puts his faith.” He didn’t like to lecture, but he wanted her to understand. “Just in case you didn’t know, vaccines create immunity to disease by using infectious material to boost the body’s own defenses. With antibacterials like penicillin, we’re introducing natural substances into the body to kill harmfulbacteria while leaving healthy cells alone. No one knows how or why it works. Catalano’s not alone in his skepticism—I’m challenged regularly at meetings—but I’m still committed to the idea.”
“In that case, I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. And being right, I need to get back to work. I’m afraid you’re on your own once more.”
“Good. I need to get back to work, too.”
He liked this response, a sign of her spirit. “Well, then, we’re in agreement. I’ll see you sometime later.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” She turned and walked down the hall toward the elevator, sensing his gaze upon her. She stood straight and measured her steps accordingly, managing to look fairly come-hither, she thought, given that she carried about thirty pounds of equipment and had to dodge a stout nurse helping an elderly man stagger to his room.
When she reached the elevator, she turned to look back at Stanton, but he was gone.
L eaving the hospital, Claire burst into a brilliant winter’s day. She felt exhilarated. Switching to the long lens, she roamed the Institute grounds, searching for scenes to photograph. This morning when she dropped yesterday’s exposed film at the office, Mack, the photo editor, barked two orders: don’t take any photos of scientists holding test tubes up to the light (clichéd, in his opinion) and get some shots of the place itself, because nobody ever gets into the Rockefeller Institute, and now that we’ve been invited, make the most of it. Fill up the file when we’ve got the chance. She liked Mack and told him that she would do her best.
The Institute covered fifteen acres on a bluff overlooking the East River. It was a bucolic setting of trees, gardens, and hidden pathways, enclosed and protected by a high wrought iron fence. In the distance, the guard at the stone-pillared gate refused entry to unauthorized visitors. The Institute was a refuge from the shrilling car horns and hurrying pedestrians on the streets outside. Gradually Claire found the images she wanted: blue jays rummaging for treats in the basin of a leaf-laden marble fountain. Sunlight shimmering on the far side of a stone archway, creating the impression of a passageway into a secluded cloister. The staid laboratory buildings appeared alluring and mysterious through the rhythmic texture of rows of London plane trees. As Claire made her way along the tree-lined paths, the quiet touched her, an unexpected pause in the rush of her day. A sense of peace enveloped her. She stopped working and stood still, letting the silence fill her.
In 1901, after his first grandchild died of scarlet fever, John D. Rockefeller had used part of his immense Standard Oil fortune to establish the Institute. His grandson’s doctors could do nothing to help the boy, and Rockefeller wanted to change that, for his own and other people’s children and grandchildren. The Institute was now the most important and advanced medical research center in America. The staff members worked for less money than they would have earned at pharmaceutical companies or in private medical practice, but they were at the forefront of innovation. The Institute was structured around a group of relatively independent laboratories or departments, each one headed by a senior physician/scientist. Within this system, researchers pursued their hunches, tested their hypotheses, and tried to develop new treatments for a broad range of human ailments.
Claire knew this history from a belated report prepared by the magazine’s research department. She’d picked up the report at the office this morning and read it in the taxi on her
“In that case, I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. And being right, I need to get back to work. I’m afraid you’re on your own once more.”
“Good. I need to get back to work, too.”
He liked this response, a sign of her spirit. “Well, then, we’re in agreement. I’ll see you sometime later.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” She turned and walked down the hall toward the elevator, sensing his gaze upon her. She stood straight and measured her steps accordingly, managing to look fairly come-hither, she thought, given that she carried about thirty pounds of equipment and had to dodge a stout nurse helping an elderly man stagger to his room.
When she reached the elevator, she turned to look back at Stanton, but he was gone.
L eaving the hospital, Claire burst into a brilliant winter’s day. She felt exhilarated. Switching to the long lens, she roamed the Institute grounds, searching for scenes to photograph. This morning when she dropped yesterday’s exposed film at the office, Mack, the photo editor, barked two orders: don’t take any photos of scientists holding test tubes up to the light (clichéd, in his opinion) and get some shots of the place itself, because nobody ever gets into the Rockefeller Institute, and now that we’ve been invited, make the most of it. Fill up the file when we’ve got the chance. She liked Mack and told him that she would do her best.
The Institute covered fifteen acres on a bluff overlooking the East River. It was a bucolic setting of trees, gardens, and hidden pathways, enclosed and protected by a high wrought iron fence. In the distance, the guard at the stone-pillared gate refused entry to unauthorized visitors. The Institute was a refuge from the shrilling car horns and hurrying pedestrians on the streets outside. Gradually Claire found the images she wanted: blue jays rummaging for treats in the basin of a leaf-laden marble fountain. Sunlight shimmering on the far side of a stone archway, creating the impression of a passageway into a secluded cloister. The staid laboratory buildings appeared alluring and mysterious through the rhythmic texture of rows of London plane trees. As Claire made her way along the tree-lined paths, the quiet touched her, an unexpected pause in the rush of her day. A sense of peace enveloped her. She stopped working and stood still, letting the silence fill her.
In 1901, after his first grandchild died of scarlet fever, John D. Rockefeller had used part of his immense Standard Oil fortune to establish the Institute. His grandson’s doctors could do nothing to help the boy, and Rockefeller wanted to change that, for his own and other people’s children and grandchildren. The Institute was now the most important and advanced medical research center in America. The staff members worked for less money than they would have earned at pharmaceutical companies or in private medical practice, but they were at the forefront of innovation. The Institute was structured around a group of relatively independent laboratories or departments, each one headed by a senior physician/scientist. Within this system, researchers pursued their hunches, tested their hypotheses, and tried to develop new treatments for a broad range of human ailments.
Claire knew this history from a belated report prepared by the magazine’s research department. She’d picked up the report at the office this morning and read it in the taxi on her
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