Scorpion's Advance (7 page)

Anderson said that it did. He asked if her husband also worked in the university.

'No. Sam is director of the Kalman Institute in Hadera. It's a commercial concern doing contract research and the like but Sam still continues his work.'

'Does he like it here? Do you like it here?'

'We both do,' smiled Myra. 'People do things in Israel; they don't just sit around all day talking about it.'

Strauss
re-joined them, rubbing his hands. 'Good,' he said, 'I see you two are getting to know each other.' He turned to Anderson and said, 'I have asked Myra to assist you with your experiments while you are here. Do you think you can work together?'

'I'm sure we can,' Anderson said with a smile, looking at Myra and getting a smile in return.

'Good, then I'll leave you to discuss details. Perhaps when you are ready we can talk?'

'Of course,' said Anderson.

Myra fetched her notebook and took down details of the kind of experiments Anderson would be likely to carry out during his visit. They discussed likely requirements in the way of glassware and specialized lab apparatus before getting round to talking about probable animal experiments. Anderson asked if the package containing plasmid cultures and Galomycin that he had sent on ahead had arrived.

Myra nodded. 'In the fridge.'

Anderson said that he had better go and talk to Strauss and asked her if she would check out the experimental animal situation.

'Guinea pigs or mice?'

‘Pigs.'

'Will do.'

Anderson joined Strauss in his office where they spoke briefly of the magnificent view of Tel Aviv from the window before settling down to talk. For Anderson, it was a revelation. Here in his own environment, the research lab, Strauss was no longer the pleasant old gentleman from the park bench. He was a giant. They spoke, or rather Strauss spoke and Anderson listened while Strauss talked of science and medicine in general, highlighting the problems, the possibilities, the likelihoods, the uncertainties, with an ease and intellectual insight that left Anderson in awe of the man. There just did not seem to be any area of investigation that Strauss was not familiar with, and not just in general terms, for he appeared to be conversant with state-of-the-art research in any branch of medicine that Anderson cared to mention.

The pleasure Anderson took in listening to Strauss seemed to accentuate the dull, boring nature of so many of the seminars that he had attended back home where he would applaud politely at the end of yet more dotting of '
i's and crossing of 't's. He would grin and bear it as questions were asked dutifully by students who had been taught that asking questions proclaimed intelligence.

Since qualifying, Anderson had discovered that research was not the fast-flowing current that many imagined it to be. In many ways it was a log jam of mediocrity, with too many researchers wallowing happily in little eddies by the bank. Strauss was different; he had vision. He could see a long way downstream, pick out the rocks on which projects would founder, identify the difficult bends where more knowledge would be required than existed at present.

Anderson was sorry when Strauss came to the point and said, 'And now, my friend . . . the plasmid problem.' He rose from his chair, opened the door of his office and asked Arieh Cohen to come in. 'Dr Cohen conducted our experiments with plasmid PZ9, Dr Anderson. Perhaps you two should begin by exchanging details of technique.'

Strauss fixed his gaze on the tooled leather surface of his desk while Anderson gave the unsmiling Cohen information about volumes, concentrations, and animal weights used in his experiments. When he had finished, Cohen shrugged his shoulders and turned to Strauss. 'No significant difference.'

Strauss nodded thoughtfully and said to Anderson, 'I understand you have brought your own cultures with you?'

They were sent on ahead. Myra tells me they've arrived.'

'Good,' said Strauss. Then you’d better repeat your experiment using our animals.'

When Anderson returned to the lab, Myra Freedman told him that there would be no problem over animals. They would be available whenever he needed them.

'I'll set up some plasmid cultures for injection,' said Anderson.

'I took the liberty of doing that for you,' said Myra Freedman, 'they should be ready by late afternoon.'

At lunchtime Anderson gratefully accepted Myra's offer to show him the way to the university refectory. In the end he enjoyed the company more than the food but felt under a diplomatic obligation to force down as much as possible before giving in and pretending that he was not very hungry.

As they walked out into the blazing heat of the midday sun, Myra said, 'Congratulations.'

'What for?' asked Anderson.

'You ate seventy per cent of it; that's some kind of record.'

Anderson laughed for the first time in Israel. 'My tourist book says that the Israelis have taken the cuisine of eight cultures.'

'What it didn't say,' added Myra, 'is that we fucked up all of them!'

They had walked less than fifty yards from the refectory building when Anderson found himself forced to pause in the shade of a tree.

‘
Takes a bit of getting used to,' said Myra.

Anderson mopped his brow and squatted down on the grass to watch the sprinklers at work, through eyes narrowed against the sun. 'How come you don't work beside your husband?' he asked.

'We'd go mad,' smiled Myra. 'We've got a good marriage but it wouldn't stretch to twenty-four hours a day contact, so Sam works up in Hadera and I work with Jacob Strauss here in Tel Aviv. What did you think of Professor Strauss?'

'He strikes me as brilliant,' said Anderson.

'You're right. He is.'

Anderson left the lab at six when it had already been dark for an hour, but the setting of the sun appeared to have made little or no difference to the temperature. He found his skin becoming moist within minutes of leaving the building, but apart from this discomfort, which made him look forward to a shower, he felt good. The plasmid cultures had grown up on time and three test animals had been injected and put into isolation cages.

The green 'Walk' sign at the traffic lights flashed on and Anderson crossed over to stroll slowly down Einstein through the early evening crowds. The avenue seemed surprisingly quiet for the number of people in it, so quiet that it puzzled him till he realized that nearly everyone was wearing sandals and moving much more slowly than would an evening crowd back home. He made for the supermarket at the corner of Einstein and Brodetsky; he’d noticed it when Cohen had brought him from the airport.

With his fridge and cupboards well stocked, Anderson showered and took a cold beer out on to the roof where he leaned on the parapet wall and watched the lights of the traffic on Einstein. The fate of the guinea pigs was uppermost in his mind. This result was probably the most important one he had ever waited on, but then, he reasoned with the philosophy of a beer drinker, they probably all were at the time. Still, three live animals in the morning would probably have him wiping egg off his face for some time to come . . . and in the Hebrides. 'Hello,' said an American voice.

Anderson turned in surprise to find a tall African American in his late twenties standing before him.

'Miles
Langman.' The man held out his hand.

'Neil Anderson. I thought everyone here was on vacation.'

'The Tel Aviv people are but there are quite a few Americans around, mainly students pretending they are Israelis for a year - makes their folks feel good.'

'And you?' asked Anderson, thinking that
Langman seemed a bit old to be a student.

'I'm a researcher in Talmudic law, on sabbatical from the University of California.'

'Talmudic law? Then you are . . .'

'Yes, I'm Jewish, black and Jewish. When God throws a curve ball . .
.’

Anderson grinned, taking a liking to
Langman. 'Beer?'

'Please.'

Anderson fetched two more beers from the fridge in his room and asked, 'How many American students are there?'

'Thirty or so, with maybe another thirty exchange students from Europe.'

The two men killed another couple of beers before the American left, telling Anderson that he lived on the second floor of the building and inviting him to 'shout out' if he needed anything.

Anderson wrote up his lab notes before turning in early to find that he could not sleep for the heat. He got up and, once more, sought the sanctuary of the roof where he sat with his back against the parapet wall looking up at the stars in a black velvet sky; somewhere below him the Americans were singing folk songs. After an hour or so he took a cold shower and got into bed again, hoping that he would fall asleep before his body temperature rose. He did.

His original plan to get into the lab early foundered when he didn’t wake till after nine. But his annoyance faded when he realized just how well he felt after such a good sleep, and how an early start was not going to influence the guinea pig outcome one way or the other. He felt hungry after having eaten so little the previous day on account of the heat so he delayed even further and cooked himself a large breakfast.

The medical school was sited at the back of the campus so Anderson had a good distance to walk through the grounds to reach it. He enjoyed it, passing as he did along paths lined with exotic trees and shrubs and constantly aware of the cool, wet mist from the sprinklers before finally exchanging the heat of the morning for the air conditioning of the medical school. As the elevator climbed to the sixth floor, Anderson wondered if he would feel good in a few moments' time.

Myra Freedman looked up as he walked in. She said, 'You've created quite a stir. Cohen's with the Professor.'

The pigs?'

'All dead.'

Anderson had to see for himself. Navigating from memory of his trip with Myra the day before, he made his way to the animal laboratory alone and looked at the carcasses of the dead guinea pigs. They were lying stiff in their cages, teeth bared
in typical plasmid death. 'Thank Christ,' he muttered as he closed the door and returned to the lab to join Strauss and Cohen.

Strauss pushed his glasses up on to his forehead and leaned back in his chair. 'So, we have a real problem, gentlemen. There is now no difference in experimental conditions so there must be a difference in the components of the experiment. What do you suggest?'

Anderson said, 'I suggest two more animal experiments. One injected with your plasmid, my Galomycin; the other with your Galomycin, my plasmid.'

Strauss looked at Cohen. 'Do you agree,
Arieh?'

'It's the obvious thing to try,' said Cohen.

It is when I’ve just told you, thought Anderson uncharitably and without any real cause, for Cohen, as yet, had not said enough for Anderson to reach any kind of conclusion about his ability or competence. The thought had been born out of a growing dislike for the cold, sullen Israeli with whom he would now be spending the rest of the day in preparation for the new experiments.

By the middle of the afternoon Anderson had to admit that Cohen was competent enough - in fact, if pushed, he would have had to concede that watching him work had been a pleasure. His large, seemingly ungainly hands had assumed the dexterity of a Swiss watchmaker when handling bacterial cultures. But apart from the professional respect which Anderson now had to accord him, he still thought him a cold son
-of-a-bitch who had not said two words more than were necessary.

Anderson returned to the main lab with Cohen just after five, having injected a new series of animals. He found Myra Freedman preparing to leave for the day and stopped to have a few words with her. Cohen walked on.

'He's a lot of laughs,' said Anderson.

'He's a good scientist, but with a chip on his shoulder.'

'What about?'

'Search me. He never talks.'

Anderson was walking on when Myra called after him, 'Hey, you're invited to dinner Friday. Come and meet Sam.'

'Thank you.'

The thought of going back to his sweat-box apartment made Anderson loth to leave the cool air conditioning of the medical school. He took the elevator to the top floor where the library was situated and sat for a while, thumbing through the current copies of the medical journals when he was not being distracted by the views of the lights of Tel Aviv. He stayed there till seven when hunger dictated that food was now more important than temperature and it was merely a question of whether he should eat out or make his own. In the event, Miles Langman was to settle the matter for him. He heard Anderson wearily climbing the stairs of the French Building and put his head round the door. 'Had a hard day, dear?' he mimicked.

During the ensuing conversation Anderson confessed that the only thing stopping him from eating out was his fear that the food might turn out to be like that of the university refectory.

Langman rolled his eyes. 'No way,' he said, 'that place is special. Even the cockroaches don't eat there.' He suggested that they take the bus down to the port of Jaffa and dine on Arab food. Anderson agreed.