page. Starting
his notes with the beginning of the meeting, he methodically made his way through the discoveries reported by the men whom he could now call his colleagues.

Three pages on, he heard a noise. He looked up. Nick Catalano stood before him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Catalano said.

“Not at all.” Well, this was a nice surprise. Rutherford stood and simultaneously pushed over the pages of the pad. He never wrote on the top page of any pad because of exactly this type of situation.

“May I intrude on you for a few minutes?” Catalano asked.

“Always happy to talk.” Rutherford sat down.

Catalano pulled over a chair. “I’ll be brief.” He sat straight, as if at military attention.

“Take as long as you like.”

“This won’t take long.”

Catalano was hesitating. Rutherford knew what that meant. Something special at hand. His attention was rapt now. He leaned back to make himself appear relaxed. Crossed his legs. Not a care in the world. He made a pyramid of his hands. Pure patience, that’s what he was.

“Uh, well, I’ll be frank. A sample has come into my hands. An antibacterial. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Catalano didn’t meet his eyes. Helpfully Rutherford stepped in. “You’re wondering if I’d know what to do with it?”

Catalano laughed in relief. “Yes. In fact I’m sure you would know.”

“What is it?” asked Rutherford lightheartedly, joining in the amusement to encourage Catalano to let down his guard.

Catalano glanced over the balcony. Rutherford followed his gaze. The room below was deserted except for the elephant. All the humans were at lunch. Nothing like a meeting to get you desperate for a lunchtime martini.

“An antibacterial substance with excellent potential. It might be the miracle drug we’ve been looking for.”

“Ah.” This was a surprise. Rutherford kept it light: “Why come to me? Don’t you follow the idealistic rules of your idealistic employer, the Rockefeller Institute? Put the recipe into the public domain? No profits, etcetera?”

Catalano turned away. Rutherford regarded his profile. Catalano was handsome, no doubt about that. Dashing. A bad boy who probably had a million girls.

“Idealism doesn’t last forever,” Catalano finally said.

Rutherford knew that was true.

“I’m thinking about the future. Who knows, might want to get married someday. Buy a house. Have a more comfortable kind of life.”

So the issue was money, pure and simple. “Why don’t you go to work at one of the drug companies, if you want a higher salary. Come to work for me at Hanover. I’d love to have you.”

“After the Rockefeller Institute?”

So, Catalano was proud and condescending, on top of being money hungry (not that there was anything wrong with being money hungry). “Why did you pick me for this opportunity I presume you’re selling? Why not one of the big boys?”

Rutherford already knew the answer: he’d planted the seed, over brandy, in front of his own fireplace. Nick trusted him. Rutherford knew there must be something shady about this substance. But it could still be a terrific opportunity. This was business, and this was how business was done. He, certainly, was no idealist.

“Little guys are more creative.”

Well, a good answer, Rutherford had to admit. He himself was more creative, that was for sure. That’s how little guys got to be big guys.

“I want a million dollars for it.”

Rutherford burst out laughing. “I don’t know what you’ve got, but I can tell you, it’s not worth that right now. Right now, it’s in develop
ment. You don’t know what’s going to come of it. It might be a dud. Has it been tested on humans? It might cause anaphylactic shock.” He complimented himself on being able to throw that impressive phrase into the discussion.

“I suppose it could,” Catalano conceded.

Now they were getting somewhere. Rutherford wanted the substance, but on his terms. “First of all, you discover this yourself?”

Catalano paused. “Yes.”

“Where’d you find it?” Everybody asked this question, even though the answer wasn’t important. Once you had the mold or the actinomyces or even the antibacterial bacteria and you could grow it, where you got it from didn’t count anymore, except for curiosity’s sake. Maybe a certain romanticism was involved, too, in the focus on location: “This sample is from the pine forests of Rome. This one is from the gardens of the Tuileries Palace in Paris. This one from the top of Mont Blanc.”

Catalano still hadn’t responded. The telling pause, Rutherford thought.

“I found it when I was visiting my parents in Syracuse.”

Maybe yes, maybe no, Rutherford thought. “Well, I guess that’s as good a place as any.”

Catalano laughed more than necessary—it wasn’t a joke. Catalano was nervous. He wanted to get rid of this substance, but privately, to conceal his involvement. He felt safer with someone he knew personally. Instinctively Rutherford understood this.

“What makes you so sure it’s going to work?” Rutherford pressed.

“I’m just supposed to trust you on that?”

“Yes, you’re going to have to take my word for it,” Catalano said, bold once more.

Oh, a tough one, was he? Catalano thought he was a tough one? Well, Rutherford was tough, too.

“Where is it?”

“Not here. Someplace safe.”

“I should hope so. I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars and that’s the end of it.” Fifty thousand dollars was still a fortune. “We’ll make it legal. A contract. I’ll give you a cashier’s check.”

“I don’t want anything public,” Nick said in a rush.

Of course he didn’t. “A contract doesn’t have to be public.” Rutherford had the upper hand, he knew. “I’ll have my attorney draw it up. You can stop by the apartment later to sign it. Make it a social call. I realize you may not want to come to my office, what with your position in the penicillin campaign. Shall we say 7:00
PM
? My attorney works fast when he has to. You can stay for dinner if you like.”

“Your offer’s not good enough.”

“Well, that’s for you to decide.”

Catalano said nothing, pondering.

Rutherford had a choice now: to come in strong, or to step back. He wanted the substance, but he’d play through the bluff and pretend it didn’t matter to him.

“Look, Nick.” He used the first name to draw him in, father to son.

“You think things over. Don’t decide now. This is a big step. I’ll be home at seven, with the check and the contract. I believe you know the address. Stop by or not, it’s up to you. No hard feelings if you have second thoughts.” He turned back toward the table, ready to resume his work.

“Now excuse me, but I’ve got to write down my notes from the meeting before everything I heard evaporates. Growing old—no fun.”

Catalano stood. Picked up his briefcase. Stared into the distance, as if he wanted to say more. Then he left without a thank-you or a good-bye.