The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [114]
“He’s a brilliant researcher, highly regarded around the world! A man who studied under Dr. Penfield, for Christ’s sake! Who’s sacrificed most of his life working on memory disorders, on cures for—”
“We need a cure for men like him. For doctors who misdiagnose and murder in the name of research and academic advancement. Why do you defend him? Why so loyal? Why can’t you see through the bastard? It doesn’t take X-ray vision.”
Noel sighed. “Because he was my father’s closest friend and because—”
“He was a business acquaintance, who bought drugs from him. And didn’t charge for his sessions with you, because he was exploiting you for his experiments. Yes, he got you a job in the lab—so he could use your research and ideas to write articles under his name. You shouldn’t be prostituting your genius to a thieving little midget like him.”
“He … he guided my research, structured the articles, got them published. And he also got me jobs in two other labs, don’t forget—when no one else would hire me, when I didn’t have any experience or credentials. And he wasn’t exploiting me. He was interested in me. He has a sincere love of science—and of the arts too, just like my father. He’s devoted his entire life to helping mankind.”
“Any nurse with a bedpan has done more for mankind. Volta’s patients are valuable to him only as subjects for some new fundable experiment, some new scientific paper. He wouldn’t hesitate for a nanosecond to sacrifice human life—animal life goes without saying—for the sake of adding one more particle, one more article, to the great dunghill of fudged research and published irrelevancies.”
“What are you … I can’t believe you said that. About sacrificing human life. How can you possibly think that? I just … don’t understand what you have against him. Why can’t you leave him alone? He’s an old man, getting frailer and frailer—”
“So are Nazi war criminals.”
“Nazi war criminals? Norval, you are a master of hyperbole, of shockart. What has he done that could remotely compare?”
“At Buchenwald they experimented on living human beings—to study the effects of artificially induced diseases.”
“I repeat: what has he done that could remotely compare? Where do you get all this … rot?”
Norval paused before speaking, something he rarely did. Was he about to betray a secret? Surely there was no truth to any of this. Noel’s breathing stopped as he waited for an answer.
“From his wife and daughter,” said Norval.
Noel closed his eyes. “His wife and daughter? Be real. His wife has an agenda, and a divorce lawyer. And his daughter despises him because he stopped her from seeing you!”
“Among other reasons.”
“So what did they say? What’d they accuse him of?”
“The first controlled induction of Alzheimer’s disease in laboratory animals.”
Noel bit his lip, scratched the side of his thumb. “It was done for a reason.”
“And then in a test group of humans he deliberately induced the disease.”
Noel jumped. “Look, Norval, I’ve heard that … those stupid rumours before. Do you know who started them? A colleague—a jealous, possibly disturbed archrival—who was fired last month by the university, and not by Vorta. It’s a preposterous accusation, which has never been substantiated in any way.”
“Do you want to know something about the so-called ‘archrival’? This archrival—Charles Ravenscroft—had some astonishing results in clinical trials of an early-onset AD drug he developed. PYY-16. Which became SB-666.”
“SB-666? Vorta discovered that on his own.”
“Ravenscroft kept his results secret just before publishing them. But Volta got an early peek, because he was on a panel reviewing his grant application.”
“Norval, for as long as I’ve known you you’ve had this … this violent prejudice against him. And his name’s not ‘Volta.’ Where do you dig up all this … dirt?”
“I tripped over it. He’s swept everything under the carpet for years and now there’s a huge bulge.”
“He’s a world-famous neurologist, for God’s sake! An authority on memory. And dreams.