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A Prize for Edie By: Jesse F. Bone (1916-1986) |
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By J. F. BONE Illustrated by Schoenherr [Illustration] The Committee had, unquestionably, made a mistake. There
was no doubt that Edie had achieved the long sought cancer
cure ... but awarding the Nobel Prize was, nonetheless, a
mistake ...
The letter from America arrived too late. The Committee had regarded
acceptance as a foregone conclusion, for no one since Boris Pasternak
had turned down a Nobel Prize. So when Professor Doctor Nels Christianson
opened the letter, there was not the slightest fear on his part, or on that
of his fellow committeemen, Dr. Eric Carlstrom and Dr. Sven Eklund, that
the letter would be anything other than the usual routine acceptance. "At last we learn the identity of this great research worker," Christianson
murmured as he scanned the closely typed sheets. Carlstrom and Eklund
waited impatiently, wondering at the peculiar expression that fixed itself
on Christianson's face. Fine beads of sweat appeared on the professor's
high narrow forehead as he laid the letter down. "Well," he said heavily,
"now we know." "Know what?" Eklund demanded. "What does it say? Does she accept?" "She accepts," Christianson said in a peculiar half strangled tone as he
passed the letter to Eklund. "See for yourself." Eklund's reaction was different. His face was a mottled reddish white as
he finished the letter and handed it across the table to Carlstrom. "Why,"
he demanded of no one in particular, "did this have to happen to us?" "It was bound to happen sometime," Carlstrom said. "It's just our
misfortune that it happened to us." He chuckled as he passed the letter
back to Christianson. "At least this year the presentation should be an
event worth remembering." "It seems that we have a little problem," Christianson said, making what
would probably be the understatement of the century. Possibly there would
be greater understatements in the remaining ninety nine years of the
Twenty first Century, but Carlstrom doubted it. "We certainly have our
necks out," he agreed. "We can't do it!" Eklund exploded. "We simply can't award the Nobel Prize
in medicine and physiology to that ... that C. Edie !" He sputtered into
silence. "We can hardly do anything else," Christianson said. "There's no
question as to the identity of the winner. Dr. Hanson's letter makes
that unmistakably clear. And there's no question that the award is
deserved." "We still could award it to someone else," Eklund said. "Not a chance. We've already said too much to the press. It's known all
over the world that the medical award is going to the discoverer of the
basic cause of cancer, to the founder of modern neoplastic therapy."
Christianson grimaced. "If we changed our decision now, there'd be all
sorts of embarrassing questions from the press." "I can see it now," Carlstrom said, "the banquet, the table, the flowers,
and Professor Doctor Nels Christianson in formal dress with the Order
of St. Olaf gleaming across his white shirtfront, standing before that
distinguished audience and announcing: 'The Nobel Prize in Medicine and
Physiology is awarded to ' and then that deadly hush when the audience
sees the winner." "You needn't rub it in," Christianson said unhappily. "I can see it, too." "These Americans!" Eklund said bitterly. He wiped his damp forehead. The
picture Carlstrom had drawn was accurate but hardly appealing. "One simply
can't trust them. Publishing a report as important as that as a laboratory
release. They should have given proper credit." "They did," Carlstrom said. "They did precisely. But the world, including
us, was too stupid to see it. We have only ourselves to blame." "If it weren't for the fact that the work was inspired and effective,"
Christianson muttered, "we might have a chance of salvaging this situation.
But through its application ninety five per cent of cancers are now
curable. It is obviously the outstanding contribution to medicine in the
past five decades." "But we must consider the source," Eklund protested... Continue reading book >>
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