Of course, no one would believe him, at least not at first. Three days after his self-experiment, she typed up his report on the experience and at his direction sent copies to Professor Stoll, his immediate superior at Sandoz, and to Professor Rothlin, director of the Pharmacological Department. It didn’t take long to get a reaction—within the hour Professor Rothlin was tapping at the door. At the moment, Herr Hofmann was in the middle of producing another iteration of the chemical for further trials—he’d been doing almost nothing but for the past three days—and he called impatiently over his shoulder to her to please see who that was and what they wanted, and if he was impatient, edgy, really, she excused it because the synthesis was so complex and tedious and the resulting product so unstable even light would rapidly degrade it, and of course, all this meant so much to him. This was his discovery, his child, and he would settle for nothing less than the purest synthesis it was humanly possible to produce.

“Yes,” she said, “of course,” and went to the door expecting one of the other young chemists or perhaps a secretary from the main office with some form or other, so it took her a moment to collect herself when she saw who it was standing there before her.

The director barely gave her a glance, just strode into the room, huffing and puffing and waving the report in one hand. “Albert, Albert, what in God’s name is this?”

Fortunately, Herr H. was in the second stage of the process, which involved cooling the isomerized synthesis prior to mixing it with an acid and a base and evaporating it to produce the active substance, so he was able to step away from the hood, strip off his gloves and nonchalantly shake the director’s hand. “What do you mean?” he said, breaking into a grin. “My report?”

“Exactly, yes. Because obviously you’ve made some error in calculating the dosage—”

“Not at all—and my lab assistant, Fräulein Ramstein, who was at my side throughout the entire process, can back me up here, isn’t that right, Fräulein?”

And here was a role she knew how to inhabit: modest, pretty, bowing her head in accord as the sun sent a slant of light through the window to illuminate her where she stood, and it was almost as if they were in a scene from a film, the heroine stepping forward to exonerate the hero when he most needed it. “Oh, yes,” she said, “we were very precise about that. Two hundred fifty micrograms.”