Doctors (67 page)

“If I assure him he’s the one and only, I can almost guarantee you’ll make the front page. After that it’ll be child’s play.”

Peter had only one important question.

“Do you think I should wear my contact lenses?”

Kazan proved to be an astute stage manager. After the first piece broke in the
Times
, he engineered an exclusive television exposure on the
Today
show. NBC sent Barbara Walters up to Boston to do the interview.

Peter had accomplished something brilliant. He’d taken a significant step toward the ultimate control of cancer. But it was not a
cure.

His work could best be likened to a road map leading to buried treasure. Although the way was now discovered, it remained for other scientists to travel it.

Still, for a week thereafter, frantic callers besieged the Med School switchboard, pleading for the chance to benefit from Wyman’s new discovery, before it was too late for someone in their family.

During the TV broadcast, Miss Walters naturally brought in Professor Pfeifer for his comments. And he told the camera, “Peter is a remarkable young man, a very remarkable young man.”

As soon as the little red light on the camera blinked off, the older man asked his acolyte to breakfast with him—at his club.

Pfeifer waited till they had reached their second cup of coffee to initiate dialogue.

“Tell me, Peter,” he asked casually, “do you have any notion why I’ve asked you here this morning?”

“To celebrate, perhaps?”

“And what precisely would our joyous reason be?”

“Well, the breakthrough—the whole project. The good publicity Harvard’s got.…” His voice trailed off.

“I rather think you got more publicity than Harvard.”

“Are you implying that I’ve stepped out of line, sir?” Peter asked ingenuously. “I’ve followed protocol and included your name in the actual article in the
NEJ.
I respect the hierarchies, sir.”

“I’m extremely flattered,” Pfeifer answered. “And glad to share a little of the credit, if only as director of the laboratory.”

“Oh, sir,” Peter unctuously persisted, “you did more than that. You’ve taught me everything I know.”

At this point Pfeifer changed his tone.

“Cut the groveling, Wyman, you’re not very good at it. I know I’m credited as coauthor of this. But then I’m the editor of the journal and I would have put my name in even if you’d ‘forgotten.’ What puzzles me, Peter, is two of the other scientists whose work you cite.”

Peter’s oatmeal face began to blanch.

“I’d like to think I knew the big boys in our field, and on occasion I’ve collaborated with a few of them. But I’ve never met this fellow Charpentier of the Institut Français de Recherches Médicales in Lyons or van Steen of Amsterdam—which certainly is curious, since both of them ostensibly collaborated with us on this breakthrough.”

“Uh … well, actually they’re both rising stars. They’re very young and haven’t published much.”

“Then you were lucky to make contact with them so they could perform their own experiments and corroborate your data independently.”

“Yes sir. That’s true.”

And suddenly there was silence. All that could be heard were the murmurings of distinguished Bostonian gentlemen politely discussing—or perhaps even deciding—the fate of the nation, the world economy, and Harvard’s chances against Yale.

Meanwhile, Pfeifer sat and stared at Peter.

The older man was patient; he could wait. But then Wyman
had remarkable endurance, too. So, in the end, Pfeifer capitulated. And broke the silence.

“Unless it was established in the last two weeks, Peter, there
is
no Institut Français de Recherches Médicales in Lyons and that would make it quite difficult for ‘Charpentier’ to work in such a place. Of course, the University of Amsterdam exists. That’s why I could ring up my good friend Harry Joost and ask about the mythical van Steen.…”

He stared at Peter, astonished at the younger man’s ability to face his exposure unflinchingly.

“Dr. Wyman, without the benefit of data from the large-scale studies allegedly done in Amsterdam and Lyons, your conclusions are—to put it mildly—premature and fragile.”

“My theory is correct, Professor Pfeifer,” Peter said softly. “You could run another dozen tests and the results would be the same as mine.”

“But Peter, if you were so certain, why not have some genuine investigations made to prove your point? Why were you in such a hurry?”

“The pressure—I didn’t want anyone else to beat us out with this. So I took a calculated risk.”

His mentor did not react. Peter continued his plea.

“You don’t know what it’s like out in the world of research now. Sir, why should another doctor help me out just for a thank-you in the footnote?”

Pfeifer thought for a moment before answering.

“Peter, I know that medical research can be like a street fight in an alley—there’s so much at stake. But there are only two ways one can deal with it. Either show integrity above reproach and damn the cheats—or be crooked and get away with it. I’m afraid that you did neither.”

Peter sat frozen, waiting for Pfeifer to pronounce sentence.

He did so in a hushed tone lest he disturb the distinguished breakfasters.

“Peter, listen carefully. I want you to go back to the lab, take everything that’s yours—and make sure everything you take
belongs
to you. And be out of my sight before the end of the day. You have an hour to write your resignation, which the dean will most regretfully accept this afternoon. I can’t run you out of town. But my advice would be to stay clear of the Boston medical community for, shall we say, the rest of your life.”

Peter felt like wood—hard, dry wood. Dead.

He had to force himself to breathe.

“Is—uh—any announcement going to be made?” he asked finally.

Pfeifer smiled. And with undisguised disdain he replied, “If we were to let this reach the press, it would reflect badly on Harvard. Besides, we prefer not to wash our dirty test tubes in public.”

“And—what about the article?”

“It will be published in due course. After all, despite certain shortcomings, it’s an important piece of work. And don’t worry, you’ll get your credit. I can easily find two colleagues to take the credit for the mythical Charpentier and van Steen.”

He rose, with Peter still glued to his chair.

“Goodbye, Wyman. And good luck in the profession of your choice.”

T
he mere fact that in 1969 both Grete Andersen and Peter Wyman lost their jobs for diametrically opposite reasons reinforced the paradoxical nature of the practice of medicine. While the woman surgeon had tried to invoke professional ethics, Peter had defied them. Yet both suffered a similar fate.

Of course, Grete had the not-inconsiderable advantage of being the injured party, and so appealed to those physicians in America who believed that a medical degree was not a license to transcend morality.

Washington’s medical establishment may have declared her “persona non Grete” (as she had quipped to Laura on the phone), but even they could not rewrite the past. They could not change her superb classroom and clinical grades in Med School, or “deep six” their once-enthusiastic evaluations of her hospital work.

She was welcomed into the surgical program at Houston’s University Hospital where, in fact, the most interesting work in surgery was currently being done—the repair and replacement of human hearts.

Peter, in his own opinion, had not been dishonest but rather merely expedient, for he self-righteously believed that history would prove him correct. The wretched bureaucratic machinery for determining scientific proof was a waste of valuable time.

Although he had a dossier listing some twenty publications, letters from his Ph.D. mentors at M.I.T., and even a note from Professor Pfeifer indicating that he had “a solid research brain,” Peter nonetheless found it difficult to get another academic job.

But this did not come as a surprise. For he knew that what is done in a letter can swiftly be undone by a phone call. And Pfeifer, in whitewashing Harvard, was clearly blackballing him.

So Peter scoured the private sector to find a laboratory that would accept him. Dale Woodburn and Art Nagra, two recent Stanford graduates, had started up a private biochemical concern in Palo Alto for research and development.

Both partners at Neobiotics liked Peter’s ideas. They liked his credentials. They liked his diplomas on the wall. And even though they didn’t like
him
, they knew a winner when they saw one.

Woodburn and Nagra had tuned in early to the new, disquieting events in the world of medicine. Study after study, journal after journal, was documenting the alarming fact that, as one put it, “if penicillin is not dead already, it will be in the next decade.”

The incidence of venereal disease had quadrupled in just ten years. And other bacteria were beginning to show strong resistance to the miracle antibiotics of a generation before. In fact, in the previous year alone, seventy-five thousand patients had died from infections
contracted while in the hospital.

Such is the power of our enemy—Disease.

“Laura? Can you hear me?”

“The connection’s perfect, Palmer. Sounds like you’re around the corner. Where are you?”

“Nowhere that you’d like to be,” he said evasively. “I was just calling to find out how things are.”

“Everything’s fine. I’ve written you a letter.”

“Good. I’m sorry that I’ve been so uncommunicative but I’ve been rather involved, you might say. Are you sure you haven’t got any other news to tell me?”

Though she knew to what he was alluding, she ignored the question.

“Palmer, I get up at five. I drive to the hospital. I see
patients getting sick. I see patients getting well. I come home and I flake. The only thing of import I can say is that they’re offering a special residency in neonatology—that means treating infants the second they’re born—and I’ve been accepted in the program.”

“Oh—that’s wonderful. You must be looking forward to working with the babies.”

“Yes, it’s very exciting—although it can also break your heart.”

“I understand. Uh—while we’re on the subject, I was wondering—”

“No, Palmer,” she said softly, “I’m not.”

“Oh.”

“I told you it doesn’t automatically work the first time. The odds were heavily against it.”

Palmer’s voice suddenly became more businesslike. “I—uh—shouldn’t really be hogging the phone for so long. There aren’t many lines and there are so many others waiting—”

“Palmer, promise me you’ll write even if it’s only to tell me that you’re safe. Otherwise I feel I’m married to a one-way mailbox.”

“You’re always in my thoughts, Laura. I hope you believe that.”

“And you in mine.”

Laura was more confused than ever. She even castigated herself for not having gotten pregnant for him. Perhaps Palmer’s genuine desire was to consolidate their relationship. She wanted him to love her as he had years ago.

“Well, I guess it’s goodbye for now.”

“Yeah, sure. Goodbye.”

MIND OF A CHAMPION: A Psychiatrist Looks at Sporting Greats,
Barney Livingston, M.D.
Berkeley House, $7.95.

A practicing psychiatrist examines the psyches of champions in various fields of athletic endeavor from Olympics to boxing to baseball. Enormous research and interviews in depth went into this attempt to find what separates the extraordinary from what Livingston calls the “layman athlete.”

Each of his twelve chapters focuses on a single great champion, e.g., Jesse Owens (“What Makes Jesse Run?”), Sandy Koufax (“The Left-Handed Bullet”), Doctor Roger Bannister (“Four Minutes of Physiology”).

Livingston offers some provocative observations, e.g., that for some runners their races are fantasy re-enactments of sibling rivalry.

A lucid jargon-free study that should appeal to legions of sports fans, as well as all those interested in what makes people tick.

First serial to Sports Illustrated. (April 20)

Bill Chaplin was so excited by the preview in the bible of the book trade that he convinced his colleagues to increase the first printing of Barney’s book from ten thousand copies to fifteen.

They also decided to subsidize a selective author tour and arrange a launch party for what might prove to be the “sleeper” of the year.

He was disappointed that Barney did not jump for joy.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Bill, I work for Sigmund Freud, not P. T. Barnum. I don’t want to be marketed like a new detergent. I’ve written a serious book, and I want it to be taken seriously.”

“Barney, you want your book to be
read.
To do that we have to spread the word. We’re only proposing that you make one or two television appearances, go to Washington and Boston—”

Barney interrupted, “Bill—I’m a psychiatrist, for God’s sake. My patients have enough difficulty trying to deal with my persona without having to face it over their scrambled eggs at home.”

Chaplin sighed in frustration. “Will you at least let us kick the whole thing off with a dignified reception at the St. Regis and a few interviews with important—do you hear me?—important journalists?”

“Why would any of them want to meet an unknown like me?”

“Aha,” said Bill, “that was my brainstorm of the day. We’ll make the party not just for your book but for the people in it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have all those living legends in a single room?”

Barney was excited by the notion but still fearful about letting himself be caught up in a three-ring circus.

He covered the mouthpiece of the phone and turned to Emily. “Bill wants me to—”

“I know. He was talking so loud I could hear every word.”

“What do you think, Em?”

“I think he’s right that you have to get some media exposure. Just make sure you can veto the publications.”

Barney returned to the phone. “Okay, Bill, my spiritual advisor persuades me that you know best. Only make sure I approve everything. And keep it respectable. I mean, I draw the line at exclusive interviews for
Screw
magazine.”