Authors: Harry Stein
Then, again, the sheer variety of choices only made his own easier: he’d focus on malignancies of the breast.
On the second page, his eye fixed upon a talk to be held immediately after this ceremony in a lecture hall a floor above: “Prognostic Factors in Early Stage Breast Cancer.” The listed speaker was Sergio Ferrati of Milan’s Instituto Nazionale di Tumori, a name Logan had been liberally dropping since he first came across it during his second year at Claremont. Obliged to speak in English, the international language of science, Dr. Ferrati proved nearly impenetrable, but Logan didn’t care. The treat was seeing him at all. So what if his notes were useless, Reston would bust a gut with envy!
After a break for lunch at the cafeteria, Logan headed straight for “Novel Chemotherapeutic Agents for Advanced Breast Cancer” by Arthur McGee of Houston’s M. D. Anderson Cancer Center; then, as a change of pace, dropped by for the last third of a seminar on “Cell Cycle Progression in Malignant Breast MCF-7 Cells.”
By the time the question and answer segment ended, it was nearly five o’clock. Shein was scheduled to speak at eight, immediately after dinner. The sense of impending disaster returned with a rush. Where could the guy be? What was wrong with him? Throughout the day, Logan had exchanged scarcely a word with anyone on the premises. This he didn’t mind; young and without a big-time reputation in a gathering of some of the most ambitious souls on earth, he was grateful to be able to distance himself from the ego-driven scene. But now he felt not so much apart as deeply, harrowingly alone.
The formal sessions concluded for the day, intent on somehow keeping his mind off his problem, Logan made his way down to the large room off the lobby given over to “poster sessions.”
The atmosphere here was reminiscent of nothing so much as a high school science fair, confidence commingling with just a touch of desperation. Lining the aisles, edge to edge, were easels, each about six feet high and four feet long. This room was open to even the most modestly credentialed, from ambitious postgraduate students, to young researchers of recognized promise, to older midlevel academics hoping against hope to stay in the game. Anyone with data to display or even a product to hawk was welcome; he or she had merely to scrawl a shorthand description of his wares on a poster, paste on a bit of supporting data, and stand there, awaiting interested customers.
Though poster sessions were the low-rent neighborhood of every such convention—senior scientists tending to wander through only in protective packs, like socialites slumming in Harlem for soul food—Logan had heard that they often featured innovative work. Now he slowly made his way past the exhibits: “The Role of p53 in Retinoblastoma” by Edinoff and Bender of New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center; “Mutated H-ras Sequences in Pancreatic Cancer” by a researcher from Madrid; “K-Balb Cells Efficiently Internalize Antisense Oligonucleotides” by … no affiliation was listed. But
the young woman whose work it apparently was stood at the ready.
More out of politeness than genuine interest, Logan paused, reading her poster.
“Affiliation?” she suddenly spoke up.
“Pardon?” said Logan, startled.
“What is your affiliation, please?” She had some vaguely mid-European accent. Maybe Czech.
“The American Cancer Foundation.”
Her eyes brightened. “Excellent. This will interest you, then.” And, without awaiting a reply, she launched into her presentation. “You see, what we are trying to establish is that antisense oligonucleotide constructs can be used in these cells to sequence-specifically inhibit gene expression. This could be a whole new way of treating patients.”
Forget it
, thought Logan,
it’ll never work
. “Actually,” he said, “my specialty is breast cancer.”
“Oh.” Glumly, she nodded to her right. “Over there.”
The next aisle was entirely devoted to breast research, no fewer than fifteen displays.
As he began strolling down it, one exhibit immediately seized his interest “Inhibitors of Growth Factor Binding to MCF-7 Breast Cancer Cells.”
Logan stopped short. Even as he tried to feign nonchalance, he was aware of his heart starting to pound. This was precisely the claim he intended to make for Compound J! Had someone else already done
his
research? Had they been scooped?
He and the man beside the poster, identified as Willem Van Meter, Ph.D., of the University of Antwerp, looked one another over. Obviously unimpressed, Van Meter resumed scanning the crowd for more likely prospects.
Logan moved in closer. A cursory glance at the accompanying display cards confirmed his fear that this was indeed real science, not quackery. He began reading the cards one by one, weighing the hypotheses, critiquing the experimental technique, trying to decide whether the thesis could hold water in its entirety.
Glumly, he concluded it might.
“Interesting work,” he ventured, with studied neutrality.
Van Meter looked at him—“Thank you”—then turned his attention back to the room.
“It reminds me of the study done by Professor Engel at the University of Minnesota.”
“Yes, I am aware of that.”
Logan waited for some elaboration. When none came, it struck him that the other knew nothing at all of the study in question.
But Van Meter became considerably more animated a moment later when an older, far more distinguished scientist happened by: Dr. Vickers of the Royal Marsden Hospital in London.
“So what have we here?” asked Vickers.
“It’s a red-colored polycarboxylate polymer,” the other readily explained. “We think it’s quite interesting.”
“Ah, a polymer, is it …?”
“We are trying to establish activity in metastatic breast cancer.…”
“But,” repeated Vickers, fixing on the key detail, “you say it’s a polymer …?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What a shame. All these fascinating results, and no one will ever treat a patient with it.”
A polymer, which is composed of linked repeating units with the number of units differing from molecule to molecule, has by definition erratic behavior. Nor, because it is produced by a chemical reaction that ends unpredictably, can uniformity ever be achieved. In the same batch will be found molecules varying dramatically in size and weight, some active, some inactive, some perhaps even toxic.
“No,” conceded Van Meter. “What we have is far too …
ill defined
for practical use.”
“I should say so. The American FDA will never approve the stuff! They tend to be such sticklers about knowing
what you put into patients.” The Englishman laughed. “Well, I suppose you’ll at least have your bit of fun with it.”
“Naturally, for the moment, I’m concerned only with the principle,” returned Van Meter defensively. “Down the road, we will certainly need better compounds, but for now …”
But Logan had already heard more than he needed to know. Nodding pleasantly, he turned and resumed moving up the aisle.
“Where the hell
you
been?”
Logan would know that voice anywhere—and
never
had he been so glad to hear it. He had to resist the impulse to take Shein in his arms.
Though red eyed, unshaven, and still wearing the same clothes in which he’d arrived, Shein appeared just fine.
“I’ve just been attending the conference, Dr. Shein.” He paused. “I was worried about you.”
“About
me
? Didn’t you get my note?” Suddenly he leaned in close. “I gotta get changed for my damn speech. Come up with me, I’ll tell you everything.”
Shein was fairly bursting with the news.
“Remember the woman at the airport?” he blurted out suddenly, as they rode up in the elevator.
Logan glanced uneasily at the only other passenger, a bellboy with a food cart. “The blonde?” he replied softly.
“She has a name, for Chrissakes. Christina. Logan, your problem’s you got no respect for women.”
The door opened and Logan gratefully stepped out. “You were with her? How’d you find her?”
Shein smiled with pride. “You’re not as smart as you look—I read her luggage tag. Turned out she’s a translator, can you believe that? Talks better than you and me put together.”
As they headed down the corridor, Logan glanced at his watch. The speech was in less than twenty-five minutes.
“Only one hitch—she won’t sleep with me!”
Though some sort of response seemed called for, Logan
was at a loss as to what it might be. “That’s too bad,” he ventured.
“Wants me to have an AIDS test. Me? Can you believe that?”
Fifteen minutes later, standing in his underwear before the sink, face covered with foam, Shein was still on the subject. “I try to explain to her the statistical probabilities, right? A guy my age, my background, number of sexual partners. But it’s like talking to the Berlin Wall!” He laughed. “That’s what I call her, my little Berlin Wall. She loves it.”
“Dr. Shein, I’m getting a little concerned about the time.” That, and the fact that his colleague evidently hadn’t given his talk so much as a moment’s thought.
“I tell you, Logan,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, “this really hits home how much goddamn ignorance and hysteria there is out there about this disease!”
Not that Logan need to have worried. Shein was brilliant. Speaking without notes on the granulocyte colony stimulating factor—a genetically engineered protein that enables bone marrow to quickly regenerate, thus rendering tolerable extremely high doses of chemotherapy—he kept the overflow audience in the main auditorium mesmerized. In the question-and-answer session that followed, completely in his element, he described his own research experience with the compound in ways almost unheard of at such gatherings; discussing not only the technical aspects, but his interactions with patients and their families; along the way getting laughs from this gathering of senior scientists that would have delighted a veteran Borscht Belt comic.
“That was amazing,” enthused Logan, greeting him at the podium afterward. “I don’t know how you do it.”
But to his surprise, Shein looked almost crestfallen. “Christ, it’s too easy. From these people you think you’d get a little more skepticism.”
Logan just stared at him.
“C’mon, Logan, you know it as well as me—it’s all
bullshit. The survival rate for metastatic breast cancer hasn’t changed in twenty years. And all the goddamn colony stimulating factors on the planet aren’t gonna raise it one bit.”
L
ike
almost everyone else of her generation, she still felt young. Was it possible it had been eighteen years since she was back in Sacramento, writing on local politics for the
Bee?
Sometimes, closing her eyes, she could see herself, hair still shoulder length, wearing one of those ridiculous pants suits, working away at her heavy old Underwood, struggling to meet a deadline
.
But the regrets rarely lingered. The choice to set aside a promising career had been hers alone, prompted not only by altered circumstances but by a changed sense of herself. Fourteen years ago, when Charlie was born, she had wanted to stay home
—
and considered herself immensely fortunate to be in a position to do so. She wanted to watch her children grow up, to be there when they needed her. Seven years later, by the time her second child, Allison, was old enough for school, her old life no longer seemed feasible. Now, unavoidably, John’s career came first. Sacramento was only pleasant memories, the house where they’d lived then replaced by a larger one, before they’d ended up here. When she entered a newspaper office now
—
struck by the silence, computers having replaced clattering typewriters
—
it was always at her husband’s side
.
True enough, over the years she’d sometimes resented this. It wasn’t easy living in the shadow of a rising political star. Always, the moment he entered a public place, he changed, his eyes turning hard even as his cheek muscles fixed in a grin. His frequent absences were especially hard on the children
.
Still, she told people theirs was a good marriage, and unlike most political spouses, she meant it. Maybe it wasn’t so rock solid as that her parents had made, but what else was new?
These were changed times, difficult times. If John was ambitious, well, wasn’t that part of the reason she’d married him?
Above all, she respected him. She alone knew how much he agonized over the compromises he felt bound to make; and how often, under fire, he struggled to remain true to his best self. She saw herself as an essential part of that process, a partner in far more than name only. He trusted her absolutely
.
Perhaps even more, she realized now, than she trusted him. For almost a week after the gnawing ache in her lower back returned, she failed to mention it to him. After all, the doctor was still reassuring. He said he was suggesting a biopsy only as a precaution. (As a precaution for whom? she thought, with reflexive irreverence. Whose future was he REALLY worried about?)
She finally agreed because it was easier than fighting it. Anyway, it would put her own mind at ease
.
Still, she decided not to tell John. It just wasn’t a good time, he had so much on his mind. She’d let him know afterward, when the results came in, when she was free and clear
.
The biopsy was set for day after tomorrow. Looking in the mirror, she again succeeded in quieting the doubts. This was not a sick woman staring back at her. This was a woman who looked exactly as she felt
—
unbelievably young
.
T
he following morning, Shein was gone again. But Logan no longer saw this as his concern. Never mind appearances, this guy was obviously as capable of fending for himself as anyone he’d ever known.
Anyway, he had other things on his mind. This was the day he was to visit the building in which Paul Ehrlich had conquered syphilis, now a cancer research center. Its directors had taken advantage of their proximity to the conference to arrange a tour and various sessions.