An angel looking into Vincent Lord’s soul might well have wondered—Why?
During Lord’s time as an assistant professor his reputation as a steroid expert burgeoned, not only at U of I but far beyond. In slightly more than four years he published fifteen scientific papers, some in prestigious publications including the Journal of the American Chemical Society and Journal of Biological Chemistry. It was an excellent record, considering his low-totem-pole status at the university.
And that was something which infuriated Dr. Lord, increasingly as time went on.
In the arcane world of scholarship and science, promotions are seldom speedy and almost always painfully slow. The next upward step for Vincent Lord would be to associate professor—a tenured appointment, tenure itself equating a laurel wreath or lifetime financial security, whichever way you looked at it. Associate professorship was also a signal saying, You have made it. You are one of the elite of academia. You have something which cannot be taken away, and are free to work as you choose, with only limited interference from above. You have arrived.
Vincent Lord wanted that promotion badly. And he wanted it now. Not in another two years, the remaining period which, as the mills of academia ground, he would normally have to wait.
Thus, wondering why the idea hadn’t occurred to him sooner, he decided to seek accelerated promotion. With his record, he reasoned, it should be a snap, a mere formality. Full of confidence, he prepared a bibliography, telephoned for an appointment with the dean the following week, and when the appointment was arranged, dispatched the bibliography to precede him.
Dean Robert Harris was a small man, wizened and wise, though his wisdom included doubts of his own ability to make the Socratic decisions frequently required of him. Basically a scientist, he still kept his hand in with a small laboratory, and attended scientific meetings several times each year. Most of his working hours though, were taken up with chemistry school administration.
On a morning in March 1957 Dean Harris was in his office, turning pages of Dr. Vincent Lord’s bibliography and wondering why it had been sent. With someone as temperamental and unpredictable as Lord there could be a dozen reasons. Well, he would find out soon. The subject of the bibliography was due to arrive in fifteen minutes.
Closing the bulky folder which he had read fully and carefully—the dean was by nature conscientious—he leaned back in the armchair behind his desk, musing on facts and his private, personal instincts about Vincent Lord.
The man had genius potential. No doubt of it. If the dean had not known that already, he would have learned it from his recent reading of Lord’s published work and reviews and accolades concerning it. In his chosen field Vince Lord could, and probably would, scale the Parnassus heights. With reasonable luck, which scientists like other mortals needed, some splendid discovery might well be in his future, bringing renown to himself and U of I. Everything seemed positive, all signals set at green. And yet …
Dr. Vincent Lord at times made Dean Harris feel uneasy.
The reason was not the high-strung temperament exhibited by Lord; that and brilliance quite often went together and in tandem were acceptable. Any university—the dean sighed as he thought about it—was a cauldron of animus and jealousies, often over unimportant issues argued with surprising pettiness.
No, it was something else, something more—a question raised once before and recently raised again. It was: Did the seeds of intellectual dishonesty, and therefore scientific fraud, lie somewhere deep in Vincent Lord?
Nearly four years earlier, in the first year of Dr. Lord’s assistant professorship, he had prepared a scientific paper on a series of experiments which, as Lord described them, produced exceptional results. The paper was close to being published when a colleague at U of I, a more senior organic chemist, let it be known that while attempting to repeat the experiments and results described by Dr. Lord, he could not do so; his results were different.
An investigation followed. It showed that Vincent Lord had made mistakes. They appeared to be honest mistakes of misinterpretation, and Lord’s paper was rewritten and later published. It did not, however, create the stir scientifically which the originally stated results—had they been correct—would have caused.
In itself the incident had no significance. What had happened to Dr. Lord occasionally happened to the best of scientists. All made mistakes. But if a scientist later discovered an error of his own, it was considered normal and ethical to announce the error and correct any published work.
What was different in Lord’s case was an intuition, a suspicion among his peers based on Lord’s reaction when confronted, that he had known about the errors, probably discovered after his paper was prepared, but had kept quiet, hoping no one else would notice.
For a while there were rumblings on campus about moral sense and ethics. Then, following a series of unchallenged and praised discoveries by Vincent Lord, the rumblings died down, the incident apparently forgotten.
Dean Harris had almost forgotten too. Until a conversation two weeks earlier at a scientific conference in San Francisco.
“Listen, Bobby,” a professor from Stanford University and longtime crony had told Harris over drinks one evening, “if I were you I’d keep an eye on your guy Lord. Some of us have found his two latest papers nonrepeatable. His syntheses are okay, but we don’t get those spectacular yields he claims.”
When pressed for more details, the informant added, “I’m not saying Lord isn’t honest, and we all know he’s good. But there’s an impression around that he’s a young man in a hurry, maybe too much of a hurry. You and I both know what that can mean, Bobby—once in a while cutting corners, interpreting data the way you wish it to come out. It adds up to scientific arrogance and danger. So what I’m saying is: For the good of U of I, and your own good, watch out!”
A worried, thoughtful Dean Harris nodded his thanks for the advice.
Back at Champaign-Urbana he had summoned the chairman of Dr. Lord’s department and repeated the San Francisco conversation. The dean then asked: What about those two last published papers of Vince Lord’s?
Next day the department chairman was back in the dean’s office with an answer. Yes, Dr. Lord acknowledged there was some dispute about his latest published results; he intended to run the experiments again and, if appropriate, would publish a correction.
On the face of it—fair enough. Yet, overhanging the conversation was the unspoken question: Would Lord have acted if someone else had not brought attention to the subject?
Now, two weeks later, Dean Harris was again pondering that question when his secretary announced, “Dr. Lord is here for his appointment.”
“So that’s it,” Vincent Lord concluded ten minutes later. He was seated, facing the dean across his desk. “You’ve seen my record in the bibliography, Dean Harris. I believe it’s more active and impressive than that of any other assistant professor in this school. In fact, no one else comes close. I’ve also told you what I’m planning for the future. Putting all of it together, I believe accelerated promotion is justified and I should have it now.”
The dean placed his hands together, surveyed Dr. Lord across his fingertips and said with some amusement, “You do not appear to suffer from an underestimation of your own worth.”
“Why should I?” The answer was quick and sharp, devoid of humor. Lord’s dark green eyes were fixed intensely on the dean. “I know my record as well as anyone. I also know other people around here who are doing a damn sight less than I am.”
“If you don’t mind,” Dean Harris said with a touch of sharpness himself, “we will leave other people out of it. Others are not the issue. The issue is you.”
Lord’s thin face flushed. “I don’t see why there’s an issue at all. The whole thing seems perfectly clear. I thought I had just explained it.”
“Yes, you did explain. Quite eloquently.” Dean Harris decided he would not be provoked into being less than patient. After all, Lord was right a
bout his record. Why should he be falsely modest and pretend? Even the aggressiveness could be excused. Many scientists—as one himself, the dean understood—simply did not have time to school themselves in diplomatic niceties.
So should he agree to Lord’s request for fast promotion? No. Dean Harris knew already that he wouldn’t.
“You must realize, Dr. Lord,” he pointed out, “that I alone do not make decisions about promotions. As dean I must depend heavily on advice from a faculty committee.”
“That’s a—” Lord blurted out the words and stopped.
A pity, the dean thought. If he’d said “a load of crap” or something similar I’d have had an excuse for ordering him from my office. But this is a formal occasion, as he remembered just in time, and we will keep it that way.
“A promotion supported by you is always accepted.” Vincent Lord scowled as he corrected himself. He hated being subservient to this dean whom he considered an inferior has-been scientist, now a pathetic paper pusher. Unfortunately he was a paper pusher with the authority of the university behind him.
Dean Harris did not reply. What Lord had said about his support of any promotion was true, but that was because he never took a position on one until he was sure it would be acceptable to the faculty. Though a dean was the senior member of a faculty, the faculty as a whole had more power than a dean. Which was why he knew he would never get Lord’s promotion agreed to at this point, even if he pushed it.
By now, gossip about those two most recent published papers of Vincent Lord’s was undoubtedly circulating through the campus. Gossip, plus questions about ethics, plus the earlier, four-year-old incident which had been almost forgotten but now would be revived.
There was no point, the dean reasoned, in delaying announcement of a decision already taken.
“Dr. Lord,” he stated quietly, “I will not recommend you for accelerated promotion at this point.”
“Why not?”
“I do not believe the reasons you have given are sufficiently compelling.”
“Explain ‘compelling’!”
The words had been snapped out like a command and there were limits to patience, the dean decided. He replied coldly, “I believe it would be better for both of us if this interview were ended. Good day!”
But Lord made no attempt to move. He remained seated in front of the dean’s desk, glaring. “I’m asking you to reconsider. If you don’t, you may regret it.”
“In what way might I regret it?”
“I could decide to leave.”
Dean Harris said, and meant it, “I would be sorry to see that happen, Dr. Lord, and your departure would be a loss. You have brought credit to the university and will, I believe, continue to. On the other hand”—the dean permitted himself a thin smile—“I believe that even after your departure this institution would survive.”
Lord rose from the chair, his face flushed with anger. Without a word he stalked from the office and slammed the door behind him.
Reminding himself, as he had so many times before, that part of his job was to deal calmly and fairly with un-calm, talented people who often behaved unreasonably, the dean returned to other work.
Unlike the dean, Dr. Lord did not put the matter from his mind. As if a recording were implanted in his brain, he replayed the interview over and over, growing increasingly bitter and angry until he came to hate not only Harris, but the entire university.
Vincent Lord suspected—even though the subject had not been mentioned at the interview—that those minor changes he was having to make in his two most recently published papers had something to do with his rejection. The suspicion increased his anger because, as he saw it, the matter was trivial compared with his overall scientific record. Oh yes, he conceded even to himself, he knew how those errors had occurred. He had been impatient, overenthusiastic, in a hurry. He had, for the absolute briefest time, let wishful thinking about results overrule his scientific caution. But he had since vowed never to let anything similar happen again. Also, the incident was past, he would shortly publish corrections, so why should it be considered? Petty! Trivial!
At no point did it occur to Vincent Lord that it was not the incidents themselves, including the one four years ago, that his critics were concerned with, but certain symptoms and signals about his character. In the absence of such reasoning and understanding by Dr. Lord, his bitterness continued festering.
Consequently when, three months later during a scientific meeting in San Antonio, he was approached by a representative of Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals with an invitation to “come aboard”—a euphemism for an offer of employment—his reaction, while not immediately positive, was at least, “Well, maybe.”
The approach itself was not unusual. The big drug firms were constantly on the lookout for new scientific talent and monitored carefully all published papers originating in universities. In the case of something interesting, a congratulatory letter might be written. Then, following through, scholarly gatherings where drug company people met academic scientists on neutral ground were useful points of contact. In all these ways, and well before the San Antonio meeting, Vincent Lord’s name had been considered and selected as a “target.”
More specific talks followed. What Felding-Roth wanted was a scientist of highest caliber in his field to head a new division to develop steroids. From the beginning, the company representatives treated Dr. Lord with deference and respect, an attitude which pleased him and which he saw as a pleasant contrast to what he considered his shabby treatment by the university.
The opportunity, from a scientific point of view, was interesting. So was the salary offered—fourteen thousand dollars a year, almost twice as much as he was earning at U of I.
To be fair to Vincent Lord, it could have been said that money itself held almost as little interest for him as did food. His personal needs were simple; he never had difficulty living on his university pay. But the drug firm’s money was one more compliment—a recognition of his worth.
After thinking about it for two weeks, Dr. Lord accepted. He left the university abruptly, with minimal goodbyes. He began work at Felding-Roth in September 1957.
Almost at once an extraordinary thing occurred. In early November the drug firm’s director of research collapsed over a microscope and died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Vincent Lord was in place and available. He had the needed qualifications. He was appointed to the vacant post.
Now, three years later, Dr. Lord was solidly entrenched at Felding-Roth. He continued to be respected. His competence was never questioned. He ran his department efficiently, with minimal outside interference, and despite Lord’s private personality problems, relations with his staff were good. Equally important, his personal scientific work was going well.
Most others, in the circumstances, would have been happy. Yet for Vincent Lord there was that perpetual looking-backward syndrome, the doubts and soul-searching about long-ago decisions, the anger and bitterness—as impassioned as ever—about his refused promotion at U of I. The present held problems too, or so he thought. Outside his department, he was suspicious of others in the company. Were they undermining him? There were several people whom he disliked and distrusted—one of them that pushy woman. Celia Jordan received altogether too much attention. Her promotion had been unwelcome to him. He saw her as a competitor for prestige and power.
There was always the possibility, which he hoped for, that the Jordan bitch would overreach, be toppled, and disappear. As far as Dr. Lord was concerned, it could not happen too soon.
Of course, none of this would matter, not even the insult in the past at U of I, and no one would come close to Vincent Lord in power and respect if a certain event occurred which now seemed likely.
Like most scientists, Vince Lord was inspired by the challenge of the unknown. Also like others, he had long dreamed of achieving, personally, a major breakthrough, a discovery which would push back dramatically the frontiers of knowledge and place his n
ame in the honor roll of history.
Such a dream now seemed attainable.
After three years of persistent, painstaking work at Felding-Roth, work which he knew to be brilliantly conceived, a chemical compound was at last in sight which could become a revolutionary new drug. There was still a great deal to be done. Research and animal experiments were needed over two more years at least, but preliminaries had been successful, the signposts were in place. With his knowledge, experience and scientific intuition, Vincent Lord could see them clearly.
Of course, the new drug when marketed would make an undreamed-of fortune for Felding-Roth. But that was unimportant. What was important was what it would do to the worldwide reputation of Dr. Vincent Lord.
A little more time was all he needed.
Then he would show them. By God, he would show them all!
11
Thalidomide exploded!
As Celia said much later, “Though none of us knew it then, nothing in the drug industry would ever be quite the same again after the facts about Thalidomide became well known.”
Developments started slowly, unnoticed except locally, and—in the minds of anyone involved at the beginning—unconnected with a drug.
In West Germany, in April 1961, physicians were startled by an outbreak of phocomelia—a rare phenomenon in which babies are born tragically deformed, without arms or legs, instead having tiny, useless, seal-like flippers. The previous year two cases had been reported—even that an unprecedented number since, as one researcher put it, “two-headed children have been more common.” Now, suddenly, there were dozens of phocomelic babies.
Some mothers, when shown the children to whom they had given birth, screamed in revulsion and despair. Others wept, knowing that, as one put it, “my son could never feed himself unaided, bathe himself, attend to basic sanitary requirements, open a door, hold a woman in his arms, or even write his name.”