Lawrence Sanders - Private Pleasures

I am thirty-nine years old and have been married for almost ten years.

My wife, Mabel, and I have one child, a nine-year-old named Chester.

It is not a happy marriage, and Chester is not a happy boy.

For the past seven years I have been employed as a senior chemist at McWhortle Laboratory, Inc. McWhortle's was essentially a research lab, developing new products for a long list of pharmaceutical, industrial, and consumer-oriented companies. We obtained patents on our inventions and then licensed them to our clients for manufacture.

Our specialty was biochemical formulas, including sedatives, stimulants, and synthetic hormones. One research section was devoted solely to the blending of new scents and fragrances for the perfume industry. And we had developed several chemical products for the U.S. armed forces. Those cannot be described here.

After working for almost two years, I had succeeded in developing a new method of synthesizing testosterone, the male sex hormone. My process, for which a patent had been filed, was relatively inexpensive and could easily be adapted to mass production.

This research was financed by a company that made and marketed personal toiletries and nonprescription drugs. The client hoped we would be able to isolate the element in testosterone that was responsible for one of the secondary male sexual characteristics, the growth of body hair. it was believed that if the project was successful, eventually an oral medication or injection might be a cure for alopecia (baldness) in both men and women. The commercial possibilities were dazzling.

On the morning of April 27 I was summoned to the office of Mr. Marvin McWhortle, our founder and chief executive officer.

He was seated in a high-backed swivel chair behind his massive desk.

Alongside the desk, lounging in a leather armchair, was a tall, narrow gentleman whose age I guessed to be about fifty. He was neatly dressed in civilian clothes but was introduced to me as Colonel Henry Knacker. His branch of the service was not mentioned, nor was his official position.

"Greg," Mr. McWhortle said, "the colonel would like to know more about our synthetic testosterone. You may answer all his questions."

Without preliminaries, the officer began to query me as to the exact chemical formulation of our new product and the method of manufacture.

It was obvious Colonel Knacker knew a great deal about testosterone.

Suddenly his interrogation ended, and he stared at me a moment in silence. "You've worked for us before, Barrow," Colonel Knacker said flatly, a statement, not a question. "You signed an oath of secrecy.

You're aware, aren't you, that there's no time limit on that oath. It is still in force. Understood?"

"Yes, sir, " I said.

"There is no doubt whatsoever about Greg's loyalty, " Mr. McWhortle put in.

"Loyalty is one thing," the officer said. "Secrecy is another. This conversation never took place. Clear?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now let's get down to bedrock. Testosterone is what makes men aggressive. Agreed?"

"It is generally thought so," I said cautiously. "But behavioral research is continuing to determine if testosterone is the sole cause of aggression or if other factors may be involved.

These might include heredity, education, social status, and so forth."

"I know all that cowflop," the colonel said impatiently.

"But I also know that studies have linked high testosterone levels to men who are aggressive, intensely competitive, and seek to dominate.

Correct? " "Yes, sir," I said. "But women can also be aggressive, competitive, and seek to dominate, even though their testosterone levels are much lower than those in men."

"All to the good," Knacker said with a tight smile. "Since women now play an important role in the military and may soon find themselves in battle action. Capisce?

Apparently Mr. McWhortle felt matters were not progressing rapidly enough, for he interrupted the dialogue between the officer and myself.

"What the colonel has in mind, Greg," he said briskly, "is developing a testosterone diet additive pill, powder, or liquid-that would increase the combat efficiency of the average soldier."

"Even if the effect is only temporary," Knacker said earnestly. "We'd like to give our boys-and girls, too, of coursean extra edge in a firefight. We call it the Strength-Action Power pill."

I confess I did not immediately question the morality or ethicality of what he proposed. My first reaction was astonishment at the name of the product.

"Strength-Action-Power?" I repeated hesitantly. "Colonel, the acronym of what you suggest is SAP. If news ever does leak out about the program, I'm afraid it would arouse a great deal of amusement in the media. That might even result in the cancellation of the project."

"Good lord, colonel," Mr. McWhortle said. "I never thought of that.

SAP just won't fly."

"Suppose you name the diet additive Zest-Action Power," I suggested.

"ZAP is easy to say, easy to remember, and it implies moving swiftly to attack."

The officer looked at me admiringly. "I like the way you think, Barrow," he said. "ZAP it is! Now tell me, Do you think a testosterone pill to improve battle performance can be developed?"

"Possibly," I said warily. "But it would require a great deal of research, including animal testing followed by trials on human volunteers. The dosage would have to be very carefully calculated, and even then the long-term side effects might prove dangerous. We're dealing with an extremely powerful hormone here, and the ways in which it affects human behavior are still not fully understood."

"But do you think ZAP is possible?" he repeated. "One little pill or maybe a tasteless powder mixed in field rations? It could mean the difference between victory and defeat. It could be of vital importance to your country, Barrow. Concur?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I think such a diet additive could be developed.

Not overnight, of course. It would require an enormous amount of work."

"And I might add," Mr. McWhortle said quickly, iian enormous budget."

"Let me worry about the expense," Colonel Knacker said.

"You guys worry about inventing a pill that'll make every American line doggie eager to charge into the cannon's mouth. How soon can you get started?"

I looked at Mr. McWhortle.

"As soon as funds are made available," he said smoothly.

"They're available right now," the officer assured him.

"Get cracking-and remember, this involves national security."

"Of course," Mr. McWhortle said. "No problem. The entire project will be conducted in total secrecy. Am I correct, Greg?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

And that's how it all began.

Greg was driving that week, and the moment I climbed into his old Volvo I knew he was in a down mood. He usually greets me with a cheery "Good morning!" But on that day, April 27, he barely mumbled a hello.

"Well, don't you smell nice," I said, hoping to give him a lift. "It's the new after-shave I asked you to try, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Like it?"

"Yes," he said. "Woodsy."

"That it is," I said, "and the client loves it. They're going to call it Roughneck. Isn't that a hoot?"

He didn't reply, and I didn't say anything until we had left Rustling Palms Estates and were on Federal Highway, heading for the lab.

"How was your evening, Greg?" I asked him, thinking perhaps he and Mabel had had another run-in.

"Mercifully quiet, " he said. "Chester went upstairs to do his homework, Mabel watched one of her travelogues on TV, and I worked in the den."

"Greg, do you have to bring work home every night?

"It's preferable," he said, and I knew what he meant.

He didn't speak again until we were through town and out in the country. "And how was your night?" he asked. "Did Herman come home?"