“Dr. Harding, Dr. Harding.” He could hear a voice calling him in the distance. Perhaps they could help him. He could feel he was losing control of the car; there was a pull of gravity as he swerved into the curve. If only he could regain control and get back into his lane. He saw the blinding lights and felt himself falling. Slowly, he realized it was the dream again. He tried to recall where he was.

“Dr. Harding, you must have been having a bad dream. We just hit a little turbulence.” Harding looked up at the stewardess. Correction: flight manager. He wouldn’t want the politically correct grammar police to seize him in his slumber.

“Thank you,” he muttered, reading her nameplate, Lisa. “I hope I didn’t wake anyone, Lisa.”

“Oh, no,” she responded. “They’re all sound asleep, or drunk, or both. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine thanks.”

The expanded United Airlines Boeing 747-E was somewhere over the polar icecap. Even with four movies, countless meals, snacks and drinks and first-class service, this is a grueling flight.

It was 14 toilsome hours long to be exact, and the trip from Osaka, Tokyo to Newark, New Jersey just wasn’t Harding’s idea of fun.

After a week in Japan his round-trip door-to-door excursion, from limousine pickup at his home in Florham Park to the debarking at the Osaka Royal Hotel in Tokyo, including layovers and plane changes, had taken him 24 toilsome hours. Even traveling first-class couldn’t lighten that fact.

As part of a six-member team from the Morristown, New Jersey-based Marshall Pharmaceutical Company, this was Harding’s second trip to Japan, both to Osaka. For this event, Dr. Nicholas Harding served as team leader for a new development program.

Nicholas had gotten up from his seat to venture to another part of the plane and stretch. A stranger sat, slept rather, in the seat next to him. Not one for idle chitchat, Nicholas neither knew nor cared who the seat-mate was.

He returned to the first-class cabin and looked out the window. He saw nothing. There was just the vast white expanse of the polar cap. It was obvious if the plane were to go down their survival would not be desirable.

Briefly he wondered, what would happen if the large opening handle on the door were activated? He had no desire to open the door; he was just curious what would happen if it were opened.

Would the mechanism work in flight? Would alarms go off? Would the plane depressurize, killing all aboard in seconds? The travel was getting to him and mind-games passed the time.

These types of morbid mind games he played were something he assumed almost everyone he knew had indulged in for most of their lives. His wife, Paula, and a few other friends of theirs had indicated otherwise when they discussed the matter once over cocktails.

Nicholas now kept his mental diversions to himself while admitting to something bordering on psychopathic. As long as they are only thoughts they are harmless.

Nicholas wasn’t quite sure of the time; it had been late afternoon leaving Osaka and he’d been in the air about seven hours.

No longer sleepy, Harding contemplated the meetings held in Japan.

Not knowing what to make of their unexpected decision to terminate the meeting regarding Tanaka’s development of MR-548 had been disconcerting. They claimed MR-548, an anti-viral agent, would cannibalize their current product line. A fine time to share the news, but overall, the meetings went well. His bias showed.

While there, Harding managed to corner the Sr. Vice President of Research & Development who was also on the trip, Mr. Jack O’ Connor; feedback from Marshall’s head of R&D remained very favorable towards Harding’s endeavors.

As Marshall Pharmaceuticals’ newly pronounced team lead for the MR-548 project (licensed through Tanaka Pharmaceuticals six months earlier), Nicholas’s past year was a serious roller-coaster ride.

Some days I just couldn’t tell whether I was up or down or just holding on. Leadership isn’t the easy ticket I’d thought it could be. The last few months, however, have grown stable. Perhaps things are back to normal. Nicholas knew he’d strayed off the bell-shaped curve for a while. He still wasn’t totally back on track or anywhere near his “A-game.” When he’d joined Marshall 12 years earlier as a bench-level scientist with a new Ph.D. in toxicology, he had been predominantly associated with extremely visible, yet complex, but successful projects. No one ever made a desirable reputation by being associated with unsuccessful projects.

Just one year earlier, at the youthful age of 37, Harding was promoted to Director of Toxicology. He headed a group of 75 people. Now he was only one step (one long step) from a vice-presidency.

Now, he coveted some degree of normalcy in his life again.

Success: It sucks sometimes.

Lisa returned to check on him. “Can’t sleep?” She quietly approached from the right.

“I have slept for a while. I guess I’m up for the remainder of the flight now, but the first movie didn’t interest me much.

“Don’t you guys get to sleep? Fourteen hours is a long haul to remain awake on a plane.”

“We take turns napping. Do you go to Japan often?”

It was hard to see facial features clearly in the darkened cabin, but Harding could see Lisa was an attractive woman. Her voice had a slight lisp, the kind that’s sexy on a woman.

“Only my second trip. But I’ll be making it more frequently for a while.”

“You seem to be the quiet one. I saw your group get on board – pretty rowdy bunch. How many of you are they?”

“Six.”

“The others were rather boisterous. Things must have gone well for them. What do you do?”

“We’re drug dealers from New Jersey,” he stated without a trace of humor.

After an uncomfortable amount of silence, while watching the questioning confusion on the stewardess’s face, Nicholas added with a smile, “Pharmaceuticals. We’re with Marshall Pharmaceuticals. We have a joint development project with a Japanese pharmaceutical house –Tanaka. We’re developing one of their anti-viral drugs for North America and Europe. Tanaka handles the remainder of the world.”

“How do you know I’m not a spy for one of your competitors and won’t sell trade secret information you just shared with me?” she queried him with a slight smile and her sexy lisp.

“Well,” Nicholas responded in his best flirty tone, “don’t give up your day job. If you are a spy for one of our competitors, you’re not a very good one. You could have read what I just told you in the trade papers months ago.

“So, since we’ve established what you don’t do for a living, how long have you been doing this, flying?” asked Nicholas.

“Two years. This is what four years at an overpriced liberal arts college will get you. But, I get to see parts of the world I’d otherwise never get to see. Plus, I’ve met some fascinating people and collected some interesting stories. Can I collect you?”

“Pardon me.”

“Can I collect you?” Lisa repeated her question with more deliberateness. “When I collect someone, I take their picture on my iPhone, draw a sketch and write a note in my journal. Then I have them forever. So, what do you say?”

“I doubt you’d find me very interesting.”

“Oh, I don’t know, you look like someone with a lot on his mind – very intense, serious. You seem very different, Dr. Harding.”

“You mean anal-retentive?” he inquired, feeling the barb of her observations.

“Well, I was trying to be polite,” she retorted in a chuckle. “Are you? Anal-retentive, that is?”

“Just a little,” Nicholas replied. “Okay – a lot.”

“Family?” asked Lisa.

“I have a daughter, Andrea. She’s 11 years old. She’s currently obsessed with turning 17 and getting her driver’s license. She even conned her uncle into getting her a driver’s manual for the test, which she’s now studying.”

“You sound like a proud father.”

“I am. Andrea’s the center of my universe. Here’s her picture.” He pulled out his iPhone and shared Andrea’s recent photo taken just before he departed for Osaka.

“She’s quite a little princess. Her mother must be very lovely.”

“Yeah,” his tone softened.

“Well, I’ve got to get some supplies readied. I enjoyed talking to you. You’re a good guy, Dr. Harding.”

“How can you tell?”

“Just trust me – I’ve collected a lot of people. I know one when I see one.”

“Um, thanks.”

Their discussion took the edge off the remainder of his flight.

The group from Marshall gathered their baggage and proceeded to their respective limos to head home. All the men were anxious to return to their families.

A tall, barrel-chested gun-metal gray crew-cut haired gent, Jack was one of those over-testosterone manly men who thought regardless of whose company he was in he was of superior intellect and by default was always the leader.

He took a moment to give his boys a pep talk on what he felt was a successful trip. “I know you boys are tired and want to get home, but I just wanted to thank you. You all put in a lot of hard work and it showed. I was proud of you. The Japs are always bitching about how goddamn superior they are to us. Bullshit! You boys put on a class act. You’re every bit the equal of those bastards. And Nicky…” O’Connor went on talking losing Harding’s attention at “Nicky.”

Nicholas allowed, even enjoyed it when his mother or even his grandmother, who died when he was 19, called him Nicky. He despised it when others became overly familiar and called him Nicky – and O’Connor knew it.

Jack droned on, “I’ll be honest with you, Nicky. I wasn’t sure you were the right man to be team leader on this project. I thought you were too picky and too quiet. But Kronan stood up for you and I’m man enough to admit I was wrong.”

Arthur Kronan was Nicholas’ immediate superior, the Vice-President of Preclinical Safety & Metabolism. He was also Nicholas’ mentor, friend and corporate “Godfather.”

O’Connor went on. “God-damn it, Nick – you out-Japped the Japs!”

Jack laughed hard at his own humor. Nicholas and the others fervently hoped no one was listening to this bullshit, but in a corporate setting O’Connor served as the epitome of political correctness. When he let his guard down, as he was doing on the departure platform, Nicholas figured he was one of the most bigoted bastards he’d ever met.

Jack continued, “You detailed and nit-picked those bastards to death. Drove them crazy. I loved it! But enough of this. Good job, boys. I’ll expect to see a trip report with action items by Monday afternoon. Nicky – you coordinate. Have a great weekend boys!”

And, with a flourish, he turned and walked away to his personal limo driver, leaving Nicholas and his four associates. Drs. Dennis Cordova, Matt Anderson, Gary DeSontes, and Jeff Callahan were directors or senior directors in each of their respective R&D departments. Dennis, considered by far the biggest suck-up and snake in the company, asked, “So Nicholas, what did Jack mean by all that ‘too picky and too quiet stuff’?”

“I assume it means I don’t have a spittoon in my office like you, Dennis,” Nicholas responded in a half joking manner. “Let’s call it a night,” he remained fluid while continuing, “I’d appreciate it if all you guys could have your trip reports to me by 10 a.m. Monday, so I can get them to O’Connor in the early afternoon. Have a nice weekend.”

Nicholas walked toward his limo driver, having forgotten his name. He recognized him from the service he used and knew the driver was one of the quieter ones, which was just what he wanted. He hated it when a driver became a chatty Cathy the whole drive back home to Florham Park.

Jack was correct on that score, he surmised privately.

Nicholas was quiet. He said what he had to say and that was it. But he missed nothing. He was very sharp and there was much more going on inside his head than most anyone else suspected.

“Good evening, Dr. Harding,” the driver said. “Let me help you with your bags.”

The drive home from the airport was relaxing for Harding.

Newark, a classic early 21st century American inner city cesspool, continued the thread of that concept to surrounding airport suburbs. It wasn’t safe, but it was a far more accessible airport and featured fewer constraints for travel than JFK or LaGuardia.

On the drive west from Newark, Nicholas noted New Jersey morphed into a sprawling green suburban landscape. The neighborhoods appeared clean and safe, with numerous pockets of affluence. Morristown, of course, was one of these pockets of wealth even though it had a large, stable, lower economic Black and rapidly growing Hispanic ghetto population.

Marshall Pharmaceutical was located in the middle of Marshall Farms, a sprawling industrial park with few tenants (only those controlled by Marshall).

Nicholas lived in Florham Park, one township east of Morristown and only six miles from their headquarters. His home was a large modernized Victorian.

It was after 11:30 p.m. by the time the limo dropped him at his house. Everyone was asleep, but they’d left a light on for him. He was anxious to return and wanted to be back, but coming home was different now. He entered through the back door and quickly deactivated the central alarm.

As Nicholas walked through the kitchen, he noticed a shadowed figure sitting in the faint moonlight coming through the window. He could tell it was female and was at first startled. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said the dark figure. “How was Japan?”

“Okay,” he bent down to kiss his mother.

“I didn’t get to see much, too many meetings, you know. But I did get you something, if you can wait until tomorrow. How’s Andrea?”

“Fine. She missed you. I can make you something to eat if you want.”

“No thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”

Nicholas’ mother Dorothy lived with him and his daughter, Andrea, as did their nanny/housekeeper Anna Stevens from St. Lucia.

Dorothy had been widowed for 10 years. A retired high school English teacher, she now wrote children’s books with six published thus far.

Her home was in a small town near Raleigh, North Carolina, but when Nicholas’ wife, Paula, died in an auto accident a year earlier, Dorothy stepped in. She knew that with his job and family demands her son would need her help.

While Anna was good with Andrea, she was still an employee; she wasn’t family. So Dorothy moved in without hesitation.

It remained an unspoken communication between an adult child in need and a mother’s understanding. Harding needed his mother’s assistance and she pulled up roots and came to his aid.

Dorothy Harding tried not to interfere in the lives of either of her sons. Nicholas’s younger brother, Michael, lived in Princeton. So they were close – the three Hardings.

Not the hugging, kissing kind or as Nicholas said in reference to Paula’s family, “We don’t lick all over each other, but if you go after one, you’d better take out all three.” His satire always shared a loving tone.

“I’ll be back,” Nicholas stated. “I want to see Andrea.” He went upstairs to her room, opened the door and saw his daughter asleep under her Star Trek covers. She was a lovely child and looked more like her mother every day. She was sharp as a tack and as an only child was quite comfortable interacting with adults. She definitely kept Nicholas on his toes. He looked forward to their weekend get-togethers.

He tucked Andrea into the covers and noticed the green eyes of Andrea’s cat watching him from across the room. He’d been reading about the Mad Monk of the Russian Revolution to Andrea when she’d gotten her cat; hence, the name “Rasputin.” He left her room and went back downstairs to the kitchen.

On the way down, he thought of Paula. A picture hung on the wall in the stairway as a reminder from their honeymoon in Hawaii. Little had changed in the house since her death. In fact, the only substantive change had been his mother moving in and the loss of his wife. He’d told himself he’d avoid change for Andrea, wanting to provide her with a stable, familiar environment after her mother’s death. But it was just as much for him as a creature of habit, he didn’t want to upset the status quo. Plus, he felt guilty for not being able to grieve.

Nicholas and Paula were married for 13 years. They’d met shortly after he joined Marshall. A mutual friend introduced them at a party, referred to frequently as “the single young scientist and the single young attorney.”

Paula had just joined a prestigious Morristown law firm as an associate. She was a New Jersey girl; she spent most of her life in the Princeton area, including undergraduate school. You couldn’t call their first meeting love at first sight by any definition. No sparks flew.

But then Nicholas rarely exuded sparks.

They did share mutual interests and enjoyed one another’s company. On reflection, Nicholas noted that they were both professionally ambitious and devoted to their careers, so neither of them had desired a smothering relationship, yet they still desired companionship. So, as a couple, they fit one another’s needs – they complimented each other.

Their relationship remained more of a partnership than a traditional marriage. But perhaps that was what early 21st century American two-career marriages had become: small impersonal businesses.

Nicholas returned to the kitchen where his mother had moved to sip tea in her favorite tattered old robe.

“I’m a little old to have my mom wait up for me, you know,” he said.

“I’ve never waited up for you,” she replied with a warm smile. “Well, not often. That was your dad. When you were a teenager and out on a date or with your friends, he’d toss and turn until I’d throw him out of bed. I’d tell him, ‘If you can’t sleep, just sit up and wait for him.’ But he was embarrassed to let you know. So he’d lie awake until he heard you come in and then he was out like a light.”

Nicholas’s dad had died of a massive coronary. They were close, but again in the quiet and reserved Harding sort of way. So, when he died unexpectedly there was much left unsaid between the two men.

“You’ll see what it’s like when Andrea is older,” Dorothy cautioned.

“Can’t wait,” he replied, joining his mother at the table in the breakfast nook.

“So, how did the boys treat you on your trip? What’s that term you and Michael have for them?” she asked.

“Snake boys,” Nicholas chided. “They’d knife their mothers in the back and sell their souls for the next promotion. They treat me fine. They know I’m not one of them and I know I’m not one of them. Although, I’m sure we have different reasons for knowing it.”

“And you’re not capable of being like them?” his mother asked, looking into her son’s eyes.

“No, actually I’m quite capable of being like them, but for different reasons. To take is the only way they know. Whereas with me, it’s more of a method of last resort.”

“You always were the complicated one,” his mother said.

“Yeah, sometimes a little too complicated for my own good,” Nicholas replied. “Andrea behaved the past few days?”

“She was perfect as usual.”

Nicholas worried about how he was raising his daughter, much more so now after Paula’s death. Am I spending enough time with her? Am I spending too much time on my job?

He did tend to be a workaholic. How is she adjusting to her mother’s death? To being an only child? The questions were endless and Nicholas was afraid he didn’t have the right answers, or any answers, in too many instances.

Andrea seemed normal to Nicholas, but what was normal these days? Is there something going on under the surface I’m missing? There is always something under the surface with everyone, am I missing something important? Am I doing enough? Nicholas’ mom assured him he was doing a good job and Andrea was doing okay. The counselor he and Andrea had started to see after Paula’s death thought they were right on track, but, but, but…

Why do I always have to find a ‘but’? Nicholas thought to himself. Maybe it’s not Andrea. Maybe Andrea is fine. Maybe it’s me.

The dream wouldn’t go away.

Nicholas was in a room with no doors or windows and someone was calling him. He didn’t recognize the room, but the voice was familiar and it wasn’t using his name. But he could see no means of exiting the room.

“Dad.”

“Dad.”

“Dad,” the gentle voice continued. “He’s still asleep.”

Nicholas was beginning to realize that he may be in a dream or that foggy in-between state. Was the voice part of the dream?

“Rasputin! Yong Qong lan!”

Nicholas realized he’d been dreaming and was in his own bed. However, as often occurs with frequent travelers, he wasn’t initially sure what bed or exactly where he was.

As his dream state subsided, he was uncomfortably, perhaps fright-eningly, aware of something or someone else in the bed. He saw two greenish-yellow-orange lights near whatever was in the bed with him. Just before pure fear started to rise in his chest reality came into play and Nicholas realized what was happening.

“Hi Daddy!” said Andrea, who was on the foot of Nicholas’ bed.

“Did you see that? I’m teaching Rasputin to respond to commands in Klingon! I just told him to get on the bed. Cool, huh?”

Nicholas noticed the two greenish-yellow-orange lights belonged in the head of Rasputin, Andrea’s 22-pound Maine Coon Tabby cat. Rasputin’s large furry head was now about two inches from his face emitting a rather loud purr.

“Hi Andrea. Hi Rasputin,” Nicholas said. “Miss me?”

“You bet Dad!” Andrea almost shouted. “Isn’t it neat, Rasputin and I are learning Klingon!”

“I’m impressed,” he answered while suppressing a yawn.

“What did you bring me?” Andrea began scouring the room for goodies. “You haven’t unpacked yet. Need any help?”

“Sure, but what you’re looking for is in that bag over by the closet door.”

Andrea saw a large bag with a box inside and ran towards it.

“Be careful. It’ll break,” her father warned. Meanwhile, Rasputin had curled into a nest on the other pillow preparing to indulge in his favorite past time: sleeping. “Bring it here; I’ll help you open it.” Andrea’s father motioned to her.

Andrea brought the package over to the bed and began to open it with her father. Nicholas restrained her from being too rough.

When she finally got the box open, a delicate porcelain oriental Geisha doll was wrapped in layers of soft green tissue paper.

“Daddy, she’s beautiful! I’ll add her to my collection. Rasputin, ghoS”

Although he appeared to be asleep, the cat’s ears perked up and he bounded off the bed following Andrea out of the room as she carefully carried her new doll away.

Hmmm, maybe that pile of fur does understand Klingon.

Andrea, currently a semi-Tomboy, rarely admitted playing with dolls, but she did say she liked to collect them.

“Just to look at sometimes, Daddy,” she’d stated while claiming to be too mature for them.

In their many father-daughter projects, Nicholas worked with Andrea to construct a series of shelves in her large walk-in closet in her room. So she had a neat place for her doll collection. Nicholas always tried to find a doll while on business travel, always something unusual.

Maybe she is okay, he sat up in bed, maybe it’s me that’s not. His thoughts trailed off.

“This is the AT&T International Teleconference operator. All parties are on line in New Jersey, London, United Kingdom, Basel, Switzerland, and Japan. Would you like a roll call of participants?” a polished male voice served as help desk central command.

“No, thank you Operator. We’re old hands at this and we know how to get you back if there’s a problem. If you don’t mind, we’d like to get started.”

“Thank you for using AT&T,” the Operator chimed off the call.

“Is he off the line? I can never tell,” one of the callers got pensive.

“Yes, he’s gone. Let’s get started.”

“Isn’t this dangerous? These teleconference calls leave a record; a trail,” another nervous sounding participant queried.

“Of course, they leave a trail and what’s someone going to find? A record of a teleconference meeting of a group of pharmaceutical executives with legitimate business concerns. So what?!”

“I’m just trying to be careful, that’s what. This isn’t a game and I don’t have a desire to see the inside of a fucking federal prison, although you’d probably be more at home there!”

“God damn it! I’ve had enough of your bitching and moaning!”

“That’s enough, all of you!” said the calm, female voice from London. “What the hell’s wrong with you? We’ve worked on this for three years now. The end is in sight and it’s the end we planned and controlled. That’s the key: control! We’ve always been in control and we still are. Just a few more months. By the end of the year the first stage is over; that’s the big hurdle. The second stage is a piece of cake, just waiting. And then, my friends, we’ll own a major pharmaceutical house.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s going to be like around here when Stage I is over? The Food and Drug Administration is going to come down on us like the wrath of God. It’s going to be a state of siege here. The stock will bottom out.”

“Good!” the calm voice from the United Kingdom continued. “And then we’ll buy the controlling interest.”

“We’re cutting a fine line.”

“I know. We know. We’ve always known.”

“What’s the status of MR-548?”

“The Project Team just got back from Japan. I haven’t seen their report yet. It should be out soon.”

“Does Harding suspect anything?”

“No. He’s a follower. He’ll do as he’s told. The team’s getting ready for an FDA Advisory Committee meeting.”

“Can he hurt us when this goes down?”

“No. It’ll look like he was in it up to his neck. He’ll be too busy trying to stay out of Leavenworth!”

“I have an 11 a.m. meeting. Do you need me for anything else?” said an older, more distinguished voice.

“No. Just stick to the plan, okay?”

“Sure. You can brief me later on anything else you cover.”

It was a cloudy, overcast, and cold spring morning in New Jersey. It matched the way he felt as he exited the executive offices building, where most of the sales and marketing bigwigs were housed and started to walk towards the main research and development building.

“Good morning Dr. Kronan,” said a young technician whose name he couldn’t remember.

“Good morning,” he replied absently. Arthur Kronan felt the tinge from his ulcer. What have I done?

“Dr. Harding, you have an 11 o’clock appointment with Dr. Kronan.”

“What’s the topic, Karen? You know I hate meetings right after I get back from a trip.”

“You hate meetings all the time. Dr. Kronan’s secretary said it was a short, direct reports meeting to go over last month’s FDA audit. It’s only an hour and a half and I’ve made sure you’re free the remainder of the day. Did you get last week’s mail at home on Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Did the Tanaka delegation like the gifts I selected?”

“Yes.”

“Small, light, compact – yet delicate and tasteful?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps in the future I can be more efficient, yes?” she said with a barely detectable German accent, very seriously.

“I doubt it, Karen. You’re perfect and I’m one of the luckiest people alive to have you working with me.” Nicholas complimented Karen as often as possible to keep her spirits inflated as she performed better when happy.

“You are so full of it, Dr. Harding,” Karen turned to leave his office. “And thank you for the scarf from Japan. It is lovely. My favorite color.”

“You’re welcome Karen,” he watched her leave his office. Nice view. Harding made this amusing self-commentary every time Karen left the room.

Harding hired Karen Stemmer after he had to fire the secretary he inherited as Director of Toxicology. Karen had no industry experience and she had trained in her home country of Germany. She’d recently moved to America with her parents. At 28 years she stood 5 feet 8 inches with shoulder-length blond hair and eyes so blue anyone could drown in them. She was all Aryan in looks as well as demeanor. And, she was also knockdown, drag out, drop-dead beautiful.

Ms. Stemmer kept to herself and in two years had managed to intimidate all the other R&D secretaries into giving her a wide berth. She was also fiercely loyal and protective of her Dr. Harding.

Rumor among half the company was she was a lesbian. The young, gorgeous woman was single, unattached and living with “family” no one ever saw. And the remaining half of the company believed she and Harding were in the midst of a torrid love affair. Nicholas didn’t know about the lesbian part but he seriously doubted it. But there had never been anything physical between the two of them. Occasional flirtations, no more than that. He recalled the first time Paula had seen Karen. Like most women, Paula took one look and immediately disliked her based on looks alone.

Intimidatingly beautiful, Karen had a difficult time with the jealousy of women in the office and visiting wives. One of the few open and real fights Nicholas and Paula shared had taken place due to Karen. Harding’s wife insisted he, “get rid of her! I don’t give a shit if you transfer, fire or drown her as long as she’s gone!”

In recollecting the argument, Nicholas realized he’d love to share another moment like that together, but at the time he asked her, “exactly what is the basis for your loathing of Karen? You just met her. Is it just because she’s attractive? You afraid I’m going to sleep with her, Paula?”

“Are you?”

“Do you really give a shit or are you just concerned someone might take one of your toys?”

“Go to hell Nicky!” Paula had yelled, which was rare. As an attorney her emotions usually remained balanced and their fight had died down as quickly as it had flared up.

Over time, Karen managed to carve out a sort of respectful, though distanced, relationship with Paula. But then all of Paula’s relationships, including the one with her husband, had been distanced.

The two women seemingly respected but quietly disliked each other. Nicholas never really knew the source of Paula’s feelings towards Karen.

Since Paula’s death, he’d wanted to ask Karen why she’d disliked Paula, but the right time never occurred. The right time, he thought. I’m always missing the right time for something or other.

Enough daydreaming. Harding turned to his computer on his credenza next to his executive desk and called up his corporate email account. He’d reviewed last week’s messages from his laptop at home over the weekend. Already another 18 messages were waiting for him.

He clicked on his “new messages” icon and it listed the titles and authors of his 18 new messages. He quickly scanned down the listing to see if there was anything requiring urgent attention.

There were meeting notifications from Karen. A message from two of Nicholas’ senior managers complaining about what a bunch of pricks Quality Assurance were being. Messages from the Director of Quality Assurance complaining about what a bunch of pricks Nicholas’ managers were being. There was a corporate March of Dimes announcement. An excuse from one of his study directors for why she’d be late with a critical report. Nicholas made a mental note to see her later. The usual assortment of boring stuff, with one exception. One message stood out. It was from Don Marshall. The topic was simply “Lunch.”

Nicholas knew Don occasionally invited senior managers to lunch. Nicholas had met him briefly in passing, but mostly knew of him by reputation and rumor. The message had been sent at 3:15 a.m. Monday. .

Supposedly, he was an eccentric. The one word that came to Nicholas’ mind when he thought of Don, and that admittedly wasn’t often, was “pity.” Here was a guy whose grandfather had built one of the top 10 pharmaceutical houses in the United States from nothing and now after only two generations, it’d essentially been taken away from the family by a bunch of back stabbers, the snake boys, who’d do anything they thought they could get away with to make a buck.

Yes, thought Nicholas as he typed a quick, brief response to Don Marshall agreeing to have lunch with him. I’ll collect him.

“You’re going to be late if you don’t leave soon, Dr. Harding,” he heard Karen say from her desk in the outer office.

Nicholas hit the return key to send the reply off to Don and got up from his desk. “Okay. I’m going,” he shouted out to Karen.

As Nicholas was heading out of his office, he ran into Mark Stevens. Mark was Director of Drug Metabolism and also reported to Arthur Kronan. Nicholas and Mark were semi-close. They were about the same age and temperament.

“Hey Nicholas, let’s head over across the street to Graves for lunch after Art’s meeting. I want to hear the scoop on the Japan trip,” Mark engaged him.

“Isn’t Art serving lunch?” asked Nicholas

“Are you kidding? You know how cheap Art is.”

“Yeah, sure, let’s grab a quick lunch.”

In addition to Nicholas and Mark Stevens, Kronan’s department heads included the heads of Operations & Administration, Computer Support & Technology, Lab Animal Medicine, and Pharmacokinetics and Statistics.

Nicholas was clearly Arthur’s right hand man and first among equals.

Rumor had it Nicholas would succeed Arthur when he retired in a few years. It was obvious to everyone Arthur was grooming him for his position. Of course, in the pharmaceutical industry these days, a few years could be an eternity and much could happen.

The last 10 years in big pharma had not been pretty. The industry seemed to be in a stampede. But a stampede to where? No one knew.

In the 1980s and early 1990s the pharmaceutical industry had been a stable old boys’ club. Now in the early 2010s, it joined the rest of America’s dog-eat-dog corporate world.

“Nicholas, how was Japan?” Kronan asked when everyone was seated around his conference room table.

“Good Art,” Nicholas replied. “We got a detailed overview of the MR-548 Pharmacology, Toxicology, Metabolism, Manufacturing and Clinical programs. I’ve arranged for our department to receive a copy of all the Pharm-Tox-ADME reports within two months – all 314 of them.”

“Did you say 314?” Mark asked with seeming shock.

“That does include all nonclinical Pharm, Tox/Path, and Drug Metabolism. But you’re right. That’s an incredible number of studies, even for a Japanese company. What makes it even more incredible is that Tanaka has dropped plans to submit MR-548 in Japan,” Nicholas said.

Art joined in, “Why is that so incredible? I understood Tanaka has something better in the pipeline and they don’t want to cannibalize an existing product.”

“Just seems strange, Art,” Nicholas said. “Tanaka has billed MR-548 as the next Zovirax broad-spectrum antiviral. Only 10 times more potent, with a longer half-life and essentially no significant side-effects. It’ll be a blockbuster.”

“Projected peak year sales are north of $3 billion. Marshall outbid the big boys, Merck and Glaxo-Wellcome, to get this. If it’s that hot, why wait for something behind it in the pipeline that might fall out? It just doesn’t play for me.”

“That’s for the marketing team and bean counters to know,” Arthur retorted. “We’re just egghead scientists,” He changed the subject. “How are plans for the FDA Advisory meeting?”

“Good. The meeting is set for six months from now, which gives us time to review the full data package from Tanaka and line up our outside consultant big guns who’ll testify to the FDA that MR-548 is the greatest new drug since penicillin. Further, life will end on planet Earth if it’s not immediately approved. If the advisory meeting goes well and FDA accepts our submission plans the New Drug Application will go in two years from now on an accelerated approval path of less than one year.”

Mark toned in, “after which the good Dr. Harding will be crowned Emperor of Marshall and we’ll all have to stand in line to kiss his ass.”

“I like that. I think I’ll add it to the development plan,” Nicholas said, smiling.

The meeting continued with discussions on activities involving other projects, new computer systems, maintaining old systems, Q&A issues, and a myriad of never-ending problems.

As the meeting broke up and people were heading out, Arthur approached Nicholas. “Helen and I would like to have you over for dinner on Saturday. Are you free?”

“What did you have in mind, Art?”

“There are some things you and I need to talk about – the future – and we may as well do it in a relaxed atmosphere over a nice meal.”

“None of Helen’s unattached friends or relatives?” asked Nicholas.

“None, I promise.”

“Good. I accept. You okay Art? You look tired.”

“Just working too hard. We’ll talk Saturday.”

“Hey Karen, is the good Dr. Harding ready? I’ll just pop in if you don’t mind,” Mark said as he walked into Nicholas’ outer office.

“I do mind. He’s on the phone. He’ll be out shortly, Dr. Stevens,” Karen said in her usual no-nonsense tone that stopped Mark in his tracks. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Karen showed not the least interest in Mark as he fidgeted with a copy of Toxicology and Applied Pharmacology. Like every other heterosexual male at Marshall, Mark thought Karen was a knock out and he would have eaten out of her shoes if she had shown the slightest interest in him. Of course, Karen had shown just as much interest in Mark as she had in every other heterosexual male at Marshall – none. The exception to this, of course, was her relationship with Nicholas.

“I thought I heard you out here,” Nicholas postured as he came out of his office.

“Yeah, I would have come in, but I didn’t know today’s password,” said Mark, giving Karen a mischievous look.

“Have a nice lunch, Dr. Harding,” she answered without looking up from the spreadsheet she was working on.

“We’re going over to Graves. Can I bring you something Karen? That chef’s salad you like?”

“If it’s no trouble, yes that would be nice. Thank you,” Karen replied with an almost smile.

Out in the parking lot Mark turned to Nicholas, “you’re doing her, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Karen. I can tell from the way you two talk to each other.”

“You mean the way I offered to buy her a salad? You know that act has been known to drive some women insane with passion!”

“Funny. So are you?”

“No.”

“If you were, would you admit it?”

“No.”

“So, you must be!”

“Whatever makes you happy, Mark.”

On the way to the car Nicholas and Mark met several people.

“Good morning, Dr. Harding.”

“Hello, Dr. Harding.”

“Nicholas, good morning.”

“Nicholas, how was Japan?”

A lot of folks on the Marshall campus knew Mark, but everyone knew Dr. Nicholas Harding.

Nicholas didn’t really stand out physically with just average height and weight at 5 feet 10 inches and 165 pounds. He did dress exceptionally well. Most scientists weren’t known for their fashion sense. Nicholas favored Italian suites and shoes. The marketing boys who wielded the real power in most pharmaceutical houses liked him for his reputation as Arthur Kronan’s hand-picked successor, and the expection for him to make vice president before he hit 40.

All that made Nicholas known and recognizable to most of Marshall. But to add to that, the fact that Nicholas was the highest ranking of the few black executives at Marshall made him stand out. Like many U.S. pharmaceutical houses, Marshall was still an old boys’ club, i.e., middle-aged wealthy white men. Although the last few years had seen a large infusion of Asians. Nicholas walked their walk, talked their talk and played their game – well. He clearly wasn’t one of the boys, but he fit in and he didn’t threaten them.

Graves was owned by a former Marshall employee, Sheila Casterini, an M.D. clinician with a different sense of humor and a lot of capital. Marshall management wasn’t amused by the choice of name, but their opposition only strengthened Sheila’s resolve not to change it.

A couple of years earlier Sheila had come into a sizable inheritance. Her first act had been to submit a brief letter of resignation that expressed her true feelings towards the business world.

The text of the letter read, “I resign. Kiss my ass. Respectfully, Sheila.”

The interior of Graves could be politely described as “unusual.” It could more bluntly be described as “sick and twisted.” People either loved it or hated it. The food was average. The décor was, well, not. There were posters of various medical/surgical scenes from movies, including several from the horror movie genre. Nicholas liked Graves. He found it relaxing. Mark loved it!

“So Nicky, old man, when you’re my boss, will you remember the little people or become a pompous, inflated, self-absorbed ass?”

“You mean I’m not already?” replied Nicholas.

“Depends on who you ask, pal. For someone at your level, you’ve managed to make surprisingly few enemies. But, I’d watch my back if I were you, Nick.”

“What do you mean, Mark?”

A waiter dressed as a mortician arrived with menus shaped as tombstones.

Mark asked Nicholas, “Do you think I’m sick to love this place as much as I do?”

“Yes. Now, who’s out to insert sharp instruments into my back?” Mark caught Harding’s attention.

Mark put down his menu and answered. “No names – yet. Just word out that you’re likely to make VP soon and you know how people are. Some are jealous.”

“Specifics, Mark. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

“Okay. Some say it’s because you’re black. It’s an affirmative action thing. Some say it’s because you’re Art Kronan’s personal pet. Most don’t feel this way Nicholas, but some do. It’s human nature. Don’t forget Karen’s salad.”

“I won’t. And where do you stand on all this Mark – honest?” he asked, trying to gauge Mark’s level of loyalty.

“Alright. Here goes,” Mark said before taking a sip of water. “You and I are about the same age, professional experience and background. So, do I feel a twinge of jealousy? Yes. But that’s all. In my mind, if you get Art’s VP slot you deserve it. You’ve run the largest part of his group and run it well. It’s by far the most productive. You’ve run project teams, special projects and taskforces. Everything they’ve thrown at you, you’ve handled exceptionally well. You’ve walked on water, pal. You’ve had ample opportunity to fall on your ass and you haven’t, at least so far. And honestly, I’m not as ambitious as you are. I don’t want to get any deeper into the snake pit. Bottom-line, do I wish it were me? Sure. But I’ll be happy for you. And honored to work for you, unless, you’re planning to fire me. How’s that for kissing up to my future boss?”

“I’ve always thought you kissed up with the best, Mark,” Nicholas replied with a smile. “Let’s order.”

Service at Graves, designed to cater to the mostly Marshall lunch crowd, was quick and good.

“Guess what I got in an email?” Nicholas asked after their food had arrived.

“An obscene message from Karen saying how she secretly desired to tie you up and lick you to death as only an Aryan goddess can do?”

“You know, you’re even sicker than I thought. No, an invitation from Don Marshall. What do you make of that?”

“Go on! Rumor has it those invites only go out to the chosen few.”

“Chosen for what? Don’s got about as much clout around here as a lab rat, or at least a wealthy one.”

“No, tell me how you really feel about Don Marshall, Nicky.”

“You don’t want to get me started on Don Marshall, Mark,” Nicholas said as their drinks arrived. Mark had a glass of merlot. Nicholas avoided drinking during lunch unless he was with senior executives who wanted to drink, and then he limited himself to one glass of wine.

Nicholas went on, “Don Marshall’s grandfather, Don Senior, built this company from the ground up, starting with a little one-room pharmacy. No inheritance, no government assistance program, no rich wife, just good old-fashioned American hard work. He made Marshall Pharmacy the largest pharmacy group in the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut tri-state area.

“The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree,” he continued. “And Don Junior, through some shrewd buy-outs and a rarely mentioned venture with J.D. Rockefeller’s New Jersey-based Esso, took Marshall nationwide as a true pharmaceutical company. Then he moved into Canada, the Central and South Americas, and Europe. In two generations they took Marshall Pharmaceuticals to the top. Poised for nothing but more growth.

“And what’s the future?” Nicholas went on. “Why Don J. Marshall, III. West Point graduate -lower third of his class, by the way- and Harvard, M.B.A. Everyone thought he was going to set the pharmaceutical world on fire. When Don Jr. died the Marshall family controlled 78 percent of Marshall stock and held the majority of board seats.”

“How do you know all this? Are you stalking him?” Mark asked.

“Because Mark, studying successful people is a hobby of mine. I admire them. So I’ve studied the Marshall family. And they were a very successful family until the latest generation when some stray idiot gene managed to express itself.”

“Well, don’t just leave me hanging here, go on,” Mark said.

“Okay. So, what brilliant West Point, Harvard strategy does Donny-boy implement? Well, first he sets off to spend every dime he can get his hands on, screw every good-looking woman in the Western hemisphere and to top it off take a one year cruise around the world. When he got back 10 years ago he’d been ousted as chairman of the board, the family now had only one seat, his. His assorted cousins, uncles, aunts, family sycophants, etc., had sold out on him.”

“But he still controls 40 percent of Marshall stock.”

“Might as well be 4 percent, Mark, as long as the current pack of snake boys controls the other 60 percent. “This didn’t just happen. The guys in charge, some of whom are now on our board and some behind the scene, went after the Marshall family with a vengeance and Donny-boy never knew what hit him,” Nicholas said as the waiter delivered his food.

“So why are you so hard on him, Nick?”

“Mark, when my father died the only material thing he left me was a pocket watch. He told me his grandfather had taken it off a Confederate captain he killed during the Civil War. I polish it, wear it occasionally, but I cherish it and take care of it. Far better care than Don Marshall took care of his legacy. Don’s father and grandfather entrusted him with $12 billion of family sweat, toil and pain, and he just pissed it away. I just can’t respect someone like that. But I am curious, so I’ll have lunch with him and see firsthand what the weirdo is like. You can learn something from everyone, even assholes.”

“Here’s your salad with that honey mustard dressing you like and a bottle of ice tea, Karen,” Harding handed off the chef’s salad to his secretary.

“Thank you. Sometimes working for you is not so bad, Dr. Harding,” Karen said with her slightest trace of a smile, which was about as close as she ever came to a compliment.

“Lunch is on you, big brother, since I won this round of golf.” Nicholas and Michael were at the Birchwood Country Club in Florham Park. Nicholas was a member, as were most Marshall Pharmaceutical executives.

“You know my game’s off due to jet lag, Michael.”

“Jet lag my ass. You’ve been back a week.”

“Oh.”

Michael lived in Princeton, New Jersey, with his wife. He was an attorney specializing in environmental law. Five years younger than Nicholas, he admired his older brother but chided him a lot. Through no pre-planning, the two North Carolina boys had ended up in suburban New Jersey.

They were close, with always a degree of friendly competition between them. Lately Michael had been urging Nicholas to leave Marshall so the two of them could set up an environmental/pharmaceutical-consulting firm.

“So, how’s the snake pit, Nicky?” asked Michael, sitting in the club luncheon restaurant.

“Mike, I tell you, the snakes are bigger, meaner, and hungrier than ever.”

“Then why do it, Negro!”

In private, the two Southern-raised brothers often slipped into a pattern of talk that most Whites wouldn’t understand, but the brothers and friends took comfort in.