drugstore.
That very morning, halfway through shaving his upper lip, he had so given in to the dream he found himself fantasizing about who they would get to play him if they made a movie about his contribution to the betterment of mankind. It wasn’t so farfetched. They made a movie about the guy who cured syphilis, Dr. Ehrlich’s Magic Bullet, starring Edward G. Robinson. Friedrich considered the possibilities as he scraped off the night’s whiskers. Jimmy Stewart? Gary Cooper? He cut himself as his mind auditioned Gregory Peck for the role Friedrich hoped to live.
“Without impressive test results, we won’t get that far. Look, we’re both after the same thing.” More or less, that was true. “My money can make it happen faster. For all we know, someone else could be doing the same research with kwina that we are now.”
“I can guarantee you that they’re not.”
How could Friedrich be so sure? He had grown more confident, determined. She wondered if the dose of gai kau dong she’d given him had anything to do with the change. It had been three days since she had dosed them both with The Way Home. Friedrich was still in the dark about that, but she still felt the tingle of empowerment.
“I don’t care about the money. But if you’re too proud to accept it, we can put it in writing. All monies I invest in research will come out of first profits.” It was the first either had mentioned that there might be money in this. “I’ll keep receipts, I’ll charge you interest. You can even dictate the agreement. Happy?” She pulled a pen out of her purse and took a sheet of blue carbon paper from the drawer to make them both a copy.
Will cleared his throat. “Doctors Friedrich and Winton agree that they are equal partners in all research concerning the medicinal applications of kwina leaves and the indigenous fermented beverage g aikau dong. Any and all scientific publications regarding this search will bear both their names, and any profits stemming from their research will be split fifty-fifty after Dr. Winton has been repaid one thousand six hundred dollars.”
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
“I trust human nature.” Friedrich pocketed his copy in his wallet. Winton put hers in her purse.
That afternoon their advertisement for test subjects appeared on the bulletin boards of Yale, thumbtacked next to offers of summer jobs, tutoring French in Nantucket, math on the Cape, and employment as counselors and waterskiing instructors at lakeside sleepaway camps in the Adirondacks. In the hopes of recruiting twenty female guinea pigs, Dr. Winton posted the same offer in the nurses’ locker room at New Haven Hospital and the student lounge of a nearby girl’s junior college.
Friedrich had stayed up all night grading quizzes so that he and Winton could get an early start in the lab the next morning. She was late. He was struggling to drain the fermenting vessel by himself. Full, it weighed over two hundred pounds. One hand gripping its ironwood penis, the other clutching its nail-tipped breast, Friedrich was embracing the dark figures that decorated its facade as if in a ménage-à-trois when Winton finally slammed through the door. “You’re late. Give me a hand before I drop this goddamn thing.”
“Drop it . . . Our lab privileges have been revoked. We can’t do the test. I found this in my mailbox this morning.” She shoved a tersely worded handwritten note from Winton’s no longer kindly old mentor, Dr. Petersen, in Friedrich’s face as he muscled the fermenting vessel back onto the countertop.
It read as follows: “Dr. Winton, you have betrayed my trust. This is not the research project you outlined when you obtained my permission to use the facilities of this school. I want you and Friedrich in my office at ten o’clock to discuss disciplinary action.”
Friedrich felt like he was being flushed. His endorphins swirled him downward. “Disciplinary action.” In an instant the future
That very morning, halfway through shaving his upper lip, he had so given in to the dream he found himself fantasizing about who they would get to play him if they made a movie about his contribution to the betterment of mankind. It wasn’t so farfetched. They made a movie about the guy who cured syphilis, Dr. Ehrlich’s Magic Bullet, starring Edward G. Robinson. Friedrich considered the possibilities as he scraped off the night’s whiskers. Jimmy Stewart? Gary Cooper? He cut himself as his mind auditioned Gregory Peck for the role Friedrich hoped to live.
“Without impressive test results, we won’t get that far. Look, we’re both after the same thing.” More or less, that was true. “My money can make it happen faster. For all we know, someone else could be doing the same research with kwina that we are now.”
“I can guarantee you that they’re not.”
How could Friedrich be so sure? He had grown more confident, determined. She wondered if the dose of gai kau dong she’d given him had anything to do with the change. It had been three days since she had dosed them both with The Way Home. Friedrich was still in the dark about that, but she still felt the tingle of empowerment.
“I don’t care about the money. But if you’re too proud to accept it, we can put it in writing. All monies I invest in research will come out of first profits.” It was the first either had mentioned that there might be money in this. “I’ll keep receipts, I’ll charge you interest. You can even dictate the agreement. Happy?” She pulled a pen out of her purse and took a sheet of blue carbon paper from the drawer to make them both a copy.
Will cleared his throat. “Doctors Friedrich and Winton agree that they are equal partners in all research concerning the medicinal applications of kwina leaves and the indigenous fermented beverage g aikau dong. Any and all scientific publications regarding this search will bear both their names, and any profits stemming from their research will be split fifty-fifty after Dr. Winton has been repaid one thousand six hundred dollars.”
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
“I trust human nature.” Friedrich pocketed his copy in his wallet. Winton put hers in her purse.
That afternoon their advertisement for test subjects appeared on the bulletin boards of Yale, thumbtacked next to offers of summer jobs, tutoring French in Nantucket, math on the Cape, and employment as counselors and waterskiing instructors at lakeside sleepaway camps in the Adirondacks. In the hopes of recruiting twenty female guinea pigs, Dr. Winton posted the same offer in the nurses’ locker room at New Haven Hospital and the student lounge of a nearby girl’s junior college.
Friedrich had stayed up all night grading quizzes so that he and Winton could get an early start in the lab the next morning. She was late. He was struggling to drain the fermenting vessel by himself. Full, it weighed over two hundred pounds. One hand gripping its ironwood penis, the other clutching its nail-tipped breast, Friedrich was embracing the dark figures that decorated its facade as if in a ménage-à-trois when Winton finally slammed through the door. “You’re late. Give me a hand before I drop this goddamn thing.”
“Drop it . . . Our lab privileges have been revoked. We can’t do the test. I found this in my mailbox this morning.” She shoved a tersely worded handwritten note from Winton’s no longer kindly old mentor, Dr. Petersen, in Friedrich’s face as he muscled the fermenting vessel back onto the countertop.
It read as follows: “Dr. Winton, you have betrayed my trust. This is not the research project you outlined when you obtained my permission to use the facilities of this school. I want you and Friedrich in my office at ten o’clock to discuss disciplinary action.”
Friedrich felt like he was being flushed. His endorphins swirled him downward. “Disciplinary action.” In an instant the future
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