“And we are eager to show it to you. Tomorrow we plan to…”
“Why not tonight?” interrupted Adam enthusiastically.
Dr. Nachman looked at Glover and Mitchell, who smiled and shrugged. “I suppose we could show you some of the facilities tonight,” said Dr. Nachman. “Are you sure you are not too tired?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Adam.
Dr. Nachman stood up, followed by Dr. Glover and Dr. Mitchell. The others excused themselves, preferring to remain at the table for more coffee and after-dinner drinks.
Dr. Nachman led Adam back to the main building, where guests signed in. Then the four went through another set of double doors to the research center. This part of the building was floored in white tile, the walls painted in bright primary colors.
“These are the administration offices,” explained Dr. Nachman. A moment later Adam found himself crossing a glass-walled bridge. He could see palm trees waving on either side and realized that there were two concentric buildings, one nestled inside of the other, much like the Pentagon in Washington.
Turning down another hallway, Adam smelled the unmistakable odor of caged animals. Dr. Glover opened the first door and for the next half hour led Adam from room to room, explaining the complicated machinery and examining an endless number of rats and monkeys. This was where Arolen was doing its basic fetology research.
To Adam’s surprise, white-gowned technicians were working in some of the labs, despite the late hour. Dr. Glover explained that ever since they’d begun to get positive results with fetal implants, they’d been working around the clock.
“Where do you get your material?” asked Adam, pausing by a cage of pink mice.
“Most of the research is done with animal systems,” explained Dr. Glover, “and we breed our animals right here at the center.”
“But surely you’re doing some human implants. Where do you get your tissue?” persisted Adam.
“Very good question,” said Dr. Glover. “We did run into a bit of a problem after restrictive laws were passed, but we’ve managed one way or another. Most of our material comes from the Julian Clinic.”
Adam wanted to pound the glass cases in frustration. Why couldn’t he get anyone to listen to him? Obviously, doctors like Vandermer were increasing the supply of fetal tissue by merely increasing the number of therapeutic abortions.
“Tomorrow,” continued Dr. Glover, pleased that Adam was demonstrating such interest, “we will take you into our hospital wing. We’ve had some amazing results, particularly in treating diabetics with fetal pancreatic extracts.”
“I know how interesting this is, but I think Dr. Mitchell would like to describe some of his work,” said Nachman, smiling at Glover.
“Indeed,” echoed Dr. Mitchell. “A year from now, when the sales figures are in, we’ll see whose department accounts for the biggest increases.”
Mitchell devoted the next thirty minutes to a nonstop monologue on psychotropic drugs, particularly a new brand of phenothiazine. “It’s effective for every type of psychotic condition. It’s essentially nontoxic, and it changes the most disturbed individual into an exemplary citizen. Of course, some spontaneity is sacrificed.”
Adam started to protest, but thought better of it. He was certain that “some spontaneity is sacrificed” was the company’s way of downplaying the drug’s side effects. Certainly the stewards on the Fjord and the orderlies at the Julian had lacked “spontaneity.”
“What’s the name of this new drug?” Adam asked instead.
“Scientific, generic, or trade name?” asked Dr. Mitchell, out of breath from his monologue.
“Trade name.”
“Conformin,” said Dr. Mitchell.
“Would it be possible for me to get a sample?”
“You’ll be able to get all the samples you want when the drug is released,” said Dr. Mitchell. “We’re waiting for FDA clearance.”
“Just a small amount?” asked Adam. “I’d like to see how it’s packaged. As a sales rep, I’ve learned how important that is.”
Dr. Mitchell looked at Adam strangely. “Perhaps a small amount,” he murmured.
Adam didn’t push the issue, saying, “If the drug is close to being released, then you’ve started human testing.”
“My word, yes,” said Dr. Mitchell, brightening. “We’ve been using the drug on humans for several years, on patients with intractable psychiatric problems brought in from all over the world, in fact. The drug has proved one hundred percent effective.”
“I’d like to visit the ward,” said Adam.
“Tomorrow,” said Dr. Mitchell. “Right now, I’d like to show you our main chemistry laboratory. It’s one of the most advanced in the world.”
There was no doubt in Adam’s mind that Arolen’s research facilities were superb, especially when compared with those at University Hospital, where money was so tight that every No. 2 Mongol pencil had to be included in grant requests. But after seeing so many labs, Adam became bored. He tried to look interested, but the longer the tour went on, the more difficult that became.
“I think that will be enough for tonight,” said Dr. Nachman finally. “We don’t want to exhaust Mr. Schonberg on his first evening with us.”
“I’ll second that,” said Dr. Glover. “We only spent half an hour in my department.”
“That’s because there is more to see here,” said Dr. Mitchell.
“Gentlemen!” interjected Dr. Nachman, lifting his hands.
“I’ve enjoyed all of it,” protested Adam, careful to use the past tense so as not to encourage an encore from Dr. Mitchell.
They walked down the main corridor and crossed the connecting bridge to the outer building. Adam stopped to look behind him. He could see that the bridge continued beyond the corridor to a third interior building, which was blocked off by heavy steel doors.
“What’s back there?” asked Adam.
“The clinical wards,” said Dr. Nachman. “You’ll see them tomorrow.”
That must be where the psychiatric ward is located, thought Adam. He hesitated a minute, then followed Nachman out to the main lobby where they all said good night.
It was quarter to twelve, and even though Adam had had a busy day, he was not sleepy. A dull headache was beginning behind his eyes, and he could not forget he had only two more days to come up with convincing, concrete evidence. Even if he got a sample of Conformin, it would take time to have it analyzed, and then even more time to try to convince someone like Vandermer to have himself checked to see if he’d received it. Knowing sleep was out of the question, Adam opened his door and walked the length of the corridor to the far elevator. A small Formica sign said “Bathers’ Elevator.”
Descending to the ground floor, Adam found himself outside in a dense garden of palms, bamboo, and ferns. A curving pathway led through the lush vegetation. Following it, Adam arrived at the beach.
Taking off his shoes, he stepped onto the cool sand. The full moon made the night almost as bright as day. The sand was smooth and soft as powder. A slight wind rattled the rigging of the Hobie Cats so that they sounded like Japanese wind chimes. Adam could understand why people like Bill Shelly were so enchanted with the place.
Passing the club, Adam could see into the dining room. A few of the busboys were still laying the tables for the next meal.
About a hundred yards beyond the club Adam saw the condominiums. They were designed in a pseudo-Spanish style with stuccoed walls and red tile roofs. Lights were burning in some of the residences, and Adam caught glimpses of men and women watching television or reading. The whole scene was so peaceful it was hard to believe it could be the center of some gigantic conspiracy. Yet apparently it was. All drug firms spent millions of dollars attempting to influence the purchasing behavior of doctors, but MTIC wanted more. It wanted to control the doctors. It was no wonder that Arolen was planning to reduce its sales force.