Fever

Two

Crossing the Charles River via the Boston University Bridge, he began to plan his day. It was infinitely easier to deal with the complications of intracellular life than the uncertainties of child rearing. At Memorial Drive Charles turned right, then after a short distance, left into the parking area of the Weinburger Research Institute. His spirits began to rise.

As he got out of his car, he noticed a significant number of cars already there, which was unusual at that time of the morning; even the director’s blue Mercedes was in its spot. Mindless of the weather, Charles stood for a moment puzzling over all the cars, then started toward the institute. It was a modern four-storied, brick-and-glass structure, somewhat akin to the nearby Hyatt Hotel but without the pyramid profile. The site was directly on the Charles River and nestled between Harvard and M.I.T., and directly across from the campus of Boston University. No wonder the institute had no trouble locating recruits.

The receptionist saw Charles approach through the mirrored glass and pressed a button, sliding open the thick glass door. Security was tight because of the value of the scientific instrumentation as well as the nature of some of the research, particularly the genetic research. Charles started across the carpeted reception area, saying good morning to the newly acquired and coy Miss Andrews, who tilted her head down and watched Charles from beneath her carefully plucked eyebrows. Charles wondered how long she would last. The life of receptionists at the institute was very short.

With an exaggerated double take, Charles stopped at the main hall and stepped back so he could see into the waiting room. In a haze of cigarette smoke a small crowd of people were milling about excitedly.

“Dr. Martel… Dr. Martel,” called one of the men.

Surprised to hear his name, Charles stepped into the room and was instantly engulfed by people, all talking at the same time. The man who had first called to Charles stuck a microphone just inches from his nose.

“I’m from the Globe,” shouted the man. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Pushing the microphone to the side, Charles began a retreat to the hall.

“Dr. Martel, is it true you’re going to take over the study?” shouted a woman grabbing onto Charles’s coat pocket.

“I don’t give interviews,” shouted Charles as he broke from the small crowd. Inexplicably the reporters stopped at the threshold of the waiting room.

“What the hell is going on?” muttered Charles as he slowed to a fast walk. He hated the media. Elizabeth’s illness had for some reason attracted the attention of the press and Charles had felt repeatedly raped as their private tragedy had been “trivialized” for people to read while having their morning coffee. He entered his lab and slammed the door.

Ellen Sheldon, Charles’s laboratory assistant for the last six years, jumped. She’d been concentrating in the stillness of the lab while setting up the equipment to separate serum proteins. As usual she had arrived at seven fifteen to prepare for Charles’s invariable arrival at seven forty-five. By eight Charles liked to be into the day’s work, especially now that things were going so well.

“If I slammed the door like that, I’d never hear the end of it,” said Ellen, irritated. She was a darkly attractive woman of thirty who wore her hair piled on her head except for vagrant wisps which trailed down alongside her neck. When he’d hired her, Charles got some jealous kidding from his colleagues, but in truth, Charles had not appreciated her exotic beauty until he’d worked with her for several years. Her individual features were not exceptional; it was the whole package that was intriguing. But as far as Charles was concerned, the most important aspects were her intellect, her eagerness, and her superb training at M.I.T.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” said Charles, hanging up his coat. “There’s a bunch of reporters out there, and you know how I feel about reporters.”

“We all know how you feel about reporters,” agreed Ellen, going back to work.

Charles sat down at his desk and began going through his papers. His laboratory was a large rectangular room with a private office connected by a door in the back. Charles had eschewed the office and put a functional metal desk in the lab, converting the office into an animal room. The main animal area was a separate wing off the back of the institute, but Charles wanted some of his experimental animals nearby in order to closely supervise their care. Good experimental results depended heavily on good care of the animals and Charles was particularly attentive to details.

“What are all the reporters doing here anyway?” asked Charles. “Did our fearless leader make some scientific breakthrough in his bathtub last night?”

“Be a little more generous,” scolded Ellen. “Someone has to do the administrative work.”

“Excuse me,” said Charles with sarcastic exaggeration.

“Actually, it is something serious,” said Ellen. “The episode with Brighton was leaked to the New York Times.”

“These new generation doctors certainly like publicity,” said Charles, shaking his head in disgust. “I thought that after that rave review in Time magazine a month ago he would have been satisfied. What the hell did he do?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?” said Ellen incredulously.

“Ellen, I come here to work. You of all people should know that.”

“True. But this Brighton situation… Everybody knows about it. It’s been the in-house gossip for at least a week.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. In fact, from your tone of voice, I’m beginning to think I’d rather not know.”

“Well, it’s bad,” agreed Ellen. “The head of the animal department reported to the director that Dr. Thomas Brighton had been sneaking into the animal lab and substituting healthy mice for his own cancer-carrying animals.”

“Wonderful,” said Charles with sarcasm. “Obviously the idea was to make his drug appear miraculously effective.”

“Exactly. Which is all the more interesting because it’s been his drug, Canceran, that has gotten him all the recent publicity.”

“And his position here at the institute,” added Charles, as he felt his face redden with contempt. He’d disapproved of all the publicity Dr. Thomas Brighton had garnered, but when he’d voiced his opinion he’d realized people had thought he was jealous.

“I feel sorry for him,” said Ellen. “This will probably have a big effect on his career.”

“Am I hearing right?” asked Charles. “You feel sorry for that little conniving bastard? I hope they throw his cheating ass right out of medicine. That guy is supposed to be a medical doctor. Cheating on research is as bad as cheating on patient care. No! It’s worse. In research you can end up hurting many more people.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. Maybe he was under a lot of pressure because of all the publicity. There could have been extenuating circumstances.”

“When it comes to integrity, there are no extenuating circumstances.”

“Well, I disagree. People have problems. We’re not all supermen like you.”

“Don’t give me any of that psychology bullshit,” said Charles. He was surprised at the malice implied in Ellen’s comment.

“Okay, I won’t. But a little human generosity would do you good, Charles Martel. You don’t give a damn about other people’s feelings. All you do is take.” Ellen’s voice trembled with emotion.

A strained silence fell over the lab. Ellen ostensibly went back to her work. Charles opened his lab book, but he could not concentrate. He hadn’t meant to sound so angry and obviously he had offended Ellen. Was it true he was insensitive to others’ feelings? It was the first time Ellen had ever said anything negative about him. Charles wondered if it had anything to do with the brief affair they’d had just before he’d met Cathryn. After working together so many years it had been more the result of propinquity than romance, coming at a time when Charles had finally come out of the immobilizing depression following Elizabeth’s death. It had only lasted a month. Then Cathryn had arrived at the institute as temporary summer help. Afterwards he and Ellen had never discussed the affair. At the time Charles had felt it was easier to let the episode slip into the past.

“I’m sorry if I sounded angry,” said Charles. “I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”

“And I’m sorry I said what I did,” said Ellen, her voice still reflecting deeply felt emotion.

Charles wasn’t convinced. He wanted to ask Ellen if she really thought he was insensitive, but he didn’t have the nerve.

“By the way,” added Ellen. “Dr. Morrison wants to see you as soon as possible. He called before you arrived.”

“Morrison can wait,” said Charles. “Let’s get things going here.”

Cathryn was irritated at Charles. She wasn’t the kind of person who tried to suppress such feelings; besides, she felt justified. In light of Michelle’s nosebleed, he could have altered his sacred schedule and taken Michelle to Pediatric Hospital himself. After all, he was the doctor. Cathryn had horrible visions of Michelle’s nose bleeding all over the car. Could she bleed to death? Cathryn wasn’t sure, but the possibility seemed real enough to terrify her. Cathryn hated anything associated with disease, blood, and hospitals. Why such things bothered her she wasn’t sure, although a bad experience at age ten with a complicated case of appendicitis probably contributed. They’d had trouble making the diagnosis, first at the doctor’s office, then at the hospital. Even to that day she vividly remembered the white tiles and the antiseptic smell. But the worst had been the ordeal of the vaginal exam. No one tried to explain anything. They just held her down. Charles knew all this, but he had still insisted on getting to the lab on schedule and letting Cathryn accompany Michelle.

Deciding there was a certain safety in numbers, Cathryn sat down at the kitchen phone to call Marge Schonhauser to see if she wanted a ride into Boston. If Tad was still in the hospital there was a good chance she would. The phone was picked up on the second ring. It was Nancy, the Schonhausers’ sixteen-year-old daughter.

“My mother’s already at the hospital.”

“Well, I just thought I’d try,” said Cathryn. “I’ll see if I can tell her while I’m there. But if I don’t get her, tell her I called.”

“Sure,” said Nancy. “I know she’d be glad to hear from you.”

“How’s Tad doing?” asked Cathryn. “Is he coming home soon?”

“He’s awfully sick, Mrs. Martel. He had to have a marrow transplant. They tested all us kids and little Lisa was the only one who matched. He’s living in a tent to protect him from germs.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” said Cathryn. She could feel a little of her strength drain away. She had no idea what a marrow transplant was, but it sounded serious and scary. She said good-bye to Nancy and hung up the phone. For a moment she sat thinking, dreading the emotional aspect of the confrontation with Merge, feeling the guilt of not having called sooner. Tad’s illness made her own fears about Michelle’s nosebleed seem petty by comparison. Taking a deep breath, Cathryn went into the living room.

Michelle was watching the Today show, propped up on the couch. After some orange juice and rest, she felt considerably better, but she was still upset. Although Charles had not said it, she was certain he was disappointed in her. The nosebleed had been the final aggravation.

“I called Dr. Wiley’s office,” said Cathryn as brightly as she could, “and the nurse said we should come as soon as possible. Otherwise we might have a long wait. So let’s get the show on the road.”

“I feel much better,” said Michelle. She forced a smile but her lips trembled.

“Good,” said Cathryn. “But you stay still. I’ll get your coat and stuff.” Cathryn started for the stairs.

“Cathryn, I think I’m all right now. I think I can go to school.” As if to substantiate her opinion, Michelle swung her legs to the floor and stood up. Her smile wavered through a flurry of weakness.

Cathryn turned and looked at her adopted daughter, feeling a rush of affection for his little girl whom Charles loved so dearly. Cathryn had no idea why Michelle would want to deny her illness unless she was afraid of the hospital like Cathryn was. She walked over and put her arms around the child, hugging her close. “You don’t have to be afraid, Michelle.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Michelle, resisting Cathryn’s embrace.

“You’re not?” asked Cathryn, more to have something to say. She was always taken by surprise to have her affection refused. Cathryn smiled self-consciously, her hands still resting on Michelle’s shoulders.

“I think I should go to school. I don’t have to take gym if you give me a note.”

“Michelle. You haven’t been feeling right for a month. You had a fever this morning. I think it’s time we did something.”

“But I feel fine now, and want to go to school.”

Taking her hands off Michelle’s shoulders, Cathryn examined the defiant face in front of her. In so many ways Michelle remained a mystery. She was such a precise, serious little girl who seemed mature for her age, but for some reason always kept Cathryn at arm’s length. Cathryn wondered how much of it was due to Michelle’s losing her mother at age three. Cathryn felt she knew something about growing up with only one parent because of her own father’s abandonment.

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said Cathryn, debating with herself the best way to handle the problem. “We’ll take your temperature again. If you still have a fever, we go. If you don’t, then we won’t.”

Michelle’s temperature was 100.8.

An hour and a half later, Cathryn pulled the old Dodge station wagon into the garage at Pediatric Hospital and took a ticket from the machine. Thankfully it had been an uneventful ride. Michelle had spoken very little during the trip, only answering direct questions. To Cathryn she seemed exhausted and her hands lay immobile in her lap like a puppet’s, waiting to be moved from above.

“What are you thinking?” asked Cathryn, breaking the silence. There were no parking spaces available and they kept driving from one level to the next.

“Nothing,” said Michelle without moving.

Cathryn watched Michelle out of the corner of her eye. She wanted so much to get Michelle to let down her guard, to let Cathryn’s love in.

“Don’t you like to share your thoughts?” persisted Cathryn.

“I don’t feel good, Cathryn. I feel really bad. I think you are going to have to help me out of the car.” Cathryn took one look at Michelle’s face, and abruptly stopped the car. She reached out and put her arms around the child. The little girl didn’t resist. She moved over and put her head on Cathryn’s breast. Cathryn felt warm tears touch her arm.

“I’ll be glad to help you, Michelle. I’ll help you whenever you need me. I promise.”

Cathryn had the feeling that she’d finally crossed some undefined threshold. It had taken two and a half years of patience, but it had paid off.

Blaring auto horns brought Cathryn back to the present. She put her car in gear and started forward, pleased that Michelle continued to hold on to her.

Cathryn felt more like a real mother than she ever had before. As they pushed through the revolving door, Michelle acted very weak and allowed Cathryn to help her. In the lobby a request for a wheelchair was promptly filled, and although Michelle initially resisted, she let Cathryn push her.

For Cathryn, the happiness in the new closeness to Michelle helped dull the specter of the hospital. The decor helped, too; the lobby was paved with a warm Mexican tile and the seating was done in bright oranges and yellows. There were even lots of plants. It was more like a luxury hotel than a big city hospital.

The pediatric offices were equally nonthreatening. There were five patients already in Dr. Wiley’s waiting room. To Michelle’s disgust, none was over two years of age. She would have complained except she glimpsed the examining rooms through an open door and remembered why she was there. Leaning toward Cathryn she whispered, “You don’t think I’ll get a shot, do you?”

“I have no idea,” said Cathryn. “But afterwards if you feel up to it, we can do something fun. Whatever you like.”

“Could we go visit my father?” Michelle’s eyes brightened.

“Sure,” said Cathryn. She parked Michelle next to an empty seat, then sat down herself.

A mother and a whimpering five-year-old boy emerged from the examining room. One of the mothers with a tiny baby got up and went in.

“I’m going to ask the nurse if I can use the phone,” said Cathryn. “I want to find out where Tad Schonhauser is. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

“I’m okay,” said Michelle. “In fact, I feel better again.”

“Good,” said Cathryn as she got up. Michelle watched Cathryn’s long brown hair bounce on her shoulders as she walked over to the nurse, then dialed the phone. Remembering her father say how much he liked it, Michelle wished hers were the same color. Suddenly she wished she were really old, like twenty, so she could be a doctor and talk to Charles and work in his lab. Charles had said that doctors didn’t have to give shots; the nurses do. Michelle hoped she didn’t have to get a shot. She hated them.

“Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Peter Morrison, standing at the doorway to Charles’s lab. “Didn’t you get my message?”

Straightening up from loading serum samples into an automatic radioactivity counter, Charles looked at Morrison, administrative head of the department of physiology. The man was leaning on the doorjamb, the fluorescent ceiling light reflecting off the lenses in his narrow tortoiseshell glasses. His face was taut, angry.

“I’ll be by in ten or fifteen minutes,” said Charles. “I just have a few more important things to do.”

Morrison considered Charles’s statement for a moment. “I’ll be waiting in my office.” The door closed slowly behind him.

“You shouldn’t bait him,” said Ellen, after Morrison had left. “All it can do is cause trouble.”

“It’s good for him,” said Charles. “It gives him something to think about. For the life of me, I don’t know what else he does in that office of his.”

“Someone has to attend to the administration,” said Ellen.

“The irony is that he once was a decent researcher,” said Charles. “Now his entire life is dominated by his ambition to become director, and all he does is push papers, have meetings, go to lunch, and attend benefits.”

“Those benefits raise money.”

“I suppose,” said Charles. “But you don’t need a Ph.D. in physiology to do that. I just think it is a waste. If the people donating money at those fund-raisers ever found out how little of it actually gets applied to research, they’d be appalled.”

“I agree with you there,” Ellen replied. “But why don’t you let me finish loading these samples. You go see Morrison and get it over with because I am going to need you to help draw blood from the rats.”

Ten minutes later Charles found himself climbing the metal fire stairs to the second floor. He had no idea why Morrison wanted to see him, although he guessed it was going to be another pep talk, trying to get him to publish a paper for some upcoming meeting. Charles had very different ideas from his colleagues about publication. It had never been his inclination to rush into print. Although research careers often were measured by the number of articles a doctor published, Charles’s dogged dedication and brilliance had won him a greater respect from his colleagues, many of whom often said that it was men like Charles who made the great scientific discoveries. It was only the administration who complained.

Dr. Morrison’s office was in the administrative area on the second floor where the halls were painted a pleasant beige and hung with somber oil paintings of past directors clothed in academic robes. The atmosphere was a world apart from the utilitarian labs on the ground and first floors and gave the impression of a successful law office rather than a nonprofit medical organization. Its opulence never failed to irritate Charles; he knew that the money had come from people believing they were contributing to research.

In this frame of mind, Charles made his way to Morrison’s office. Charles was about to enter when he noticed that all the secretaries in the administration area were watching him. There was that same feeling of suppressed excitement that Charles had sensed when he arrived that morning. It was as if everyone were waiting for something to happen.

As Charles went inside, Morrison stood up from his broad mahogany desk and stepped around into the room with his hand outstretched. His earlier irritated demeanor had vanished. By habit Charles shook the hand but was baffled by the gesture. He had nothing in common with this man. Morrison was dressed in a freshly pressed pin-striped suit, starched white shirt, and silk tie; his hand-sewn loafers were professionally shined. Charles was wearing his usual blue oxford shirt, open at the collar, with his tie loosened and tucked between the second and third buttons; his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. His trousers were baggy khakis and his shoes, scuffed cordovans.

“Welcome,” said Morrison as if he hadn’t already seen Charles that morning. With a sweep of his hand he motioned for Charles to sit on the leather couch in the rear of the office, which afforded a view out over the Charles River. “Coffee?” Morrison smiled, showing very small, very white, even teeth.

Charles declined, sat back on the couch, and folded his arms. Something strange was going on and his curiosity was piqued.

“Have you seen the New York Times today?” asked Morrison.

Charles shook his head negatively.

Morrison walked over to his desk, picked up the paper, and directed Charles’s attention to an article on the front page. His gold identification bracelet slid out from beneath his shirt sleeve as he pointed. SCANDAL AT THE WEINBURGER CANCER INSTITUTE.

Charles read the first paragraph, which paraphrased what Ellen had already told him. That was enough.

“Terrible, eh?” intoned Morrison.

Charles nodded half-felt agreement. Although he knew that such an incident would have a negative effect on fund-raising for a time, he also felt that it would take some of the unearned emphasis away from this new drug, Canceran, and hopefully return it to more promising areas. He felt that the answer to cancer lay in immunology, not chemotherapy, although he recognized the increasing numbers of cures achieved in recent years.

“Dr. Brighton should have known better,” said Morrison. “He’s just too young, too impatient.”

Charles waited for Morrison to get to the point.

“We’re going to have to let Dr. Brighton go,” said Morrison.

Charles nodded as Morrison launched into his explanation of Brighton’s behavior. Charles looked at Morrison’s shining bald head. The little hair he had was located above his ears, connected in the back by a carefully combed swath.

“Just a minute,” interrupted Charles. “This is all very interesting, but I do have an important experiment in progress downstairs. Is there something specific you wanted to tell me?”

“Of course,” said Morrison, adjusting his cuff. His voice took on a more serious note and he brought the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple. “The board of directors of the institute anticipated the New York Times article and had an emergency meeting last night. We decided that if we didn’t act quickly the real victim of the Brighton affair would be the new and promising drug, Canceran. I assume you can understand this concern?”

“Of course,” said Charles, but on the horizon of Charles’s mind, a black cloud began to form.

“It was also decided that the only way to salvage the project was for the institute to publicly support the drug by appointing its most prestigious scientist to complete the tests. And I’m happy to say, Charles Martel, that you were chosen.”

Charles closed his eyes and slapped a hand over his forehead. He wanted to storm out of the office, but he contained himself. Slowly he reopened his eyes. Morrison’s thin lips were pulled into a smile. Charles could not tell if the man knew what his reaction was and was, therefore, teasing him, or if Morrison genuinely thought that he was conveying good news.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” continued Morrison, “that the board of directors picked someone from my department. Not that I’m surprised, mind you. We all have been working tirelessly for the Weinburger. It’s just nice to get this kind of recognition once in a while. And, of course, you were my choice.”

“Well,” began Charles in as steady a voice as he could manage. “I hope you convey to the board of directors my thanks for this vote of confidence, but unfortunately I’m not in a position to take over the Canceran project. You see, my own work is progressing extremely well. They will have to find someone else.”

“I hope you’re joking,” said Morrison. His smile waned, then vanished.

“Not at all. With the progress I’m making, there is no way I can leave my current work. My assistant and I have been extremely successful and the pace is increasing.”

“But you have not published a single paper for several years. That’s hardly a rapid pace. Besides, funding for your work has come almost totally from the general operating funds of the institute; you have not been responsible for any major outside grants to the institute for a long, long time. I know that’s because you have insisted on remaining in the immunological field of cancer research and until now I have backed you all the way. But now your services are needed. As soon as you finish the Canceran project, you can go back to your own work. It’s as simple as that.” Morrison stood up and walked back behind his desk to signify that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over, the matter decided.

“But I can’t leave my work,” said Charles, feeling a sense of desperation. “Not now. Things are going too well. What about my development of the process of the hybridoma? That should count for something.”

“Ah, the hybridoma,” said Morrison. “A wonderful piece of work. Who would have thought that a sensitized lymphocyte could be fused with a cancer cell to make a kind of cellular antibody factory. Brilliant! There are only two problems. One: it was many years ago; and two: you failed to publish the discovery! We should have been able to capitalize on it. Instead, another institution got the credit. I wouldn’t count on the hybridoma development to ensure your position with the board of directors.”

“I didn’t stop to publish the hybridoma process because it was just a single step in my experiment protocol. I’ve never been eager to rush into print.”

“We all know that. In fact, it’s probably the major reason you’re where you are and not a department head.”

“I don’t want to be a department head,” yelled Charles, beginning to lose his patience. “I want to do research, not push around papers and go to benefits.”

“I suppose that’s meant as a personal insult,” said Morrison.

“You can take it as you will,” said Charles, who had abandoned his efforts at controlling his anger. He stood up, approached Morrison’s desk, and pointed an accusing finger at the man. “I’ll tell you the biggest reason I can’t take over the Canceran project. I don’t believe in it!”

“What the hell does that mean?” Morrison’s patience had also worn thin.

“It means that cellular poisons like Canceran are not the ultimate answer to cancer. The presumption is that they kill cancer cells faster than normal cells so that after the malignancy is stopped the patient will still have enough normal cells to live. But that’s only an interim approach. A real cure for cancer can only come from a better understanding of the cellular processes of life, particularly the chemical communication between cells.”

Charles began to pace the room, nervously running his fingers through his hair. Morrison, by contrast, didn’t move. He just followed Charles’s gyrations with his eyes.

“I tell you,” shouted Charles, “the whole attack on cancer is coming from the wrong perspective. Cancer cannot be considered a disease like an infection because it encourages the misconception that there will be a magic bullet cure like an antibiotic.” Charles stopped pacing and leaned over the desk toward Morrison. His voice was quieter, but more impassioned. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Dr. Morrison. Cancer is not a disease in the traditional sense, but an unmasking of a more primitive life-form, like those that existed at the beginning of time when multicellular organisms were evolving. Think of it. At one time, eons ago, there were only single-celled creatures who selfishly ignored each other. But then, after a few million years, some of them teamed up because it was more efficient. They communicated chemically and this communication made multicellular organisms like us possible. Why does a liver cell only do what a liver cell does, or a heart cell, or a brain cell? The answer is chemical communication. But cancer cells are not responsive to this chemical communication. They have broken free, gone back to a more primitive stage, like those single-cell organisms that existed millions of years ago. Cancer is not a disease but rather a clue to the basic organization of life. And immunology is the study of this communication.”

Charles ended his monologue leaning forward on his hands over Morrison’s desk. There was an awkward silence. Morrison cleared his throat, pulled out his leather desk chair, and sat down.

“Very interesting,” he said. “Unfortunately, we are not in a metaphysical business. And I must remind you that the immunological aspect of cancer has been worked on for more than a decade and contributed very little to the prolongation of the cancer victim’s life.”

“That’s the point,” interrupted Charles. “Immunology will give a cure, not just palliation.”

“Please,” said Morrison softly. “I listened to you, now listen to me. There is very little money available for immunology at the present time. That’s a fact. The Canceran project carries a huge grant from both the National Cancer Institute as well as the American Cancer Society. The Weinburger needs that money.”

Charles tried to interrupt, but Morrison cut him off. Charles slumped back into a chair. He could feel the weight of the institute’s bureaucracy surround him like a giant octopus.

Morrison ritually removed his glasses and placed them on his blotter. “You are a superb scientist, Charles. We all know that, and that’s why we need you at this moment. But you’re also a maverick and in that sense more tolerated than appreciated. You have enemies here, perhaps motivated by jealousy, perhaps by your self-righteousness. I have defended you in the past. But there are those who would just as soon see you go. I’m telling you this for your own good. At the meeting last night I mentioned that you might refuse taking over the Canceran project. It was decided that if you did, your position here would be terminated. It will be easy enough to get someone to take your place on a project like this.”

Terminated! The word echoed painfully in Charles’s mind. He tried to collect his thoughts.

“Can I say something now?” asked Charles.

“Of course,” said Morrison, “tell me that you’re going to take over the Canceran project. That’s what I want to hear.”

“I’ve been very busy downstairs,” said Charles, ignoring Morrison’s last comment, “and I’m moving very rapidly. I have been purposefully secretive but I believe that I am truly close to understanding cancer and possibly a cure.”

Morrison studied Charles’s face, trying to garner a hint as to his sincerity. Was this a trick? A delusion of grandeur? Morrison looked at Charles’s bright blue eyes, his high lined forehead. He knew all about Charles’s past, his wife’s death, his sudden move from clinical medicine into research. He knew that Charles was a brilliant worker, but a loner. He suspected that Charles’s idea of “truly close” might well constitute ten years.

“A cure for cancer,” said Morrison, not bothering to smooth the sarcastic edge to his voice. He kept his eyes on Charles’s face. “Wouldn’t that be nice. We’d all be very proud. But… it will have to wait until the Canceran study is done. Lesley Pharmaceuticals, who holds the patent, is eager to get production rolling. Now, Dr. Martel, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. The matter is closed. The Canceran lab books are available, so get cracking. Good luck. If you have any problems let me know.”

Charles stumbled out of Morrison’s office in a daze, crushed at the prospect of being forced away from his own research at such a critical time. Aware of the quizzical stare from Morrison’s prim secretary, Charles half ran to the fire stairs, banging open the door. He descended slowly, his mind reeling. Never in his life had anyone ever threatened to fire him. Although he felt confident he could get a job, the idea of being cast adrift even for a short time was devastating, especially with all his ongoing financial obligations. When he had given up his private practice, Charles had given up his status as moderately well-to-do. On his research salary, they barely made it, especially with Chuck in college.

Reaching the first floor, Charles turned down the hall, toward his lab. He needed some time to think.