Andrew glanced at a Newark
Star-Ledger. Prominent on the newspaper's front page was a report about
something called "Sputnik"-an earth satellite, whatever that might be,
which the Russians had recently shot into outer space amid fanfare
heralding "the dawn of a new space age." While President Eisenhower,
according to the news story, was expected to order speedup of a U.S. space
program, American scientists were "shocked and humiliated" by the Russians'
technological lead. Andrew hoped some of the shock would spill over into
medical science. Though good progress had been made during the twelve years
since World War II, there were still so many depressing gaps, unanswered
questions.
Discarding the newspaper, he picked up a copy of Medical Economics, a
magazine that alternately amused and fascinated him. It was said to be the
publication read most avidly by doctors, who gave it more attention than
even the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine.
Medical Economics had a basic function-to instruct doctors in ways to earn
the maximum amount of money and, when they had it, how to invest or spend
it. Andrew began reading an article: "Eight Ways to Minimize Your Taxes in
Private Practice." He supposed he should try to understand such things
because handling money, when a doctor finally got to earn some after years
of training, was something else they didn't teach in medical school. Since
joining Dr. Townsend's practice a year and a half ago, Andrew had been
startled at how much cash flowed monthly into his bank ac-
19
count. It was a new and not unpleasant experience. Although he had no
intention of letting money dominate him, just the same . . .
"Excuse me, Doctor."
A woman's voice. Andrew turned his head.
"I went to your office, Dr. Jordan. When you weren't there, I decided to
try the hospital."
Dammit! It was the same drug company saleswoman who had been in his office
yesterday. She was wearing a raincoat, which was soaked. Her brownish hair
hung dripping wet, and her glasses were steamed. Of all the gall-to barge
in here!
"You seem to be unaware," he said, "that this is a private lounge. Also I
don't see salespeople-"
She interrupted. "At the hospital. Yes, I know. But I thought this was
important enough." With a series of quick movements she put down an attach~
case, removed her glasses to wipe them, and began taking off the raincoat.
"It's miserable out. I got soaked crossing the parking lot."
"What's important?"
The saleswoman-he observed again that she was young, probably no more than
twenty-four-tossed the raincoat onto a chair. She spoke slowly and
carefully.
~Ammonia, Doctor. Yesterday you told me you had a hepatitis patient who was
dying from ammonia intoxication. You said you wished-"
"I know what I said."
The saleswoman regarded him levelly with clear gray-green eyes. Andrew was
aware of a strong personality. She wasn't what you'd call pretty, he
thought, though she had a pleasing, high-cheekboned face; with her hair
dried and combed she would probably look good. And with the raincoat Off,
her figure wasn't bad.
"No doubt you do, Doctor, and I'm sure your memory is better than your
manners." As he started to say something, she stopped him with an impatient
gesture. "What I didn't-couldn't-tell you yesterday is that my company,
Felding-Roth, has been working for four years on a drug to reduce ammonia
production by intestinal bacteria, a drug that would be useful in a crisis
situation like your patient's. I knew about it, but not how far our
research people had gone."
"I'm glad to hear someone's trying," Andrew said, "but I still don't see-"
"You will if you listen. " The saleswoman pushed back several
20
strands of wet hair which had fallen forward on her face. "What they've
developed-it's called Lotrcrmycin-has been used successfully on animals. Now
it's ready for human testing. I was able to get some Lotromycin. I've
brought it with