"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 IL 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 3urvive.”
As he said it, Celia wondered if for the first time there was the slightest crack, a hint of weakness, in the confident facade. 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 he found... it will happen, must happen... but somewhere else...”
Celia was aghast. What had she done? She had sought to shock Martin into what she perceived as reality, but had neither intended, nor wanted, to go this far. Clearly the accumulated strain over more than two years, the lonely and awesome responsibility he had carried, had exacted its toll, which was visible now. Again Martin's voice.”...tired, so tired...”
Hearing the defeated phrases, Celia had an overwhelming desire to take him in her arms and comfort him. Then, with the suddenness of a revelation, she knew what would happen next.”Martin," she said decisively, "let's get out of here.”
A passing waitress glanced toward them curiously. Celia, standing, told her, "Put the meal on my bill. My friend isn't well.”
"Certainly, Mrs. Jordan.”
The girl eased their table outward.”Do you need help?" "No, thank you. I'll manage.”
She took Martin's arm and propelled him toward the lounge-bar outside. From there a stairway ascended to a series of guest rooms. Celia's room was near the head of the stairway. She used her key to open it. They went inside. This portion of the building, too, had been preserved from Jacobean days. The rectangular bedroom had a low strapwork ceiling, oak-paneled walls and a fireplace framed in stone. Leaded-light windows were small, their smallness a reminder that in the seventeenth century glass was an expensive luxury. The bed was a roomy four-poster with a canopy. During the dinner hours a maid had been here, neatly turning down the bedsheets and leaving a negligee of Celia's draped across a pillow. Celia wondered how much history-of ancient families: their births and deaths, illnesses, loving passions, joys and sorrows, quarrels, assignations-this room had seen. Well, she thought, tonight there would be something more to add. Martin was standing, still dazed and suffering, regarding her uncertainly. She picked up the negligee and, turning toward the bathroom, told him softly, "Get undressed. Get into bed. I'll join you.”