Thomas pondered this. True, Bis medication was presently a multi-billion dollar a year industry, with at least half-a-dozen major suppliers, even though nothing really worked. Are they going to sit idly by while Walter Gruen tosses Anti into the public domain? “Suppose,” he said, “someone else gets the patent?”
“How could they?” asked Blake. “We’re first.”
“We are, aren’t we?” said Gruen. “First?” But there was uncertain edge in his voice.
Thomas’s eyebrows arched. “Are you? Someday you may have to prove it. You ought to at least get your records in order.”
“Such as?” asked Blake.
“For starters, right away deposit a culture at American Type Culture Collection—ATCC, in Rockville, and give them a full enabling written description on how to process the specimen. They’ll preserve Anti in liquid nitrogen and they’ll make samples available to anyone who asks. That should at least give you a legal date for a public disclosure.”
As he drove home, the lawyer kept thinking… idealism… the willingness to forego immense profits in order to save lives… magnificent idea… and a little insane. It violated human nature. Say Anti-Bis works. What will a man pay for his life? His wife’s? His child’s? Every cent he has, all he can borrow. And Walter Gruen wanted no part of the deadly bargain. Fine, Walter, but how about your competition? Twenty billion dollars are breathing hot down your idealistic neck. For all you know somebody out there is planning right now how to jerk the rug out from under you and shatter your pretty dreams. Somebody out there will try to get a patent… the patent, and blow you to hell. God love you, Walter, it’s good you own your own company. The board of directors of any public corporation would have fired you long ago!
Several Weeks Later
Quentin Thomas subscribed routinely to several watch services that alerted him to U.S. and foreign patents dealing in fields of particular interest to his clients, including of course Bis.
This morning he watched, fascinated and alarmed, as the text of the European patent application scrolled up on his monitor. He immediately called Gruen. “I’m e-mailing you a copy. We need to talk. I can get there within the hour. Better bring Blake in, maybe Mary Lacey.”
“It’s a European patent application,” the lawyer explained. “They publish early, invite opposition, and if the application survives, it eventually issues, and has a high presumption of validity. It’s different in the U.S. We keep our pending patent applications secret until they issue. But with the European system we re alerted to the fact that a U.S. case is on file and pending, because the European document refers to it, and claims the U.S. filing date for priority purposes. The inventor here is Francis Bakker. Anybody know him?”
“My opposite number at Catley-Torgsen—C-T,” Blake said. “So C-T is now in the game. This could be serious.”
In more ways than one, thought the lawyer. Officials at the competing pharmaceutical house had been accused of sundry unethical practices, including theft of trade secrets. He said quietly, “You’ll note their priority date is three months after your deposit at ATCC.” He looked across the conference table in sudden concern. “Ben, you did deposit with ATCC, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” said Blake. “I sent it special messenger. We have a receipt. It’s official, ATCC 06-327.”
“You included process details? How to culture and use the product?”
“All of that. You can see what they did at C-T. They ordered up a specimen of our ATCC 06, tested it for Bis, and promptly filed their patent.”
“Barefaced thievery,” mused Thomas.
“We’ve picked up rumors,” Gruen said thoughtfully. “They say C-T is designing a new plant… big one… to make a new secret drug, something they call Cat-Sen. The secret is out, now. It’s obviously a clone of our Anti-Bis.”
Thomas had heard some of the rumors, but they had meant nothing to him at the time. Now they made sense. But C-T would want to be sure they had a monopoly before they built a plant. And for a monopoly they would need a strong patent. C-T management surely knew their man Bakker was not actually the first inventor, and that if the truth ever came out, their patent was dead. The stakes were high. And yet, GT management must have studied ATCC 06 from all angles and decided it was not a threat to their patent. He had to assume that J. Reginald Alfrey, C-T’s General Counsel, had advised John Gordio, C-T’s president and CEO, that ATCC 06 was not a problem.
Why wasn’t C-T worried about ATCC 06?
A sudden chill struck the lawyer. “Ben, I want you to put in a personal call to ATCC, right now, while we wait here. Ask the records clerk to e-mail you the process description, about 200 words, that you filed with ATCC 06.”
“Quent… you don’t think…?”
“I don’t think anything. Let’s just find out for sure.”
“Of course. Wait here.”
Ten minutes later they had the answer. The Rockville agency had never received a process description.
Thomas studied the table glumly. So that was why C-T could plan to make Cat-Sen commercially. Their patent could not be knocked out by Gruen’s earlier ATCC because no enabling description had accompanied the specimen. C-T would get a seventeen-year monopoly, plus another five years if FDA stalled clearance for their new drug. C-T was about to get legal custody of the beautiful child that Mother Gruen had brought into the world.
Gruen asked sadly, “Ben, how did it happen?”
“I don’t know… our man… the messenger… no, that couldn’t be…”
Our boy was bribed, thought Thomas. That’s what he’s trying not to say.
“I’ll check with Personnel,” Blake said. “I think he’s gone.
Early retirement, thought Thomas. Wonder what C-T paid him.
“May I say something?” Mary Lacey asked hesitantly.
Gruen smiled encouragingly at her. “Of course.”
“Well, I’m not sure whether this is good or bad. Under the circumstances, though… What I want to say is, we did in fact file a process description with our deposit of ATCC 06.”
Thomas opened his eyes wide. “We did? Explain, please.”
“The description is part of the specimen… about a thousand codons, some 3,000 nucleides, in the foreport of the specimen.” She looked at their faces anxiously. “You see… don’t you…?”
Blake stared at her, then slapped the table, startling everyone. “Of course! Each codon calls for a specific amino acid. Each amino acid—there are twenty of them—is a particular letter of the alphabet. A string of one thousand letters, about 200 words. Yes! that would be the description we tried to deposit with our specimen!”
“Remarkable, Mary,” declared Gruen. “But how did you happen to think of it? And why?”
“I… didn’t trust Willie, Dr. Gruen. He suddenly had a lot of money.”
It was that twenty billion dollars at work again, thought Thomas. That kind of money is alive, it has its own will. It is powerful, omnivorous, overwhelming. It simply blew the messenger boy away. But maybe like mighty Achilles, it has a vulnerable heel. Code? Hm.