Martin leaned back in the punt, facing Celia; he had folded his blazer behind him and was using it as a pillow.”Others are doing similar research to mine. I know of someone in Germany, another in France, a third in New Zealand. They're all good people and we're pursuing the same objectives, exploring the same trail. It's impossible to know who, if anyone, is ahead.”
"So it's a race that you're in," Celia said.”A race against time.”
Unconsciously, her voice had sharpened. "Yes. But that's the way science is.”
"Do any of those others you mentioned have better facilities or more staff than you?" He considered.”Probably 'yes' to both in Germany. I don't know about the other two.”
"How much laboratory space do you have now?" "Altogether"-Martin calculated mentally-"about a thousand square feet.”
"Then wouldn't it help you get closer, faster, to what you're searching for if you had five times that space, plus equipment to go into it--everything you needed, and all for your project-plus a staff of maybe twenty people working for you, instead of two or three? Wouldn't that move things along, and not only find the answers, but get you to them first?" Suddenly Celia was aware that the mood between them had changed. This was no longer a social occasion; whatever innocence there had been had fled. Subtly, it was now a challenge of intellect and wills. Well, she thought, this was why she had come to Britain, and to Cambridge today. Martin was staring at her in amazement.”Are you serious about all that? Five thousand square feet and twenty people!" "Dammit! Of course I'm serious.”
She added impatiently, "Do you think, in the pharmaceutical business, we play games?"
"No," he said, still staring, "I didn't think that. You said there were two things. What's the other?" Celia hesitated. Should she go on? She sensed that what she had just said had made a deep impression on Martin. Would she now destroy that, wiping out any advantage gained? Then, once more, she remembered Andrew. "I'll put this crudely and bluntly, in the usual crass American way," Celia said, "and I'm saying that because I know dedicated researchers like you aren't motivated by money and can't be bought. But if you worked for Felding-Roth, became director of our institute and brought your project with you, you'd most likely be paid twelve thousand pounds a year, plus bonuses, which can be substantial. I've reason to believe that's about five times what you're earning now. Furthermore, having met your parents and knowing what you do for them, and having an idea that there's more you'd like to do, I think you could use that extra cash. You could certainly send a nurse in more than twice a week, move your mother to better surroundings...”
"That's enough!" Martin had sat up and was glaring at her; he had become intensely emotional.”Damn you, Celia! I know what money can do. What's more, don't hand me that bilge about people like me not caring for it. I care like hell, and what you've just told me is mind-boggling. You're trying to undermine me, tempt me, take advantage She snapped, "That's ridiculous! Take what advantage?" "Of meeting my parents, for one thing. Seeing how they live and how much I care. So, using that, you're offering me a golden apple, playing Eve to my Adam.”
He glanced around them.”In Paradise, too.”
"It isn't a poisoned apple," Celia said quietly, "and there's no serpent in this boat. Look, I'm sorry if-" Martin cut her off savagely.”You're not sorry at all! You're a businesswoman who's good at her job-bloody good; I can testify, to-that! But a businesswoman going all out, no holds barred, to get what she wants. You're quite ruthless, aren't you?" Now Celia was surprised.”Am I” He answered emphatically, "Yes.”
"All right," Celia said; she would give back as good as she got, she decided.”Supposing I am. And supposing all of what you said is true. Isn't it what you want too? The answers to Alzheimer's!
That brain peptide you're searching for! Scientific glory! Is any of that cheating you?" "No," Martin said, "whatever else it is, it isn't cheating.”
He gave his twisted smile, though this time with a touch of sourness.”I hope they pay you well, Celia. As a crass American, which is what you called yourself, you do one helluva job.”
He stood up and reached for the punt pole.”It's time to go.”
They returned downstream in silence, Martin thrusting the punt forward with a fierceness he had not shown on the outward journey. Celia, busy with her thoughts, wondered if she had gone too far. Near the town and the boatyard, Martin stopped his poling and let the craft drift. From his perch on the stern above her, he regarded Celia solemnly. "I don't know the answer. I only know you've unsettled me," he told her. "But I still don't know.”
It was early evening when Martin dropped Celia at the Cambridge railway station and they said a formal, somewhat strained, goodbye. Celia's return train was a painfully slow local which stopped at almost every station, and it was past 11:30 P.m. by the time she arrived at the London terminus, this time King's Cross. She took a taxi to the Berkeley, reaching the hotel shortly before midnight. During most of the journey Celia reconstructed the day's events, especially her own part in them. What had jolted her, as much as anything, was Martin's cutting accusation: You're quite ruthless, aren't you? Was she ruthless? Looking in a mental mirror, Celia admitted that perhaps she was. Then she corrected herself: Not 'perhaps.” Make that "certainly.” But, she reasoned, wasn't some ruthlessness necessary? Necessary, especially for a woman-to have carved a career, as Celia had, and to have made it to where she was? Yes. Of course! Furthermore, she reminded herself, ruthlessness was not-or, rather, need not be-equated with dishonesty. In essence it was a commitment to be tough in business, to make unpleasant hard decisions, fight through to the essentials, and dispense with an excess of worry concerning other individuals. Equally to the point: If her own responsibilities increased in future, she would need to be even tougher, even more ruthless, than before. Why, then, if being ruthless was a fact of business life, had Martin's remark so bothered her? Probably because she liked and respected him, and therefore wished him to feel the same way about her. Well, did he? Celia wondered about that briefly, then decided obviously not, after their showdown of this afternoon. However, did Martin's opinion of her really matter? The answer: nol One reason: there was still something of the child in Martin, even at thirty-two. Celia had once heard someone say of research scientists, "They spend so much of their lives becoming more and more educated that they have time for little else and, in some ways, stay children forever.”
For sure, some of that seemed true of Martin. Celia knew that she was much more a person of the world than he. What was important, then? Not Martin's personal feelings, nor Celia's either, but the outcome of today. True? Yes, again. As to that outcome---Celia sighed within her-she wasn't optimistic. In fact, she almost certainly did, to use Sam's phrase, "blow it by being crass.”
The more she thought about that, the less she liked what she had done, the more the memories of the day depressed her. The downbeat mood persisted as far as the hotel. In the lobby of the Berkeley she was greeted by a uniformed concierge. "Good evening, Mrs. Jordan. Did you have a pleasant day?" "Yes, thank you.”
In her mind she added: Just some parts of it. In turning to reach for her key, the concierge gathered up several message forms which Celia accepted. She would read them later in her room. Then, about to turn away, she heard, "And, oh yes, Mrs. Jordan. This one came in a few minutes ago. A gentleman phoned. I took it down myself. It doesn't seem to make much sense, but he said you'd understand.”
Tired, and without interest, Celia glanced at the slip of paper. Then her eyes were riveted. The message read
TO EVERY THING THERE IS A SEASON INCLUDING CRASS AMERICANS BEARING GIFTS. THANK YOU. I ACCEPT. -MARTIN.