She said doubtfully, "Don't you think Vince Lord is better qualified?" "Scientifically, yes. But Vince is too prejudiced. He opposed doing research in Britain, so if Harlow closed it would prove him right, and he couldn't resist recommending it.”
Celia laughed.”How well you know us all!" Sam said seriously, "I know you, Celia, and I've learned to trust your judgment and your instincts. Just the same, I urge you-no matter how much you like Martin Peat-Smith-if you need to be tough and ruthless in your recommendation, do it! How soon can you go?" "I'll try for tomorrow," Celia said.
When Celia arrived at London's Heathrow Airport in the early morning for a two-day visit, no time was wasted. A waiting limousine transported her directly to the Felding-Roth Research Institute where she would review with Martin Peat-Smith and others what she now thought of mentally as "the Harlow equation.”
After that, having reached a decision about what to recommend to Sam, she would fly home. During her first day at Harlow she was made pointedly aware that the mood, with almost everyone she met, was upbeat. From Martin downward, Celia was assured how well the research on mental aging was progressing, how much had been learned already, and how hard-and as a coordinated team-all concerned were working. Only occasionally were there flashes-like fleeting, accidental glimpses through the doorway of a private donjon-of what seemed to her like doubt or hesitancy. Then they were gone, or instantly denied, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined them after all. To begin, on that first day Martin walked with her through the labs, explaining work in progress. Since their last meeting, he explained, he and others working with him had fulfilled their initial objective of "discovering and isolating an mRNA which is different in the brains of young animals compared with old ones.”
He added, "This will probably, in time, be found equally true of human beings.”
The scientific jargon flowed. “.
...extracted RNA from the brains of rats of varying ages... afterward the extraction incubated with 'broken cell' preparations of yeast with radioactive amino acids added... the yeast system manufactures the animal brain peptides which become mildly radioactive also... next, separate them by means of their electric charge, on special gels... following that, use an X-ray film and, where bands appear, we have a peptide...”
Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat-voila!-Martin slid several eight-by-ten negatives across a lab bench where he and Celia had paused. "These are films of the chromatograms.”
As Celia picked them up, they seemed to be almost clear, transparent films, but Martin commanded, "Look closely and you'll see two columns of dark lines. One is from the young rat, the other from the old. Notice...”
He pointed with a finger.”Here and here on the young rat column are at least nine peptides no longer being produced in the older animal's brain.”
His voice rose with excitement as he declared, "Now we have positive evidence that the brain RNA, and probably the DNA, change during the aging process. This is terribly important.” "Yes," Celia said, but wondered silently: was it really a triumph justifying more than two years of combined effort here at enormous expense? A reminder of the expense was all around-the spacious labs and modem offices, all with modular dividers permitting rearrangement when desired; the unobstructed corridors; a cozy conference room; and, in the elaborately equipped labs, a wealth of stainless steel and modem benches, the latter manufactured from synthetics-no wood allowed because, in scientific terms, wood was dirty. Air conditioning removed airborne impurities. Lighting was bright without glare. A pair of incubation rooms housed massive glass-faced incubators, specially designed to hold racks of petri dishes containing bacteria and yeast. Still other rooms had double-entry doors with "Danger: Radiation Hazard" signs outside. The contrast to the Cambridge laboratories that Celia had visited with Martin was startling, though a few familiar things remained. One was paper-a prodigious quantity piled high and untidily on desks, Martin's in particular. You could change a scientist's background, she thought, but not his work habits. As they moved away from the bench and the chromatograms, Martin continued explanations. "Now that we have the RNA, we can make the corresponding DNA... then we must insert it into the DNA of living bacteria... try to 'fool' the bacteria into making the required brain peptide...” Celia attempted to absorb as much as she could at high speed. Near the end of their inspection, Martin opened a door to a small laboratory where a white-coated, elderly male technician was confronting a half-dozen rats in cages. The technician was wizened and slightly stooped, with only a fringe of hair surrounding his head, and wore old-fashioned pince-nez secured by a black cord worn around the neck. Martin announced, "This is Mr. Yates, who is about to do some animal dissections.”
"Mickey Yates.”
He extended his hand.”I know who you are. Everybody does.”
Martin laughed.”That's right, they do.”
He asked Celia, "May I leave you here for a few minutes? I have to make a phone call.”
"Of course.”
When Martin had gone, closing the door behind him, she told ',,ates, "If it won't bother you, I'd like to watch.”
"Won't bother me at all. First, though, I have to kill one of these little buggers.”
He motioned to the rats. With quick, deft movements, the technician opened a refrigerator and, from the freezing compartment, took out a smallish, clear plastic box with a hinged lid. Inside was a slightly raised platform with a tray beneath containing crystalline material from which wisps of evaporation rose.”Dry ice," Yates said.”Put it in there just before you came.”
Opening one of the cages, he reached in and expertly grasped a large, squirming white-gray rat which he transferred to the plastic box, then closed the lid. Celia could now see the rat, on the small platform inside. "Because of the dry ice, in there it's a CO, environment," Yates said. "You know what that means?" Celia smiled at the elementary question.”Yes. Carbon dioxide is what we all breathe out after we've used the air's oxygen. We couldn't live on it.”
"Nor can chummy there. He's just about a goner.”
While they watched, the rat jerked twice, then was still, A minute passed.”He's stopped breathing," Yates said cheerfully. After another thirty seconds he opened the plastic box, removed the unmoving creature and pronounced, "Dead as a doornail. But it's a slow way to do it.”
"Slow? It seemed quick to me.”
Celia was trying to remember how rats were killed during her own laboratory days, but couldn't. "It's slow when you've got a lot to do. Dr. Peat-Smith likes us to use the CO, box, but there's another way that's faster. This one.”
Yates reached down. Opening a cupboard beneath the lab bench, he produced a second box, this time metal. The design differed from the first in that one end of the box had a small round aperture cut into it while immediately above was a hinged, sharp knife.”This here's a guillotine," Yates said, still cheerfully.”The French know how to do things.”
"But messily," Celia responded. Now she remembered; she had seen rats killed in a similar kind of device. "Oh, it ain't that bad. And it's fast.”
Yates glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then, before Celia could object, he took a fresh rat from a cage and swiftly thrust it in the second box, its head protruding through the round hole. As if slicing bread, he pushed the hinged knife down. There was a soft crunching sound, another which might have been a cry, then the rat's head fell forward as blood spurted from arteries in the severed neck. Celia, despite her familiarity with laboratories and research, felt sick , Yates casually tossed the rat's body, still bleeding and twitching, into a trash receptacle and picked up the head.”All I have to do now is remove the brain. Fast and painless!" The technician laughed.”I didn't feel a thing.”