A-17, taken intravenously, later orally, transformed her rats, scraggly, arthritic, their leg and neck joints in agony, into silken, sure-footed, sunny creatures, all their painful shuffling evaporated. Undeniable success.
Time to test the drug on humans. But for this she needed specific permission. Already then sheâd grown too distant from her husband, Joe, he the Chairman of the Board of CochPharm, to ask him for help. She went to see Sam. âI have to do this.â
âYouâre crazy.â
âSamââ
âAnd you must think Iâm crazy too.â Sam stood behind his desk, his face and bald scalp gone red.
âWeâre none of us crazyââ
âBeth. Listen. Let me be basic here. Marijuana is illegal. Importing it, buying it, possessing it for whatever purpose, is a felony. Youâve been able to get away with your tests because all of your animals are in cages, they canât meander over to a cocktail lounge and blab away, âHey, I had this high the other day, outasight.â Right now CochPharm hides that secret here behind our walls. But you want to work with human subjects? Who live lives outside your lab? Who talk to their neighbors and their spouses? No, Beth. No.â
âSam, my whole purpose in doing this work is to show people the great good that marijuana can do. I want people to see it as an honest and helpful drug.â
âYouâll go to jail. And so will I.â
âSam. I need sick human beings to try it on, people with palsy, with arthritis, with the worst migraines you can imagine. I canât continue my work without testing it on sick people.â
âOkay, Beth, letâs say you succeed brilliantly. Where would you publish your results? The New England Journal of Goddamn Cannabis Medicine? Get serious. And worry about CochPharm. What good would the most successful testing be for CochPharm, whereâs the profit? Weâd never patent let alone manufacture what your findings might prove, never.â
âIf I could show how remarkableââ
âThe US Narcotics Bureau would close us down. Yes, even in Sherbrooke, Quebec!â Sam Ulrich shuddered. âForget it, Beth.â
âThis is the essence of my work!â
They argued for half an hour. Finally Sam, as a friend not as Research Director, said heâd take it to the board. âOkay?â
She nodded. âThank you.â
The board heard Sam. They listened as well to Beth. They showed themselves more than adamant. âNo way,â said the board.
What choice for Beth? Was there a legitimate lab anywhere that would take a woman whose research called for illegal substances, unlawful inquiries? A woman who for nearly three years had not, after such promise, published a single paper?
âGo home, Beth,â said the board. âBe there for your boy.â
â¢
Very strange, seeing all that, telling Lola about Beth Cochan.
Lola said, âIs that all?â
All. I knew there was more, but I couldnât find it. Yet, or ever? âThatâs all for now.â
She shook her head. âHow do you do it, Ted? Is it your memory?â
âWellâit canât be. I have no memories of Beth Cochan.â But how can she even be asking about memory? Gods canât experience memory. Itâs just a word.
âIs it, maybe, Beth Cochanâs memory?â
âHow do you mean?â
âCan you see her memory? And Bobbieâs memory?â
I blinked. I had seen Bobbieâs memory. Thatâs how I could tell Lola about Bobbie in San Francisco. I had seen what Bobbie remembered. How remarkable! Lola had figured out something I hadnât known! I wanted to hug her. I only smiled broadly. âYou know, I think youâre right. I did see Bobbieâs memory. Lolaâthank you!â
She grinned as if Iâd just rewarded her with a lollipop. âGood! Youâre welcome.â
Again that urge to
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