Cambridge University's Biochemistry Building was a three-storied red-brick neo-Renaissance structure, plain and unimpressive. It was on Tennis Court Road, a modest lane where no tennis court existed. Martin Peat-Smith, who had come to lunch on a bicycle-a standard form of transportation in Cambridge, it appeared-pedaled energetically ahead while Sam and Celia followed in the Jaguar. At the building's front door, where they rejoined him, PeatSmith cautioned, "I think I should warn you, so you're not surprised, that our facilities here are not the best. We're always crowded, short of space"-again the swift smile-"and usually short of money. Sometimes it shocks people from outside to see where and how we work.”
Despite the warning, a few minutes later Celia was shocked. When Peat-Smith left them alone briefly, she whispered to Sam,
"This place is awful-like a dungeon! How can anyone do good work here?" On entering, they had descended a stairway to a basement. The hallways were gloomy. A series of small rooms leading off them appeared messy, disordered, and cluttered with old equipment. Now they were in a laboratory, not much bigger than the kitchen of a small house, which Peat-Smith had announced was one of two that he worked in, though he shared both with another lecturer who was pursuing a separate project. While they were talking, the other man and his assistant had come and gone several times, making a private conversation difficult. The lab was furnished with worn wooden benches, set close together to make the most of available space. Above the benches were old-fashioned gas and electrical outlets, the latter festooned untidily, and probably unsafely, with adapters and many plugs. On the walls were roughly made shelves, all filled to capacity with books, papers and apparently discarded equipment, amid it, Celia noticed, some outmoded retorts of a type she remembered from her own chemistry work nineteen years earlier. A portion of bench was a makeshift desk. In front was a hard Windsor chair. Several dirty drinking mugs could be seen. On one bench were several wire cages, inside them, twenty or so rats-two to a cage, and in varying states of activity. The floor of the laboratory had not been cleaned in some time. Nor had the windows, which were narrow, high up on a wall, and providing a view of the wheels and undersides of cars parked outside. The effect was depressing. "No matter how it all looks," Sam told Celia, "never forget that a lot of scientific history has been made here. Nobel Prize winners have worked in these rooms and walked these balls.”
"That's right," Martin Peat-Smith said cheerfully; he had returned in time to hear the last remark.”Fred Sanger was one of them; he discovered the amino acid structure of the insulin molecule in a lab right above us.”
He saw Celia looking at the old equipment.”In academic labs we never throw anything away, Mrs. Jordan, because we never know when we'll need it again. Out of necessity, we improvise and build much of our own equipment.”
"That's true of American academia too," Sam said. "Just the same," Peat-Smith acknowledged, "all this must be quite a contrast to the kind of labs you're both used to.”
Remembering the spacious, immaculate, and richly equipped laboratories at Felding-Roth in New Jersey, Celia answered, "Frankly, yes.”
Peat-Smith had brought back two stools. He offered the Windsor chair to Celia, one of the stools to Sam, and perched on the second himself. "It's only fair to tell you," he said, "that what I'm attempting here involves not just problems of science, but enormously difficult techniques. What has to be found is a means of transferring information from a brain cell nucleus to the machinery of the cell that makes proteins and peptides...”
Warming to his exposition, he drifted into scientific jargon. take a gross mixture of mRNA from young and old rats and put it into a cell-free system... RNA templates are allowed to produce proteins... a long strand of mRNA may code for many proteins... afterwards, proteins are separated by electrophoresis... a possible technique could use a reverse transcriptase enzyme... then if the RNA and DNA's don't combine, it will mean the old rat has lost that genetic capability, so we'll begin learning which peptides are changing... eventually, I'll be seeking a single peptide 11
The talk continued for more than an hour, interspersed by shrewd, detailed questioning from Sam that impressed Celia. Although Sam had no scientific training, during his years with Felding-Roth he had absorbed much on-the-scene science and the effect of it showed. Throughout, Peat-Smith's enthusiasm transmitted itself to them both. And while he spoke--clearly, concisely, and from what was plainly a disciplined, orderly mind-their respect grew. Near the end of the discussion the scientist pointed to the rats in cages.”These are only a few. We have several hundred others in our animal room.”
He touched a cage and a large rat, which had been sleeping, stirred.”This old man is two and a half years old; that's equivalent to seventy in a human. This is his last day. Tomorrow we'll sacrifice him, then compare his brain chemistry with that of a rat born a few days ago. But to find answers we need it will take a lot of rats, a lot of chemical analysis, and a lot more time.”
Sam nodded his understanding.”We're aware of the time factor from our own experience. Now to summarize, Doctor-how would you express your long-term goal?" Peat-Smith considered before answering. Then he said carefully,
"To discover, through continuing genetic research, a brain peptide which enhances memory in younger people but, as those same people grow older, is not produced in the human body anymore. Then, having found and isolated such a peptide, we'll learn to produce it by genetic techniques. After that, people of all ages can be given it to minimize memory loss, forgetfulness-and perhaps eliminate mental aging altogether.”
The quiet summation was so impressive, so profoundly confident, yet in no way boastful, that neither visitor seemed inclined to break the silence that followed. Celia, despite the dismal surroundings, had a sense of sharing in a moment to be remembered, and of history being made. It was Sam who spoke first.”Dr. Peat-Smith, you now have your grant. It is approved, as of this moment, in the amount you asked.”
Peat-Smith appeared puzzled.”You mean... it's that simple... just like that?" It was Sam's turn to smile.”As president of Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals I have a certain authority. Once in a while it gives me pleasure to exercise it.”
He added, "The only condition is the usual one, implicit in these arrangements. We'd like to keep in touch with your progress and have first crack at any drug you may produce.”
Peat-Smith nodded.”Of course. That's understood.”
He still seemed dazed. Sam extended his hand, which the young scientist took.”Congratulations and good luck!"
It was a half hour later and teatime in the Biochemistry Building. At Martin's invitation-the three of them had, by now, progressed to first names-they had gone upstairs to where tea and biscuits were being served from tea trolleys in the foyer. Balancing their cups and saucers, the trio moved on to a faculty "tearoom" which, as Martin explained, was a social focal point for scientists who worked there and their guests. The tearoom, as austere and inelegant as the remainder of the building, had long tables with wooden chairs and was crowded and noisy. The scientists were of all shapes, sexes, sizes and ages, but fragments of conversation that could be overheard were decidedly unscientific. One discussion was about official parking places, an elderly faculty member arguing heatedly that favoritism to someone junior was depriving him of his tenurial rights. Alongside, a bearded, white-coated enthusiast reported a "sensational" sale by a Cambridge wine merchant; an available Meursault was recommended. Another group was dissecting a new movie playing in town-The Godfather, starring Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. After some maneuvering and exchanging places with others, Martin Peat-Smith managed to find a comer for his group.