Arrowsmith - Sinclair Lewis (books suggested by bill gates .txt) 📗

wreck but half a dozen, with assorted miseries⁠ ⁠… The flat wheel just beneath him⁠—surely it shouldn’t pound like that⁠—why hadn’t the confounded man with the hammer detected it at the last big station?⁠—the flat wheel cracking; the car lurching, falling, being dragged on its side⁠ ⁠… A collision, a crash, the car instantly a crumpled, horrible heap, himself pinned in the telescoped berth, caught between seat and seat. Shrieks, death groans, the creeping flames⁠ ⁠… The car turning, falling plumping into a river on its side; himself trying to crawl through a window as the water seeped about his body⁠ ⁠… Himself standing by the wrenched car, deciding whether to keep away and protect his sacred work or go back, rescue people, and be killed.

So real were the visions that he could not endure lying here, waiting. He reached for the berth light, and could not find the button. In agitation he tore a matchbox from his coat pocket, scratched a match, snapped on the light. He saw himself, under the sheets, reflected in the polished wooden ceiling of his berth like a corpse in a coffin. Hastily he crawled out, with trousers and coat over his undergarments (he had somehow feared to show so much trust in the train as to put on pajamas), and with bare disgusted feet he paddled up to the smoking compartment. The porter was squatting on a stool, polishing an amazing pile of shoes.

Martin longed for his encouraging companionship, and ventured, “Warm night.”

“Uh-huh,” said the porter.

Martin curled on the chill leather seat of the smoking compartment, profoundly studying a brass washbowl. He was conscious that the porter was disapproving, but he had comfort in calculating that the man must make this run thrice a week, tens of thousands of miles yearly, apparently without being killed, and there might be a chance of their lasting till morning.

He smoked till his tongue was raw and till, fortified by the calmness of the porter, he laughed at the imaginary catastrophes. He staggered sleepily to his berth.

Instantly he was tense again, and he lay awake till dawn.

For four days he tramped, swam in cold brooks, slept under trees or in straw stacks, and came back (but by day) with enough reserve of energy to support him till his experiment should have turned from overwhelming glory into sane and entertaining routine.

XXIX I

When the work on the X Principle had gone on for six weeks, the Institute staff suspected that something was occurring, and they hinted to Martin that he needed their several assistances. He avoided them. He did not desire to be caught in any of the logrolling factions, though for Terry Wickett, still in France, and for Terry’s rough compulsion to honesty he was sometimes lonely.

How the Director first heard that Martin was finding gold is not known.

Dr. Tubbs was tired of being a Colonel⁠—there were too many Generals in New York⁠—and for two weeks he had not had an Idea which would revolutionize even a small part of the world. One morning he burst in, whiskers alive, and reproached Martin:

“What is this mysterious discovery you’re making, Arrowsmith? I’ve asked Dr. Gottlieb, but he evades me; he says you want to be sure, first. I must know about it, not only because I take a very friendly interest in your work but because I am, after all, your Director!”

Martin felt that his one ewe lamb was being snatched from him but he could see no way to refuse. He brought out his notebooks and the agar slants with their dissolved patches of bacilli. Tubbs gasped, assaulted his whiskers, did a moment of impressive thinking, and clamored:

“Do you mean to say you think you’ve discovered an infectious disease of bacteria, and you haven’t told me about it? My dear boy, I don’t believe you quite realize that you may have hit on the supreme way to kill pathogenic bacteria⁠ ⁠… And you didn’t tell me!”

“Well, sir, I wanted to make certain⁠—”

“I admire your caution, but you must understand, Martin, that the basic aim of this Institution is the conquest of disease, not making pretty scientific notes! You may have hit on one of the discoveries of a generation; the sort of thing that Mr. McGurk and I are looking for⁠ ⁠… If your results are confirmed⁠ ⁠… I shall ask Dr. Gottlieb’s opinion.”

He shook Martin’s hand five or six times and bustled out. Next day he called Martin to his office, shook his hand some more, told Pearl Robbins that they were honored to know him, then led him to a mountain top and showed him all the kingdoms of the world:

“Martin, I have some plans for you. You have been working brilliantly, but without a complete vision of broader humanity. Now the Institute is organized on the most flexible lines. There are no set departments, but only units formed about exceptional men like our good friend Gottlieb. If any new man has the real right thing, we’ll provide him with every facility, instead of letting him merely plug along doing individual work. I have given your results the most careful consideration, Martin; I have talked them over with Dr. Gottlieb⁠—though I must say he does not altogether share my enthusiasm about immediate practical results. And I have decided to submit to the Board of Trustees a plan for a Department of Microbic Pathology, with you as head! You will have an assistant⁠—a real trained Ph. D.⁠—and more room and technicians, and you will report to me directly, talk things over with me daily, instead of with Gottlieb. You will be relieved of all war work, by my order⁠—though you can retain your uniform and everything. And your salary will be, I should think, if Mr. McGurk and the other Trustees confirm me, ten thousand a year instead of five.

“Yes, the best room for you would be that big one on the upper floor, to the right of the elevators. That’s vacant now. And your office across the hall.

“And all the assistance