Authors: Irving Wallace
John Garrett saw that it was now or never. He lifted his right hand, partially, like an uncertain schoolboy. Dr. Keller noticed the gesture, and nodded.
‘Well, I guess I have a pressing little matter,’ said Garrett. He made a deferential bow at Mrs. Zane beside him. ‘Perhaps it is not as—as emotional—as involving as what we have just listened to, but it is important to me.’ His eyes met the psychiatrist’s again. ‘As you know, I’m to deliver an address tonight. At the United Forum. I’m told there will be a full house, and that the press will attend. It’s a singular opportunity for me to be heard and to express my views on my—my problem. Now, I’ve written my new speech, as I told you I would. The question remains—should I deliver my new speech—say what I want to say? Or should I settle for the usual one I’ve been giving—you know—“Hippocrates and the Human Heart”? What do you think?’
‘I don’t think the decision should be in my hands,’ said Dr. Keller instantly. ‘You are acquainted with the analytic process. If I make your decision, you will not gain by it. You must learn to make up your own mind, come to your own conclusions.’
Garrett frowned at what he considered a reprimand, although he knew better. The psychiatrist was always saying that people must come to the understanding of themselves, by themselves. He was only a guide, a catalytic agent, sometimes an interpreter. Often, he had once said, he could advise a patient what was wrong with him after two or three visits. But the knowledge would be of no value to the patient, unless the patient found out the same information by himself. This frequently made the route tortuous, but in the end, the repair was more effective and permanent.
‘I guess I have made up my mind,’ said Garrett. ‘I think it was made up before I came here today. I suppose I wanted to hear what you would say first.’ He paused. ‘I’ve decided to give the new speech. I’m going to blast the hell out of Farelli.’
He looked left, and then right, and then at Dr. Keller, for approval. There was interest in his decision, but no obvious support. ‘Yes,’ he said, using the affirmation of silence as a prop, ‘I think I have to do it. I’ve made a discovery, done one important thing in my life, by myself, all by myself, and I don’t think I should lose half the credit for it to some foreign Cagliostro who is indulging in piracy and plagiarism.’
‘Are you sure that Dr. Farelli indulged in—as you put it—piracy and plagiarism?’ Dr. Keller inquired mildly.
‘I have evidence. Circumstantial, to be sure. But juries often convict a man on less. As I’ve told you several times, I had vaguely heard of this Farelli, but knew nothing specific about him. He never published papers, until he published that carbon copy—well, nearly—of my paper. I’ve since learned he is more of a science promoter than a pure scientist. His greatest discovery has been in finding new means of selling himself. Oh, he created an anti-reactive serum similar to mine, and performed those heterografts, and had those successes he boasts about. That’s all been verified. The question is—how did he come upon his discovery? I’ll tell you how. I’ve learned he has all of my published papers—you know, my progress reports from the earliest period. Furthermore, scientists from abroad who visited my laboratories in Pasadena from time to time then went back to Europe and, purposely or inadvertently, revealed to him precisely what I was doing and how I was doing it. I’ll give you an analogy. We invented the atom bomb. Eventually,
Russia would have invented one, too. But it might have been much later. What accelerated their work was information that was leaked to them about our work by spies—the
Rosenbergs, Fuchs, countless others. In a more blatant way, Farelli must have been learning about my work, putting two and two together, and when I had my findings to tell the world—well, he had his. I contend that is unfair, immoral even, and should be exposed.’
He had been addressing himself to Dr. Keller strongly, emotionally, and now he was out of breath. The psychiatrist, tapping his pencil softly on his pad, used the opportunity to comment.
‘You may be correct in your assumption, Dr. Garrett. I can’t say. At the same time, I do not see any real indicting evidence against Dr. Farelli. You know, as we all know, that, more frequently than not, great scientific discoveries are not made in a sudden, dramatic fashion—in one moment—the Eureka-I-have-found-it type of thing. It occurs, but more often in movies and on television than in real life. Most discoveries are come by slowly, gradually. Dozens of men, through the years, contribute bits and pieces, invaluable findings, and then one day a man or several men, building on the past, integrate the pieces into a useful whole, and the world has a discovery. Many times you, yourself, in this room, have acknowledged the contributions of your predecessors—Briukhonenko, Dennis, Clarke, among others, come to mind in the matter of the heart problem, Medawar, Burnet, Billingham, Brent, Owen, Merrill, Woodruff, the pioneer Guthrie, Shumway, Kaplan, Nossal, and many others, who’ve worked on tissue grafts and reactive mechanisms. You had access to the reports of these people. In a sense, they were your silent collaborators, even though you accomplished the big and final task. Isn’t it reasonable that Dr. Farelli in
Italy also had access to the work of these people, and was steered by them as you were? Isn’t it possible?’
‘No, it is not possible,’ said Garrett vehemently. He was shaken and unnerved, and now he was defensive. ‘I’ve never claimed that I did it by myself, that I owe no one a thing. Of course I do. We all do, always. But the Farelli matter is different. The coincidence of it stinks, and there are many who agree with me. If he were an artist, he would be labelled a copyist or a forger, and be drummed out of existence. I don’t think he should be allowed to graft my mind onto his and win adulation for it.’
Dr. Keller remained calm, but surprisingly persistent. ‘Ever since you began telling us about your obsession with Farelli, I took it upon myself to do some historical reading on science matters. Merely to inform myself.’ He smiled at Mrs. Zane and Mr. Lovato, and added, ‘In fact, where I feel I must and can, I do this in most of your cases.’ He swung back to Garrett. ‘Consider the discovery of insulin for human diabetes. A profound discovery. In 1923, Frederick Banting and John MacLeod were credited with the find and jointly awarded the Nobel Prize. But what were the facts? As far back as 1901, L. V. Sobolev was doing work in the field. Based on his work, Banting and MacLeod, as well as C. H. Best and J. B. Collip, pushed the research further. There you have five men. In 1923, only two of them shared the honours and the money. Was this right? Banting did not think so. He resented MacLeod’s getting half the credit and cash, when MacLeod was not even present at the time the crucial experiment was conducted. To express his disapproval, Banting gave half his money to Best, who had not been honoured at all. In retaliation, MacLeod gave half his money to Collip, who had received no credit either. And no one mentioned Sobolev. Now, this does not parallel your situation exactly, Dr. Garrett, but I’m sure you see what I’m driving at—the business of scientific credit is a Gordian knot—’
‘Are you telling me not to make this speech tonight?’
Dr. Keller shook his head and sidestepped the trap. ‘No. I repeat, that decision is your own. I’m simply trying to open your mind to the ramifications. You may cause an international scandal, with what many may consider faulty evidence. I’m trying to make you be as objective as possible about Farelli, and not use him as a whipping boy for motives and neuroses which may go deeper than mere suspicion of plagiarism. Farelli is not your father, Dr. Garrett.’
‘You’re merely upsetting me—’
‘I should hope so,’ said Dr. Keller blandly. ‘But I want you to think—think before you act.’
‘I’m making that speech.’
‘Very well, then.’
Garrett, shaken, became sullen and mute. Dr. Keller glanced about the room. Adam Ring had pulled himself erect in the easy chair, and was beginning to speak.
‘I wish all I had to worry about was some wop,’ said the actor. ‘Me, I love wops. The gals are built like you know what, and I can go the mile with them. It’s those American broads—’ He shook his head, clenched his hands, and went on. ‘Since our last semester, Doctor, I’ve seen the
New York
broad I was telling you about. She had the hots for me and I don’t have to tell you how I felt. There I was, and there was she, in our birthday suits, and—you guessed it—no score. If it weren’t so crazy, I’d laugh. Two hours later, tail between my legs, I went calling on the Japanese singer again. I was terrific. Ask her. It’s a riddle, I tell you, and I still don’t see where I’m getting any help here. But I was thinking about something you said last week. You called me on that time when I was maybe seven or eight—and the old lady—’
John Garrett hardly heard the deep drone of the actor’s voice. He suffered in silence about what he believed had been a reproach from the psychiatrist. He would make the speech, he knew, but momentarily he was less sure of his ground. He tried to sort out the reasons for his resentment of Farelli. Why did this unknown, distant Roman upset him so? At once, he remembered the fragment of something that Keller had once stated, and he was hit by a ray of illumination. His anger was not solely directed at Farelli, but at what Farelli represented. Garrett had never had anything in life alone, all his own. Nine brothers and sisters had shared his remote parents with him. At the university, in the class election, he had tied in the voting with someone else for treasurer and held the office with the other jointly. Even his wife, Saralee, had been married before. When he had been inspired by one moment of genius in his life—how many moments of genius can one man expect in his span?—when he had been so inspired, and deserved all the honours, his greatest achievement had been obscured by a far-off thief in Italy. And the capping blow. When he finally needed help, he had been forced into
group
therapy. As ever, as always, he had been made less than a whole man. The plural analysis he minded least. What rankled the most was Farelli, symbol of Garrett’s loss of identity. He was half a man, and there was no justice to it. But this time, he reflected, he would not be overwhelmed or submissive. He would fight back, win credit and identity.
His musings were interrupted by Dr. Keller’s voice, loud and clear. ‘Time is up, I see. This was a fruitful meeting. I hope to meet with all of you next week.’
The others were on their feet and leaving. Garrett was the last to rise. He followed the others through the door. As he departed, he heard Dr. Keller’s telephone ringing. It always rang when the session ended. Apparently, it was then that his answering service called to relay messages left, messages which Dr. Keller would handle in his free ten minutes.
Outside, on the pavement in front of the building, the members of the group took their leave of each other. Mr. Lovato, Mrs. Zane, and Miss Dudzinski remained huddled together for their goodbyes to the rest. They then proceeded, as was their custom in defiance of Dr. Keller’s disapproval, to the cafeteria, where they would have coffee and rolls at a table and continue their postmortem self-analysis together. Mrs. Perrin hastened off to the bus stop, still insufficiently liberated to take the taxi she could well afford. Mr. Armstrong strode off to his chaotic rented bungalow, only two miles away. Adam Ring had his magnificent Aston Martin parked in the street. ‘Good luck, tonight,’ he called to Garrett. ‘Give the wop hell.’ Although the expression made Garrett wince, the actor’s support restored Garrett’s humour. ‘The same to you,’ he replied, knowing that Ring had a mulatto girl friend tucked away in a Sunset Boulevard apartment. The actor slid into his imported car, waved, and was gone. Garrett walked slowly towards the petrol station.
He had reached the kerb, and was waiting for the light to change, when he heard his name.
‘Oh, Dr. Garrett—!’
He whirled about and saw Dr. Keller trotting towards him. Dr. Keller was a massive man, seemingly somnolent, and it was strange to see him in motion.
When the psychiatrist drew abreast of him, Garrett observed that Dr. Keller’s face was as excited as an exclamation mark. ‘Your wife’s on the phone upstairs,’ he said, panting. ‘She has marvellous news for you—you’ve just been awarded the Nobel Prize in medicine!’
Garrett allowed the words to sink in, and he accepted their impact naturally, with hardly any surprise, for he had secretly fantasied this moment for so long. But suddenly the shock of thrill reached his innards, and he felt the goose pimples on his arms and the flush on his cheeks.
‘You’re sure?’ he asked, incredulously.