Where the Summer Ends

The Fourth Seal



•I•

“I had a friend at St Johns you would have liked to have met,” observed Dr Metzger. “At least the idea you’ve brought up reminds me of some of our old undergraduate bull sessions.”

“Bull sessions?” responded Dr Thackeray, his frosty brows wavering askance.

Geoff laughed easily. “Never underestimate the value of a liberal arts background, Dr Thackeray. St Johns men could find loftier subjects to drain a keg of beer over than the matter of a cheerleader’s boobs—especially with cheerleaders in short supply.

“No, Kirk Walker was something of a medievalist—and certainly a romanticist. Fancied himself the last of the Renaissance men, or some such, I imagine. Anyway, he used to put away booze like a Viking raiding party, and often he’d kick around some impossibly half-assed ideas, argue them with dignified tenacity through all our hooting—and you were never sure whether he was serious, or handing us another piece of outrageous whimsy.

“But one of the points he liked to bring up was this idea that modern science, as we call it, isn’t all that modern. Maintained that substantial scientific knowledge and investigation have existed on a recondite basis since early history—and not just as hocus-pocus and charlatanry.”

“As I have suggested,” Dr Thackeray nodded, drawing on his cigar and tilting his padded desk chair a fraction closer to overbalance.

“Pity Kirk isn’t here to talk with a kindred soul,” Geoff Metzger continued. “He used to drag out all manner of evidence to support his claim. Go on about Egyptian artifacts, Greek thinkers, Byzantine and later Roman writings, Islamic studies after the Roman Lake changed owners, Jewish cabalism, secret researches by certain monks, on through the Dark Ages and into the so-called Renaissance—even threw out bits of Chinese history. He’d go wild talking about the quattrocento and the cinquecento and dozens of Italian names no one else had heard of—then Central Europe and France and England, and people like Bacon and Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. That was really the astonishing thing. I mean, all of us at St Johns were supposed to be well read and well versed in the classics and those great and moldy books, but Kirk was something else. God knows how much that guy must have read!”

“Your friend Walker sounds like a man I ought to meet,” Dr Thackeray broke in.

Metzger’s face saddened. “I’m sorry to say you can’t. Quite a tragic story about old Kirk. He went on to med school after St Johns, too—some big Southern school of notable reputation. Wasn’t happy there for some reason, and ran afoul of the administration. Left after a rather stormy scene. Died not long thereafter—Hodgkins, I believe. Everyone felt bad about it at the time.”

“A pity.”

“Yes, it was. I must say I’m surprised to find someone of your position giving credence to such similar ideas. Guess maybe we took Kirk more lightly than we might have. Still, he was always one for elaborate jokes. Strange guy.” Geoff’s eye fell to wandering along the impressively filled shelves which lined Dr Thackeray’s office. These walls of conglomerate knowledge—concentrated to blocky solidity, properly bound and systematically shelved—exuded the weighty atmosphere of learned dignity that one expected for the sanctum of the Chairman of the Department of Medicine.

“And why did your friend believe this unsuspected depth of scientific knowledge was kept in secret?” the older man asked carefully.

“Kirk was vague,” returned Metzger, downing his acrid coffee before it got colder. A grimy residue stained the bottom of the Styrofoam cup, and he reflected bitterly that hospital coffee deteriorated with every medical center he came to.

“He had several reasons, though. For one thing, he’d argue that our basic conception of the past comes through writings of the past, and that these writers viewed their world from their own particular set of terms. The idea of progress—in fact, the conception of science as we understand it—is a relatively modern development of thought. In another age this was altogether different. To the bulk of the populace, scientific knowledge would have been no more than a pointless exercise, useless to them. What would a serf care about a microscope? It wouldn’t clothe and feed him. What would an intellectual care about the discovery of microorganisms? Plagues were the punishment of God or the work of Satan.

“And the language of the day was totally different; there simply were no words—nor even systems of thought—to convey scientific conceptions. Thus every man who studied the stars was an astrologer, while the thoughtful investigator of elemental or molecular structure was only another alchemist seeking to create gold. And to be sure, many of these men were only superstitious dabblers in the occult. With the ignorance or even hostility of most writers of the day, fool and genius were lumped together, and the early scientist was categorized as being in league with the devil. He was ignored and mocked at best, more often persecuted by the authorities of the land. We know of several brilliant thinkers who were condemned to the stake for their efforts—or had near misses, like Galileo.

“It is any wonder then that Walker’s proto-scientists kept their work secret, shared their discoveries only with a select brotherhood? At least, that was Kirk’s theory.”

Dr Thackeray considered his cigar. “Interesting. And, as you say, tragic. Medicine needs men of his caliber—and men like yourself, Dr Metzger.”

Geoff smiled at the compliment. Coming from the Grand Old Man, it meant a lot. “I consider myself fortunate to be associated with the medical center here.”

“Good. And I’ll say that we’re all delighted you decided to join us. You’re a capable man, Dr Metzger; your record is brilliant. Those of us who have watched you feel certain you’ll go far in medicine—farther, perhaps, than you might imagine.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. I’m merely stating facts. I knew your father during my residency, you know, and he was a splendid physician himself. So I’m pleased that you decided to take a position here at the Center. It’s good to learn the facilities are up to your expectations, and that you’re getting your lab set up to suit you.”

He gestured toward the sheaf of papers Geoff had carried with him. “I like the way you’ve drawn this together. I’d say it’s dead certain the grant will go through.”

“I’m counting on it, sir.”

Dr Thackeray brandished his cigar. “Oh, it will. It will. You’ve stated the scientific aspects of it beautifully—and now we’ll handle the political end of things. Politics, as you’ll learn, count for a great deal. A very great deal, Dr Metzger.”

“No doubt,” laughed Geoff drily.



It had been a good move, thought Metzger, pausing to look over his new lab facilities. A damn good move. He could make his name here at the Center.

It was a heady feeling to be in charge of his own research project—a major project at the medical center of considerable renown—and still a young man by his colleagues’ standards. But Geoffrey Metzger was inured to honors.

He was, after all, the Center’s prize catch—hotly contested for by any number of major institutions. Head of his class at St Johns and at Harvard Medical School, and he could have been one of the youngest men to finish, if he had not chosen the roundabout course of a liberal arts education, a few sojourns in Europe, and a combined M.D.-Ph. D. (biochemistry) program at Harvard. Afterward he had taken his pick of the most prestigious internships and residencies, finishing as chief resident in one of the nation’s best hospital centers. Then a stint with the Public Health Service in the poverty belt—in effect voluntary, since his family connections were sufficient to keep him out of military service.

An uncle with a governorship, a brother doing Very Well in the vice-presidential ladder of a Very Big corporation, and a “good marriage,” socially. Another brother was becoming known in legal medicine, and his father-in-law was partner in a string of ENT clinics in Detroit. Medicine had called members of his family for several generations. Geoff had himself followed his father into internal medicine. His father, very influential in the A.M.A., had been supposedly slated for its top post at the time of his death from a coronary.

A good record, as Dr Thackeray had observed. And no reason why it should not continue to shine. Metzger’s previous research work—extending back to his undergraduate days and assuming considerable stature during his residency—had led to numerous publications and no little acclaim. Clearly he was a man who was going places, and the Center was quite proud when he accepted their extremely generous offer. They had given him a free hand in a superbly equipped lab in their newest research facility, with a position as attending physician on the medical staff. And they had made it plain that this was merely a start for him, that there shortly would be important vacancies in the hierarchy of the Center...

Yes, it had been a damn good move.

Geoff grimaced and crumpled his Styrofoam cup. One of the first additions to his lab equipment was going to be a private coffee urn.



•II•

“Did you notice that ring Sid Lipton had on last night?” asked Gwen.

“What?” Geoff, a persistent headache reminding him of the cocktail party at Trelane’s the night before, was trying to watch the morning news.

“Sid had on a sort of signet ring,” Gwen persisted. “Did you notice?”

“What? No, guess I didn’t.”

“It was an ornate silver ring with a large black onyx, I think. Into the onyx was set a kind of silver medallion or seal. It looked like a fraternity ring or something, but I couldn’t place it. I thought maybe you knew what it was.”

“Haven’t noticed it. Dr Lipton’s usually scrubbed for surgery whenever I see him—or always looks that way. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything on his hands but rubber gloves.”

“Want some more orange juice? Well, it was strange, because when I went to the girls’ room I passed Sid and Brice Thackeray in the hall, and Brice seemed like he was upset or something because Sid had on the ring.”

“Upset?”

“Well, maybe not. But they were talking over something in a not-very-casual manner, and it seemed like the ring was part of it. They stopped when I walked by and moved back in with the party. Did you see that slutty dress Tess Gilman had on?”

“Huh? No.”

“I’ll bet. A see-through blouse with her figure! You could see where her body stocking had padded inserts. And all you men ogling her like she was Raquel or somebody.”

“Gwen, I’m trying to listen to the news.”

Her face tightened. “Screw the news! You spend all day between the hospital and your damn lab, and when you do get home in time to talk, all you do is tell me about the hospital, tell me about your research. Damn it, you might at least try to pay a little attention to me over the breakfast table!”

“Sweetheart, they’re talking about Senator Hollister. He had a CVA last night and died. Forgive me if I find the death of the front-running liberal candidate for the next presidential election of somewhat greater interest than your rehash of the highlights of another boring cocktail party!”

“Well I’m sorry if you find spending an evening with your wife boring!” she returned hotly.

The news moved on to the latest catastrophe in Pakistan. “Gwen, honey, that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Well, goddamn it, Geoff! You don’t have to brush off everything I say. I put up with that miserable last year of Harvard, and then your internship in that filthy city—gone all the time, and home every other night just to sleep. Then that endless residency period, when everything was supposed to get better and you’d have more free time—but you didn’t, because you were doing work on your own in that lab. And Jesus, that miserable stay in the heartland of coal mines and grits while you played the medical missionary! And all this was supposed to lead up to when you could be the big man in the big medical complex, and name your own hours, and pay some attention to me for a change. Remember me? I’m your wife! Would you like to stuff me away with some of those damn virus cultures you’re forever playing with?”

I’ve heard this before, thought Geoff, knowing that he would hear it again. And she wasn’t being all that unfair, he also realized. But he was running late, and this lingering hangover left him in no mood to talk things out again.

“Honey, it happens that I’m at a crucial stage right now, and I really have to keep at it,” he offered by way of reconciliation. “Besides, we went to the cocktail party at Trelane’s last night, didn’t we? We were together then, weren’t we?”

“Big deal,” Gwen sniffled. “It was a lousy party. All you talked about was medicine.”

Geoff sighed and glanced at his watch. “Look, I don’t want to make this sound too dramatic, but what I’m working on now could be big—I mean big. How big it might be I haven’t even told my colleagues—I don’t want to look like a fool if it doesn’t work out. But, honey, I think it is going to work out, and if it does, I’ll have made a breakthrough like no one since... Well, it will be a breakthrough.”

“Swell! You mean you’ll have discovered a whole new way to implant zits on a monkey’s navel, or some other thrilling discovery that all the journals can argue about!” Gwen was not to be placated.

Giving it up, Geoff bent to kiss her. She turned her face, and he got a mouthful of brown curls. “Baby, it really could be big. If it is, well, things could get a whole lot different for us in a hurry.”

“I’ll take any change—the sooner the better,” she murmured, raising her chin a little.

“Trust me, sweetheart. Hey look, you were fussing about your party dress last night. Why don’t you go out today and pick out a new one—something nice, whatever you like. OK?”



“What news today?”

Geoff glanced up from his stack of electron photomicrographs. “Oh, hi, Dave.” And to atone for the trace of irritation in his voice, he added, “Have a cup of coffee?”

“Muchos grassy-ass,” his visitor replied, turning to the large coffee urn Geoff had inveigled for his lab. He spooned in half a cupful of sugar and powdered cream substitute, and raised the steaming container immediately to his lips—one of those whose mouths seem impervious to scalding temperatures.

“Don’t know why it is, but even when you brew your own, it ends up tasting rancid like all other hospital coffee,” Geoff commented, half covering his pile of photographs.

“Unh,” Dr Froneberger acceded. “Know what you mean—that’s why I gave up drinking it black. Rot your liver if you don’t cut it with powdered goo. I think it’s the water. Hospital water is shot full of chemicals, rays, gases, dead bugs. Very healthfully unhealthful.

“What you got there, Geoff?” he queried, moving over to the desk.

Reluctantly, Metzger surrendered the photomicrographs. Froneberger’s own lab was at the other end of the hall, and it would be impolitic to affront his neighbor. Still, he vaguely resented the frequent contacts that their proximity afforded. Not that Dave was any more than ordinarily obnoxious, but the other’s research with influenza viruses impinged closely enough on some areas of his own work to raise the touchy problem of professional jealousy.

“Unh,” Froneberger expounded, tapping a hairy finger across several of the photos. “Right here, buddy. I can see it too. You got that same twisted grouping along the nuclear membrane, and on these two you can definitely see the penetration. And you can make a good argument with this one that here’s the same grouping on the chromosome. Hey, this is good stuff you’re getting here, Geoff buddy.”

“I think I’m making some progress,” offered Metzger testily, rankled at the other’s appropriation of data he had spent countless hours working toward. It would never do for Froneberger to insinuate himself into this thing with matters such as they were.

“Where’s it leading you, buddy? Got anything backing this besides what the editors like to brush off as ‘artifacts of electron microscopy’?”

“I couldn’t say,” Geoff replied evasively. “I’m getting some new data off these labeled cultures that may lead somewhere.”

“May, and again may not, that’s the way it always is. I know the feeling, believe you me. Been a few times, buddy, when I damn near thought I... But, hell, maybe all the cherries will roll up for you this time, you never know. Looks impressive so far, my fran. Could be we’re hearing the Nobel boys sniffing outside the door.”

“I think that’s your telephone.”

“Shit, it is that. And my secretary’s on break. Better catch it Chow!” He lumbered off.

“Damn!” Geoff breathed, resorting his photographs with fumbling touch.