The Prize

merely leaped to the reply more rapidly. In either event, he had not given himself time to consider the question before answering it. His only objective now was to have the floor on his own. ‘That-that is a difficult question,’ Garrett began, ‘because it requires a prediction.’ He would make a joke. That would even him up with the Italian. He made the joke. ‘After all, Nostradamus never won the Nobel Prize.’

He waited for the loving burst of laughter that would greet his sally. There was none. He felt humiliated and undignified, and he tried to recover. ‘It is too early to guess at the future of our discovery. At present, the transplant can only succeed in limited blood types. The two of us have attempted the heterograft thirty-eight times, each time successfully, but still, in science, thirty-eight times is a conservative number. We are too deeply engaged in the present to give our thoughts to the future.’

He liked the roll of his last sentence, and examined the audience covertly to see if it was being preserved. It was not. The pencils of the press remained stilled. Disheartened, he withdrew, and was not surprised to hear the Italian speak.

‘I should like to extend my American friend’s remarks a little further, if I may,’ said Farelli. ‘Dr. Garrett is a scientist, as am I, and naturally reticent. Everything he has said is correct, of course. Our work is in its pioneer phase. Yet I think this much can be added-both of us have our private, and similar, visions of the future. We are working towards the same end-and the end, with the Lord’s approval, is really the beginning-it is the immortality of man. A dream? Si, si, a dream, but now more, now a scientific possibility. As our work is improved, spread, the longevity of human beings will be doubled and trebled, and-who can say?-one day man, bolstered by artificial organs, may live forever.’

Farelli paused, and the pencils moved steadily, and Garrett was dismayed. Garrett was not dismayed at his personal failure alone-his reply had been dry and colourless, and the Italian’s had been a fairy tale that made copy-but also at his rival’s instinctive perception of what laymen wanted to hear. Farelli’s tactics, Garrett told himself, were not worthy of the medical profession. Was it right to feed them pap, optimistic tabloid pap that could not be supported, in order to make headlines? What would Dr. Keller and the therapy group in Los Angles think of all this? Perhaps the psychiatrist might disagree with him, and state that great scientists must have great dreams to justify the minute drudgery of the laboratory and thus give themselves lofty goals far beyond the immediate scalpel and surgery room. He prepared to argue with his psychiatrist, but was interrupted by Farelli’s basso, as it boomed again.

‘If we cannot be satisfied with our way of life and our society,’ Farelli was continuing, ‘we cannot afford to be satisfied with ourselves, with man himself. It is not cynical or irreligious-the Lord forgive me, if it is-to observe that man is an imperfect mammal. In the age of the machine, compared to the machine, man is poorly and frivolously designed and built. Think of a heavy machine standing precariously upright on two thin legs. Think of a machine, that must have vision, limited to two small eyes on one half of its head, instead of three, four or five all around. Think of a machine with wasted, useless parts, parts of the brain, an appendix, extra toes. Worst of all, think of a machine whose manufacturer gives no guarantee on moving parts, and who sells his apparatus at enormous cost without the promise of replacement parts. We want to improve on this machine. Man is a marvel, but he must be made more durable. Too many years, too much love, and too much money, are expended on each man to have him degenerate, part by part, and waste away so quickly. Schopenhauer once said, “It is clear that as our walking is admittedly nothing but a constantly prevented falling, so the life of our bodies is nothing but a constantly prevented dying, an ever-postponed death.” It is true, but it is wrong, and we-those of us in physiology and medicine-defy it. Our goal is immortal man, and it will never be less!’

Once again, applause rang through the small room, and even Garrett was moved beyond his resentment. As the clapping of hands ceased, and the pencils moved once more, Garrett castigated himself for his lack of imagination. Why could he not speak up in this way? Why was he handicapped with so narrow a funnel vision? Why was he not poet as well as scientist? Yet, answering the last, and applauding himself slightly, he reminded himself that the scientist’s business was science, not poetry, and that this was his strength and his rival’s weakness.

A feature writer, a woman, from Svenska Dagbladet, had the floor. ‘Do other medical researchers entertain your same goal of the future? Are there others attempting to improve your findings in heart transplants?’

Garrett, grasping for another chance, replied immediately. ‘Many others have learned our techniques. The work goes ahead in six nations, other than the United States and Italy.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ added Farelli, ‘one of the most important extensions of our work is right here in your native Sweden, in Stockholm itself.’

There was a murmur of interest in the room, largely from the Swedish press members, and someone called out, ‘Can you be specific?’

‘I am proud to give credit where credit is due,’ said Farelli. ‘Among the first to take up heart grafting, after our discoveries, was Dr. Erik Ohman, a member of your magnificent Royal Caroline Medico-Chirurgical Institute. He has already accomplished three transplantations, and will be doing more.’

Garrett bounced on the sofa, steaming with rage. He felt cheated and robbed by an unscrupulous business partner. Dr. Ohman was Garrett’s personal property, his protege even, and here was Farelli stealing this possession and making it his own. It was unfair, blatant larceny, an obvious trick to butter up the Swedish press, and ingratiate himself with the general public by making them proud of their own native-born surgeon. Garrett had no objections to that aspect of it, only that he, himself, should have been the spokesman on Sweden’s behalf, linking Dr. Ohman with his own name, as Ohman would have preferred. Why had he not done it? Why had he not been clever enough?

‘Are you acquainted with our Dr. Ohman?’ the woman from Svenska Dagbladet was inquiring of Farelli.

‘Not personally, I regret to say. I have read about him in the medical journals and have been pleased to see a Swedish doctor carrying on our work.’

Garrett could contain himself no longer. ‘I know him!’ he cried out.

‘You have collaborated with Dr. Ohman?’ the Svenska Dagbladet woman wanted to know.

‘Not exactly collaborated, but-’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Not yet, but-’

‘How do you know him, then?’ the woman asked piercingly.

‘Through correspondence,’ said Garrett weakening. ‘I-I have tried to help him.’ He realized that this might sound condescending to Swedish listeners. He tried to improve upon it. ‘I’ve made available to him all my findings- to add to his own-which have been most creative-his own, I mean. I admire him very much. I intend to meet him this week.’

‘Uh-Dr. Garrett-’ It was the Expressen reporter.

‘Yes, sir?’ Garrett was alert, pleased to be recognized before Farelli, at last.

‘I am sure that you are familiar with the research of many renowned men of medicine, today and in the past. Can you think of any great names that have been overlooked by our Nobel Committee, any doctors who justly deserved the award and did not receive it?’

Garrett could think of several such names, but his natural timidity prevented him from putting them forward. The Nobel Foundation had been generous to him. He did not want to insult its judges. ‘No,’ he said, at last, ‘I can’t think of one great name your committee has ever overlooked. I concur with their decisions completely. Since 1901, they have honoured all who deserved to be honoured.’

He relaxed, satisfied with himself. He had accomplished what Farelli had tried to accomplish-he had given the Swedes pride in their judgment-and he had done a better job of it.

‘Dr. Farelli.’ It was the Expressen reporter again. ‘Are you in agreement with your fellow laureate?’

The Italian smiled at Garrett, and then at the press. ‘I believe Dr. Garrett and I are in accord on most matters, but I am afraid we are not so on this one. You wish to know if your Nobel Committee has overlooked any great doctors, deserving of the prize in the past? Yes, indeed they have. Two unfortunate omissions come to mind. One was an American. I think Dr. Harvey Cushing, of Boston, deserved a Nobel Prize for techniques he introduced in brain surgery. The Caroline Institute had thirty-eight opportunities to reward him, and failed to do so. The other