“Actually, I’ve seen what happens,” Herley said, wondering where the discourse was leading. “She goes right on eating more than her body needs.”
Corcoran shook his head. “That’s the orthodox and simplistic view, my boy. She goes on eating more than she, as the original person, needs—but, in fact, she is eating exactly the right amount to suit the needs of the adipose organ.”
Herley’s uneasiness increased. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t quite …”
“I’m talking about fat,” Corcoran said fervently. “What do you know about fat?”
“Well…what is there to know about it? Isn’t it just like lard?”
“A common misconception. Human body fat is actually a very complex substance which acts like a very large organ. Most people think of the adipose organ as having a poor blood supply, probably because it’s pale and bleeds little during surgery, but in fact it has a very extensive blood supply in very small capillaries, and the density of those capillaries is greater than in muscle, second only to liver. More important, the adipose organ also has a subtle network of nerves which are locked into the central nervous system and capable of reacting with it.”
Corcoran took another drink, eyeing Herley over the rim of the glass. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No.” Herley gave an uncertain laugh. “Not really.”
Corcoran leaned forward, red pennants flaring on his cheeks “I’m telling you that the adipose organ has a life of its own. behaves like any other successful parasite—selfishly, looking oui for its own interests. It controls its own environment as best il can, which means that it controls its host. That’s why obese people have the compulsion to go on over-eating, to go on being fat—no adipose organ willingly allows itself to be killed!”
Herley stared back at the older man with real anxiety in hisj heart. He had always had a phobia about insanity, and now he was experiencing a powerful urge to flee.
“That’s a very…interesting theory,” he said, draining hisj glass to banish the sudden dryness of his mouth.
“It’s more than a theory,” Corcoran replied. “And it explains why a person who tries to slim down finds it harder and harder to keep to a diet—when the adipose organ feels threatened it fights more strongly for its life. A person who loses some adipose tissue almost always puts it back on again. It’s only in the very rare cases where the determined slimmer manages to starve the adipose organ down below its threshold mass for autonomous consciousness that he successfully normalises his weight. Then dieting suddenly becomes easy, and he tends to remain slim for life.”
Herley did his best to appear unruffled. “This is really fascinating, but I don’t see how it tallies with what you said earlier. Surely, if it were possible to produce a drug that would effectively … ah … kill this … ah … adipose organ it would have tremendous commercial potential.”
“The drug can be manufactured,” Corcoran said, again glancing to the right. “I told you I had produced a pilot batch, in the form of a targeted liposome. For a human adult, four 1 c.c. doses at daily intervals is enough to guarantee permanent normalisation of body weight.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Why, the adipose organ itself,” Corcoran said with an indulgent smile. “It fights very effectively against a slow death—so how do you imagine it would react to the prospect of a sudden death? Without understanding what was happening inside his own body and nervous system the patient would feel a powerful aversion to the use of the drug and would go to any lengths to avoid it. I think that takes care of your commercial potential.”
This is getting crazier and crazier, Herley thought.
“What if you disguised the drug?” he said. “Or what if it was administered by force?”
“I don’t think the adipose organ would be deceived, especially after the first dose—and there is such a thing as the medical ethic.”
Herley stared at Corcoran’s flushed countenance, wondering what to do next. It was easy to see why Aldersley General had decided to part company with Corcoran on the quiet. Although a brilliant pioneer in his field, the man was obviously deranged. Had it not been for the independent evidence from the laboratory technician, Herley would have had severe doubts about the efficiency of Corcoran’s radical new drug. Now the substance seemed less attainable and therefore more desirable than ever.
“If that’s the case,” Herley said tentatively, “I don’t suppose you’d ever be interested in selling the pilot batch?”
“Sell it!” Corcoran gave a wheezing laugh. “Not for a million pounds, my boy. Not for a billion.”
“I have to admire your principles, sir—I’m afraid I’d be tempted by a few hundred,” Herley said with a rueful grimace, getting to his feet and dropping his notebook into his pocket.
“It’s been a pleasure talking to you, but I have to get back to Aldersley now.”
“It’s been more of a pleasure for me—I get very bored living in this big house all by myself since my …” Corcoran stood up and shook Herley’s hand across his desk. “Don’t forget to let me have a copy.”
“A copy? Oh, yes. I’ll send you half-a-dozen when the article is printed.” Herley paused and looked beyond Corcoran towards the garden which lay outside the room’s bay window. “That’s a handsome shrub, isn’t it? The one with the grey leaves.”
Corcoran turned to look through the window. “Ah, yes. My Olearia scilloniensis. It does very well in this soil.”
Herley, moving with panicky speed, side-stepped to the bookshelves on his left, snatched the red box from its resting place and slipped it inside his jacket, holding it between his arm and ribcage. He was back in his original position when Corcoran left the window and came to usher him out of his room. Corcoran steadied himself by touching his desk as he passed it.
“Thanks again,” Herley said, trying to sound casual in spite of the hammering of his heart. “Don’t bother coming to the front door with me—I can see myself out.”
“I’m sure you can, but there’s just one thing before you go.”
Herley drew his lips into a stiff smile. “What’s that, Mr Corcoran?”
“I want my belongings back.” Corcoran extended one hand. “The box you took from the shelf-1 want it back. Now!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Herley said, trying to sound both surprised and offended. “If you’re suggesting …”
He broke off, genuinely surprised this time, as Corcoran lunged forward and tried to plunge his hands inside his jacket. Herley blocked the move, striving to push Corcoran away from him and being thwarted by the little man’s unexpected strength and tenacity. The two men revolved in an absurd shuffling dance, then Herley’s superior power manifested itself with an abrupt breaking of Corcoran’s hold. Corcoran was forcibly propelled backwards for the distance of one pace and was jolted to a halt by the edge of the marble fireplace, which caught him at the base of the skull. His eyes turned upwards on the instant, blind crescents of white, and blood spurted from his nose. He dropped into the hearth amid an appalling clatter of fire irons, and lay very, very still.
“You did that yourself,” Herley accused, backing away, mumbling through the fingers he had pressed to his lips. “That’s what you get for drinking too much. That’s…”
He stopped speaking and, driven by a pounding sense of urgency, looked around the room for evidence of his visit. The whisky tumbler he had used was still sitting on the arm of the leather chair. He picked it up in trembling fingers, dried and polished it with his handkerchief and placed it among others on the sideboard, then went to the desk. Among the papers scattered on its surface he found a large business diary which was open at the current date. He examined the relevant page, making sure there was no note of his appointment, then hurried out of the room without looking at the obscene object in the hearth.