his shirts.
“Well, for one thing,” sniffed Childress unpleasantly, “there isn’t enough of it.”
Stephen turned to Dave Borland, the protein chemist. “I thought the new process was producing higher yields,” he said, lifting one black brow to eloquently punctuate the question.
“There’s nothing wrong with the supply of protein,” Borland shot back defensively. “The problem is that crystallography is pissing it away. So far they’ve gotten nearly a gram of pure receptor—twice what everyone else has gotten put together—and they haven’t produced a single viable crystal.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” ventured Michelle Goodwin timidly. “I’ve actually had some success with very small crystals.”
“Considering the importance of solving the structure I don’t understand why chemistry and imaging should be getting any at all,” Michael Childress said, talking right over her as if she’d never spoken.
“There’s one more thing we need to factor into all this,” interjected Carl, trying to be heard above the others. “We’re still having problems with the power.” The ZK-501 labs were so crammed with high-tech equipment that, within three months of moving in, Azor Pharmaceuticals’ power demands had outstripped the available supply. For months Commonwealth Edison had been promising to install additional transformers, but in spite of twice-daily calls from Carl Woodruff, no date had as yet been set for the upgrade.
“The electricity is not the problem,” announced Lou Remminger, glaring contemptuously at Childress. Despite her punk persona her voice was straight from the Smoky Mountains. The effect was as incongruous as her fingernails. “The supply of receptor is not the problem either. The problem is that Dr. Childress is doing every other goddamned thing in the world besides his job.”
“How dare you!” sputtered Childress, obviously stung by such a direct attack.
“Well,” drawled the chemist sweetly. “Would you mind telling me when was the last time you spent a weekend in the lab—or better yet, a full week? Let me see, last week it was a site visit at Johns Hopkins, the week before it was the small-molecules conference in Brussels....”
“Enough,” announced Stephen, evidently deciding he had let things go too far. “As the saying goes, as of today all shore leave is canceled. That goes for you, too, Michael. Our friends the Japanese are coming. Takisawa is sending a dozen of their people to visit our labs a week from Monday. That gives us nine days to prepare for a full-blown site visit.”
The scientists of the ZK-501 project received this news in stunned silence. Dave Borland, the protein chemist, looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach and I saw a flicker of something very close to panic cross Michelle Goodwin’s face. Only Michael Childress seemed unperturbed by the news. Sitting by himself, buffered by empty chairs, he stroked his chin with mandarin-like indifference.
“What I want to know is why, when we have Mikos breathing down our necks, are we wasting time on some damn dog and pony show for the Japanese?” demanded Remminger.
“Because before we make a drug we have to make a deal,” replied Stephen impatiently. “Right now this project, which is at least two years away from having a drug to sell, is burning through money at the rate of sixty-five thousand dollars a day. There’s no way that this company can continue to absorb those costs without some kind of outside revenue. If anyone here knows someone who has forty million dollars they’d like to gamble on this molecule, speak up now. If not, I suggest we think seriously about how we’re going to impress our visitors from Tokyo.” He looked hard around the room and waited for a reply before he continued.
“During the next several days each lab head will be meeting with Kate Millholland to go over the information and cost projections. Some of you may have already met
“Well, for one thing,” sniffed Childress unpleasantly, “there isn’t enough of it.”
Stephen turned to Dave Borland, the protein chemist. “I thought the new process was producing higher yields,” he said, lifting one black brow to eloquently punctuate the question.
“There’s nothing wrong with the supply of protein,” Borland shot back defensively. “The problem is that crystallography is pissing it away. So far they’ve gotten nearly a gram of pure receptor—twice what everyone else has gotten put together—and they haven’t produced a single viable crystal.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” ventured Michelle Goodwin timidly. “I’ve actually had some success with very small crystals.”
“Considering the importance of solving the structure I don’t understand why chemistry and imaging should be getting any at all,” Michael Childress said, talking right over her as if she’d never spoken.
“There’s one more thing we need to factor into all this,” interjected Carl, trying to be heard above the others. “We’re still having problems with the power.” The ZK-501 labs were so crammed with high-tech equipment that, within three months of moving in, Azor Pharmaceuticals’ power demands had outstripped the available supply. For months Commonwealth Edison had been promising to install additional transformers, but in spite of twice-daily calls from Carl Woodruff, no date had as yet been set for the upgrade.
“The electricity is not the problem,” announced Lou Remminger, glaring contemptuously at Childress. Despite her punk persona her voice was straight from the Smoky Mountains. The effect was as incongruous as her fingernails. “The supply of receptor is not the problem either. The problem is that Dr. Childress is doing every other goddamned thing in the world besides his job.”
“How dare you!” sputtered Childress, obviously stung by such a direct attack.
“Well,” drawled the chemist sweetly. “Would you mind telling me when was the last time you spent a weekend in the lab—or better yet, a full week? Let me see, last week it was a site visit at Johns Hopkins, the week before it was the small-molecules conference in Brussels....”
“Enough,” announced Stephen, evidently deciding he had let things go too far. “As the saying goes, as of today all shore leave is canceled. That goes for you, too, Michael. Our friends the Japanese are coming. Takisawa is sending a dozen of their people to visit our labs a week from Monday. That gives us nine days to prepare for a full-blown site visit.”
The scientists of the ZK-501 project received this news in stunned silence. Dave Borland, the protein chemist, looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach and I saw a flicker of something very close to panic cross Michelle Goodwin’s face. Only Michael Childress seemed unperturbed by the news. Sitting by himself, buffered by empty chairs, he stroked his chin with mandarin-like indifference.
“What I want to know is why, when we have Mikos breathing down our necks, are we wasting time on some damn dog and pony show for the Japanese?” demanded Remminger.
“Because before we make a drug we have to make a deal,” replied Stephen impatiently. “Right now this project, which is at least two years away from having a drug to sell, is burning through money at the rate of sixty-five thousand dollars a day. There’s no way that this company can continue to absorb those costs without some kind of outside revenue. If anyone here knows someone who has forty million dollars they’d like to gamble on this molecule, speak up now. If not, I suggest we think seriously about how we’re going to impress our visitors from Tokyo.” He looked hard around the room and waited for a reply before he continued.
“During the next several days each lab head will be meeting with Kate Millholland to go over the information and cost projections. Some of you may have already met
Similar Books
