"But things were going so well at midday," Sternovsky said in shock. "What on earth happened?"
"Tell him," Fillmore instructed his younger son.
"There have been some unforeseen developments over the last few hours," Fosdick admitted.
"Show him, you idiot!" Fillmore prompted.
The head chemist, his head lowered in shame, switched on the boardroom's VCR.
At the bottom of the television screen, the time, date and title identified the segment as the surveillance-monitor tape of Test Subject Four. It wasn't for scientific-documentation purposes alone that Family Fing scrupulously recorded the progress of its drug trials; Farnham planned to use the evidence of rapid morphing as part of his global ad campaign. The tape showed a huge man pacing back and forth in his room in the plant's medical wing. His name was Toshi Takahara. A former professional sumo wrestler, he had been taking a synthetic form of WHE for three days. In that time, his voluminous flab had retreated like a melting glacier, revealing Himalayas of newly formed muscle.
"He seems highly agitated," Sternovsky said.
Farnham laughed at the observation. "You'd be agitated, too, if you started growing a tail."
"What? That's impossible!"
"That's what we thought at first," Fosdick said glumly. "Shortly after 2 p.m., Test Subject Four complained of severe discomfort and pressure at the base of his spine. We examined him and discovered a sizable nodule that had not been present at morning rounds. Because of its growth rate, we were pretty sure it had to be a cancerous side effect of the hormone. We did an immediate biopsy, of course."
"And?"
"It's not a tumor. It's healthy bone."
The video zoomed in on the Japanese man's broad backside, bared for an examination. His behind now sported what looked like the docked tail of a Doberman.
"I don't understand," Sternovsky said. "This can't be happening."
"There's more," the elder Fing told him. He waved impatiently, and Fosdick fast-forwarded the tape. When he stopped it, the sumo wrestler was on camera again. Holding the hem of his hospital gown out of the way with his teeth, Takahara carefully urinated in each corner of his room.
"He does that every fifteen minutes. More often if the staff tries to clean it up."
"Good God!" Sternovsky said as the realization hit him. "He's marking his territory."
"We seem to be losing Number Four," Fosdick said.
"We're on the verge of losing much more than that," Fillmore snarled. "All I have built in my life is about to come crashing down around me. Based on overoptimistic projections, I committed two hundred million dollars to the construction of a new pharmaceutical plant in Union City, New Jersey. Because of the sheer incompetence of my own flesh and blood, the new product will not be ready for distribution in the States by the December 31st deadline."
That deadline was key to Farnham's marketing strategy and Fillmore's financial house of cards. It was calculated to put the hormone on the shelves of health-food stores already retailing Family Fing products in time for the New Year's resolutions of seventy million overweight, out-of-shape, fat-loving Americans. The Fings' U.S. legal counsel intended to temporarily sidestep the need for FDA approval by calling the drug a "nutritional supplement."
Long enough for Family Fing to net a few billion dollars in clear, sweet profit.
"You," Fillmore said, pointing an accusing finger at son Fosdick, "have put a knife in your father's heart."
Even in the throes of a tantrum, the elder Fing always gave the impression that there was not a hair out place anywhere on his body. Sternovsky had noticed this curious trait the first time he laid eyes on the man, back in Pennsylvania. Fing had gotten wind of his work during a VIP tour of the university. Fillmore was a supporting member of the International Society for Pharmaceutical Advancement, which underwrote Purblind research to the tune of seventy-five million dollars a year. Though Fing contributed generously to the cause, it hadn't bought him what he wanted-the respect of his peers. The other pharmaceutical giants looked down on Fillmore Fing because he had made all his money on "ethnic homeopathics."
"What about the others in the test panel?" Sternovsky asked. "Are they having the same kind of negative reactions?"
"We're getting some behavioral problems," Fosdick answered. "Extreme irritability. Violent and destructive outbursts. The same things we've seen with the natural hormone, but the effect is much more exaggerated."
Sternovsky winced. Those side effects hadn't stopped Fillmore from prematurely market-testing the earliest form of the drug. By selling the refined natural product at an astronomical price to a few select international celebrities, he had managed to recoup some of his initial investment.
"There's got to be something wrong with the formulation of the synthetic," the American said.
"It's chemically identical to the natural hormone," Fosdick countered.
"It can't be," the biochemist told him. "You've miscalculated somewhere."
"Think!" Fillmore commanded his number-two son. "Think what the mistake might be!"
Fosdick swallowed hard before he spoke. "It's possible that there's an impurity we've failed to remove from the bacterial product, and that impurity is interfering with the desired reaction. If that's the case, we've been unable to locate it using our most sophisticated equipment. Another possibility is that a naturally occurring but vital impurity is missing from the manufactured compound. The synthetic hormone may be simply too pure for human consumption. This might explain why it seems to be taking effect so much more rapidly than the natural product."
Sternovsky had another idea. "It's also possible that we're getting a cascade effect that has nothing to do with the presence or absence of an impurity. The changes in blood chemistry related to sudden fat depletion could be bringing on a chain reaction of somatic and psychological effects."
"What you're both saying is, you haven't got a clue," Fillmore said.
"Yes, Father," Fosdick admitted.
"I have a suggestion," Sternovsky said. "We should immediately divide our test subjects into control groups. We can wean two off the drug completely. Reduce the dosage of two more. And maintain current levels in the last two."
"No," Fillmore said emphatically.
"No?"
"The real question here is commercial viability. Commercial viability and meeting our production deadline. What we need to know is, do the test subjects regard the worst of these side effects as so negative that they'd stop buying the drug in its present form? To answer that, we must maintain the current dose in all our subjects."
"But these are human beings, not lab rats!" Sternovsky protested.
"Wrong," Fillmore declared. "These are human beings who have agreed to act as lab rats."
"Do you really think anyone in their right mind would consider the growing of a tail to be an 'acceptable' side-effect?"
Fillmore shrugged. "If it were marketed correctly, it could easily become a fashion statement...." Sternovsky opened his mouth to speak, but he was so flabbergasted that no words came out.
From the luxurious comfort of the boardroom's leather couch, Farnham Fing laced his fingers behind his neck and in a cheery voice said, "Welcome to Family Fing."
Chapter 9
After driving around in circles in Simi Valley for twenty minutes, Remo took matters into his own hands. Every time his map reader gave him a direction, he headed the opposite way.
"Turn right," Chiun said. Remo went left.
"I said right." Chiun indicated the direction with a long-nailed finger.
"Sorry," Remo said.
Actually, the only thing Remo regretted was that he'd let the Master of Sinanju decide their route after they got off the freeway. Chiun's plan, it seemed, was that they stealthily spiral in on their destination from a distance of several miles, presumably so it could not escape them. The alternative-that Remo should read the map and Chiun should drive the rental car-was unthinkable. Chiun didn't drive. Which was a lucky break for the residents of Simi Valley and their insurance companies.