I decided I wanted some of that. I backed out of the driveway and headed for the club. By the time I got there the Happy Hour would be starting.
That was a curious summer. I had six weeks of accumulated vacation time, and Mabel and Chester were continually asking when we were going away, and where. I told them how busy I was at the lab and mumbled something about taking time off in October. I didn't tell them that even a fall vacation was iffy.
The truth was I had no desire to go anywhere. I was totally engrossed by the ZAP Project, possibly the most interesting research I had ever done, and I even resented taking Sundays off.
I wanted to be in the lab every day with my mice and video cameras.
The problem was to develop a testosterone formulation that increased aggressiveness without inflaming sexual desire at the same time. After several failed experiments, I began to wonder if the two might not be inextricably linked.
My first small success resulted from the addition of potassium nitrate and sodium nitrate to the solution of synthetic testosterone. I had clear evidence (on TV tape) that male mice injected with the altered testosterone showed a small but discernible lessening of their desire to copulate.
To achieve even this minor reduction required countless experiments.
And as I began a search for other chemicals that might further decrease the sexual consequences of the hormone injection, my notebooks filled with the record of seemingly endless trials, all of which ended in failure. One cause of that, naturally, was that I had no prior research by others to guide me.
I felt like Edison who reportedly tested hundreds of materials before finding a filament that worked in his incandescent lamp.
While I was so deeply involved in the ZAP Project, I must confess that I was completely unaware of the worsening crisis in my relations with my wife and son. I thought we had arrived at a plateau of unhappiness, unpleasant but endurable. I suppose I was content because things didn't seem to be getting worse.
I expressed these sentiments to Marleen Todd, and she was scornful.
"Greg," she said, "you simply can't let matters drift.
That's like neglecting to seek a cure for an illness because you've become used to the pain."
I admit I was somewhat miffed. She wasn't treating me like the village idiot, exactly, but she made no effort to hide her exasperation with my predilection for letting things slide. She may have had a point, I do hate to make waves.
"And what do you suggest I do, Marleen?"
"Either have a long, intimate talk with Mabel and get things straightened out between you two, or take some other action to end your estrangement."
"I wouldn't call it an estrangement," I said lamely, "No? Then what would you call it?"
"I don't know," I said helplessly. "A coolness, I suppose.
We inhabit the same house, but we seem to be living in different worlds.
It's a very unsettling situation, Marleen, and I suspect most of the fault is mine. I know I'm not the husband Mabel wants me to be.
She thinks I'm a failure as a man."
"Not all women think that, Greg," she said quietly.
Then an event occurred that was to affect profoundly all our lives.
On the morning of July 27, I heard the sounds of people running in the corridor outside my private laboratory and shouts I could not comprehend. I feared a fire might have broken out-a terrible danger since we had so many inflammables on the premisesbut the alarm didn't go off.
A moment later my lab phone rang. It was Marleen, excited and breathless.
"Did you hear?" she gasped. "It's Mr. Mcwhortle. He collapsed on his putting green. They're giving him CPR." I went out there as quickly as I could. The company doctor was in attendance, now using a portable oxygen tank. He and a nurse worked frantically for several minutes, while a crowd of employees that had assembled stood a respectful distance away.
"It's his heart," I heard someone say. "The doctor gave him a shot, but he hasn't moved since I've been here.
Then we all waited in silence. A fire rescue truck arrived followed by an ambulance. They had additional equipment, and the paramedics joined the chore in ministering to the fallen man.
It was almost a half hour before the paramedics gave up, turned away, and began to pack their gear. The ambulance crew wheeled a stretcher across the putting green. The company doctor came over to the assembled employees.
"He's gone," he reported.
The sudden death of Marvin Mcwhortle shook all of us. He really was a generous, beneficent employer, and after mouming his demise, we all began worrying about the future of Mcwhortle Laboratory. I think my greatest anxiety concerned the continued funding of the ZAP Project.
The laboratory was closed for three days, but those of us conducting animal research were allowed entrance to feed and care for our subjects.
The laboratory reopened the day after the funeral. All employees were summoned to a meeting in the cafeteria where Mrs. Gertrude Mcwhortle, Marvin's widow, spoke to us.
She was a large, imposing woman, and no one could doubt her sincerity and determination. She said she was now the sole owner of Mcwhortle Laboratory, had every intention of keeping the business going, and saw no reason not to follow her late husband's plans for expansion.
She also told us she would act as chief executive officer until she could hire a more experienced CEO with the aid of a management consulting firm. All of us were to continue working at our assigned projects,, all contracts with clients would be fulfilled. The company was in excellent financial condition, she added, with ample cash reserves.
Good news indeed!
And so, with only a brief interruption, I returned to my assignment with renewed enthusiasm, as I think other employees did as well. I even heard several, including Marleen Todd, express satisfaction that a woman was now in charge of our company.
"I suppose it's selfish of me," Marleen said, "but I'm hoping Gertie will increase the budget of the perfumery. We've been trying to get our library of essences inventoried and computerized for ages. Greg, now is the time for you to put in a requisition for that electron microscope you've always wanted. it "It would be nice to have, Marleen," I said, "but it's really not essential."
"What an old stick-in-the-mud you are," she said, laughing.
I tried to laugh too, but couldn't. Her remark rankled, as did her previous comments about my tendency to let things drift.
She seemed so vehement about what she considered my wishy-washiness that I had a feeling of being pressured, of being manipulated to fit a scenario she had designed. It was a disquieting notion.
But I had other, more important matters to consider. A week after Mr.
Mcwhortle's death I succeeded in adding a chemical to the solution of synthesized testosterone that had a very definite, easily observed effect of diminishing, if not totally eliminating, the sexual aggression of injected male mice. I cannot identify the chemical for proprietary reasons, but I can state it was an inexpensive ingredient found in many common household soaps and detergents.
Repeated experiments with the new formulation ielded the same gratifying results, and I pondered y my next move. Logically, I should have repeated my final experiments on larger mammals, guinea pigs, dogs, and chimps.
But I was so excited by my recent success that I decided to progress immediately to trials on human volunteers-myself first, of course.
Analyzing my own conduct in this regard, I see now that I had an ulterior motive for wishing to try the hormone formulation on myself.
I had no desire to become more physically aggressive, that is simply contrary to my nature.
But I did hope to become more assertive, to express myself and act more forcibly. I believe I had some vague notion of proving to Mabel and Marleen that I was a real man. Macho posturing had nothing to do with it. It was simply a matter of masculine pride.
On July 27,
I was lying on a chaise out by my swimming pool, naked as a jaybird. I had my portable radio tuned to an oldies station. The local news came on, and I heard the announcer say Marvin Mcwhortle, a well-known businessman, had dropped dead that morning on his private putting green.