Fever

Eight

Charles turned into the institute parking lot, leaped out of the car, and pulled the jar of pond water from behind the seat. He ran across the tarmac and had to bang on the glass door before the receptionist opened it. Turning right instead of left in the main hallway, he ran down to the analysis lab. One of the technicians whom Charles respected was sitting on the countertop with his morning coffee.

“I want this water analyzed for contaminants,” said Charles, out of breath.

“Rush job?” quipped the technician, noting Charles’s excitement.

“Sorta,” said Charles. “I’m particularly interested in organic solvents. But whatever else you can tell me about the water would be helpful.”

The technician unscrewed the cap, took a whiff, and blinked. “Whew. I hope you don’t use this stuff with your scotch.”

Charles hurried back toward his own lab. His mind was pulsing with a confusion of thoughts which flashed in and out of his consciousness with bewildering rapidity.

He acknowledged that he had no way of rationally solving the dilemma he felt about Michelle’s treatment. Instead he decided to put his own research into high gear in the futile hope that he could accomplish something extraordinary in time for Michelle; and to try to have Recycle, Ltd. closed down. Revenge was a powerful emotion, and its presence dulled the anxiety about Michelle. By the time he reached the door to his lab, Charles found himself with clenched fists. But he hesitated, remembering his vow that morning to use his intelligence rather than his unreliable emotions. Composing himself, he calmly opened the door.

Ellen, who’d been busy reading the Canceran protocol at Charles’s desk, slowly put the book down. There was a studied deliberateness to her movements, which bothered Charles even in his distracted state.

“Did the entire batch of mice get the mammary cancer antigen?” he demanded.

“They did,” answered Ellen. “But…”

“Good,” interrupted Charles, going up to their small blackboard. He picked up a piece of chalk and after erasing what was already on the board, he began diagramming the method they would use to assay the T-lymphocyte responses in the injected mice in order to chart their immunological response. When he finished, the small board was filled with an elaborate progression of steps. “Also,” said Charles, putting down the chalk, “we’re going to try something different. It’s not meant to be scientific. Its purpose is to provide a kind of rapid survey. I want to make a large number of dilutions of the cancer antigen and begin a single mouse with each dilution. I know it will have no statistical significance. It’s a shotgun survey, but it might be helpful. Now, while you check yesterday’s mice and inject them with a second challenge of the cancer antigen, I’m going to make some calls.” Charles wiped the chalk dust on his trousers, reaching for the phone.

“Can I say something now?” queried Ellen, cocking her head to the side with an I-told-you-so expression.

“Of course,” said Charles, holding the receiver.

“I checked the mice who got the first dose of Canceran.” She paused.

“Yeah?” said Charles, wondering what was coming.

“Almost all of them died last night.”

Charles’s face clouded with disbelief. “What happened?” He put down the receiver.

“I don’t know,” admitted Ellen. “There’s no explanation except for the Canceran.”

“Did you check the dilution?”

“I did,” said Ellen. “It was very accurate.”

“Any sign that they died from an infectious agent?”

“No,” said Ellen. “I had the vet take a look. He hasn’t autopsied any but he thinks they died of cardiac insult.”

“Drug toxicity!” said Charles, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where’s the original Canceran protocol?” asked Charles with mounting concern.

“Right there on your desk. I was glancing through it when you came in.”

Charles picked up the volume and flipped through the toxicity section. Then he reached for the preliminary protocol they’d made up the day before. He scanned the figures. When he finished, he tossed the new protocol and the original onto his desk.

“That fucking bastard,” snarled Charles.

“It has to be the explanation,” agreed Ellen.

“Brighton must have falsified the toxicity data, too. Holy shit, that means the whole Canceran study that Brighton has spent two years on is no good. Canceran must be much more toxic than Brighton reported. What a joke! Do you know how much the National Cancer Institute has paid so far for testing this drug?”

“No, but I can guess.”

“Millions and millions!” Charles slapped his forehead.

“What are we going to do?”

“We? What are they going to do! The whole project has to be started over, which means an additional three years!”

Charles could feel his vow to maintain an impassioned distance dissolve. To finish the efficacy study was one thing, but starting the whole Canceran project from scratch was something else. He would not do it, especially since now with Michelle ill he had to increase the pace of his own work.

“I have a feeling they’ll still want us to do Canceran,” said Ellen.

“Well I don’t give a damn,” snapped Charles. “We’re finished with Canceran. If Morrison and Ibanez give us trouble, we’ll slap them in the face with the proof that the toxicity study isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. We’ll threaten to tell the press. With that kind of scandal, I think even the National Cancer Institute might question where it’s putting its money.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Ellen. “I think we should…”

“That’s enough, Ellen!” yelled Charles. “I want you to start testing for antibodies in our first batch of mice, then reinject them. I’ll handle the administration in respect to Canceran.”

Ellen angrily turned her back. As usual, Charles had gone too far. She began her work, making as much noise with the glassware and instruments as she could.

The phone rang under Charles’s arm. He picked it up on the first ring. It was the technician down in analysis.

“You want a preliminary report?” asked the chemist.

“Please,” snapped Charles.

“The major contaminant is benzene and it’s loaded with it. But also there’s lesser amounts of toluene, as well as some trichloroethylene and carbon tetrachloride. Vile stuff! You could practically clean your oil-base paintbrushes in it. I’ll have a full report later this afternoon.”

Charles thanked the man and hung up. The report was no surprise, but he was glad to have the documented proof. Involuntarily the image of Michelle appeared before him, and he forcibly blurred it by grabbing the Boston phone directory off the shelf over his desk. He hurried to the section for the Federal Government, finding a series of numbers for the Environmental Protection Agency. He dialed the general information number. A recording answered saying that the EPA was open from nine to five. It was not yet nine.

Charles then flipped to the section for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He wanted to find the incidence of leukemia and lymphoma along the course of the Pawtomack River. But there was no listing for a Tumor or Cancer Registry. Instead his eye caught the words “Vital Statistics.” He called that number but got the identical recording he’d gotten calling the EPA. Checking the time, Charles realized that he had about twenty minutes before the bureaucratic offices would be open.

He went over to Ellen and began helping her set up to analyze whether any of the mice they’d injected with the mammary cancer antigen showed any signs of increased immunological activity. Ellen was obviously not speaking. Charles could tell she was angry and felt that she was taking advantage of their familiarity.

While he worked Charles allowed himself to fantasize about his latest research approach. What if the mice injected with the mammary cancer antigen responded to the antigen rapidly and the acquired sensitivity could be easily transferred to the cancerous mice via the transfer factor? Then the cancerous mice would cure themselves of that particular strain. It was beautifully simple… maybe too simple, thought Charles. If only it would work. If only he could speed up the whole process for Michelle…

The next time Charles looked up, it was well after nine. Leaving Ellen in her sullen mood, Charles went back to his desk and called the EPA General Information number. This time it was answered by a woman with a bored Boston accent.

Charles introduced himself and said he wanted to report serious dumping of poisonous material into a river.

The woman was not impressed. She put Charles on hold.

Another woman picked up, who sounded so similar to the first that Charles was surprised when she asked him to repeat his request.

“You’ve got the wrong extension,” said the woman. “This is the Water Programs Division and we don’t handle dumping. You want the Toxic Chemicals Program. Just a minute.”

Charles was again put on hold. There was a click followed by a dial tone. Charles dropped the receiver and grabbed the phone directory. Checking under the EPA he found the listing for Toxic Chemical Program and dialed it.

An identical voice answered. Charles wondered if they cloned people at the EPA. Charles repeated his request but was told that the Toxic Chemical Program had nothing to do with infractions and that he should call the number for Oil and Hazardous Material Spills. She gave it to him and hung up before he could reply.

He redialed, punching the numbers so hard that the tip of his middle finger tingled in protest.

Another woman! Charles repeated his request without trying to hide his annoyance.

“When did the spill take place?” asked the woman.

“This is continuous dumping, not a one-time accident.”

“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “We only handle spills.”

“Can I speak to your supervisor?” growled Charles.

“Just a minute,” sighed the woman.

Charles waited impatiently, rubbing his face with his hands. He was perspiring.

“Can I help you?” asked still another woman coming on the line.

“I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m calling to report that there is a factory regularly dumping benzene which is a poison.”

“Well, we don’t handle that,” interrupted the woman. “You’ll have to call the proper state agency.”

“What?” yelled Charles. “What the hell does the EPA do then?”

“We are a regulatory agency,” said the woman calmly, “tasked to regulate the environment.”

“I would think that dumping a poison into a river would be something that would concern you.”

“It very well could be,” agreed the woman, “but only after the state had looked into it. Do you want the number for the proper state agency?”

“Give it to me,” said Charles wearily. As he hung up he caught Ellen staring at him. He glared and she went back to work.

Charles waited for the dial tone, then dialed again.

“Okay,” said the woman after hearing his problem. “What river are you talking about?”

“The Pawtomack,” said Charles. “My God, am I finally talking to the right people?”

“Yes, you are,” reassured the woman. “And where is the factory you think is dumping?”

“The factory is in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.

“Shaftesbury?” questioned the woman. “That’s in New Hampshire, isn’t it?”

“That’s right but…”

“Well, we don’t handle New Hampshire.”

“But the river is mostly in Massachusetts.”

“That might be,” said the woman, “but the origin is in New Hampshire. You’ll have to talk to them.”

“Give me strength,” muttered Charles.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have their number?”

“No. You’ll have to get it through Information.”

The line went dead.

Charles called New Hampshire information and obtained the number to State Services. There was no listing for Water Pollution Control, but after calling the main number, Charles got the extension he wanted. Thinking that he was beginning to sound like a recording, he repeated his request once again.

“Do you want to report this anonymously?” asked the woman.

Surprised by the question, Charles took a moment to respond. “No. I’m Dr. Charles Martel, R.D. #1, Shaftesbury.”

“All right,” said the woman slowly, as if she were writing the material down. “Where does the alleged dumping occur?”

“In Shaftesbury. A company called Recycle, Ltd. They’re discarding benzene in the Pawtomack.”

“Okay,” said the woman. “Thank you very much.”

“Wait a minute,” called Charles. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll turn this over to one of our engineers,” said the woman. “And he’ll look into it.”

“When?”

“I can’t say for certain.”

“Can you give me an idea?”

“We’re pretty busy with several oil spills down at Portsmouth, so it will probably be several weeks.”

Several weeks wasn’t what Charles wanted to hear.

“Are any of the engineers around now?”

“No. Both of them are out. Wait! Here comes one now. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Please.”

There was a short delay before a man came on the line.

“Larry Spencer here!” said the engineer.

Charles quickly told the man why he was calling and that he’d like someone to check out the dumping immediately.

“We’ve got a real manpower problem in this department,” explained the engineer.

“But this is really serious. Benzene is a poison, and a lot of people live along the river.”

“It’s all serious,” said the engineer.

“Is there anything I can do to speed things up?” asked Charles.

“Not really,” said the engineer. “Although you could go to the EPA and see if they’re interested.”

“That’s who I called first. They referred me to you.”

“There you go!” said the engineer. “It’s hard to predict which cases they’ll take on. After we do all the dirty work they usually help, but sometimes they’re interested from the start. It’s a crazy, inefficient system. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”

Charles thanked the engineer and rang off. He felt the man was sincere and at least he’d said that the EPA might be interested after all. Charles had noticed the EPA was housed in the JFK Building at government center in Boston. He wasn’t going to try another phone call; he decided he’d go in person. Restlessly Charles got to his feet and reached for his coat.

“I’ll be right back,” he called over to Ellen.

Ellen didn’t respond. She waited several full minutes after the door closed behind Charles before checking the corridor. Charles was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the desk, Ellen dialed Dr. Morrison’s number. She had convinced herself that Charles was acting irresponsibly, even taking into consideration his daughter’s illness, and that it wasn’t fair for him to jeopardize her job as well as his own. Dr. Morrison listened gravely to Ellen, then told her he’d be right down. Before he hung up he mentioned that her help in this difficult affair would not go unrecognized.

Charles felt a building frenzy when he left the Weinburger. Everything was going poorly, including his idea of revenge. After his time on the phone, he was no longer so positive he could do anything about Recycle, Ltd. short of going up there with his old shotgun. The image of Michelle in her hospital bed again rose to haunt him. Charles did not know why he was so certain she was not going to respond to the chemotherapy. Maybe it was his crazy way of forcing himself to deal with the worst possible case, because he recognized that chemotherapy was her only hope. “If she has to have leukemia,” cried Charles shaking the Pinto’s steering wheel, “why can’t she have lymphocytic where chemotherapy is so successful.”

Without realizing it, Charles had allowed his car to slow below forty miles an hour, infuriating the other drivers on the road. There was a cacophony of horns, and as people passed him, they shook their fists.

After stashing his car in the municipal parking garage, Charles made his way up the vast bricked walk between the JFK Federal Building and the geometric City Hall. The buildings acted as a wind tunnel and Charles had to lean into the gusts to walk. The sun was weakly shining at that moment, but a gray cloud bank was approaching from the west. The temperature was twenty-four degrees.

Charles pushed through the revolving door and searched for a directory. To his left was an exhibition of John F. Kennedy photographs and straight ahead, next to the elevator, a makeshift coffee and donut concession had been set up.

Dusting Charles with a fine layer of confectioner’s sugar as she spoke, one of the waitresses pointed out the directory. It was hidden behind a series of smiling teenage photos of John F. Kennedy. The EPA was listed on the twenty-third floor. Charles scrambled onto an elevator just before the door closed. Looking around at his fellow occupants, Charles wondered about the strange predominance of green polyester.

Charles got out on the twenty-third floor and made his way to an office marked DIRECTOR. That seemed like a good place to start.

Immediately inside the office was a large metal desk and typing stand dominated by an enormous woman whose hair was permed into a profusion of tight curls. A rhinestone-encrusted cigarette holder, capped by a long, ultrathin cigarette, protruded jauntily from the corner of her mouth and competed for attention with her prodigious bosom that taxed the tensile strength of her dress. As Charles approached she adjusted the curls at her temples, viewing herself in a small hand mirror.

“Excuse me,” said Charles, wondering if this was one of the women he’d spoken to on the phone. “I’m here to report a recycling plant that’s dumping benzene into a local river. Whom do I speak with?”

Continuing to pat her hair, the woman suspiciously examined Charles. “Is benzene a hazardous substance?” she demanded.

“Damn right it’s hazardous,” said Charles.

“I suppose you should go down to the Hazardous Materials Division on the nineteenth floor,” said the woman with a tone that suggested “you ignorant slob.”

After eight flights of stairs, Charles emerged on nineteen, which had a totally different atmosphere. All except weight-bearing walls were removed, so that one could look from one end of the building to the other. The floor was filled with a maze of chest-height metal dividers separating the area into tiny cubicles. Above the scene hung a haze of cigarette smoke and the unintelligible murmur of hundreds of voices.

Charles entered the maze, noticing there were poles resembling street signs, describing the various departments. The Hazardous Materials Division was helpfully adjacent to the stairwell Charles had used, so he began to look at the signs delineating the subdivisions. He passed the Noise Program, the Air Program, the Pesticide Program, and the Radiation Program. Just beyond the Solid Waste Program he saw the Toxic Waste Program. He headed in that direction.

Turning off the main corridor, Charles again confronted a desk serving as a kind of barrier to the interior. It was a much smaller desk and occupied by a slender black fellow who had apparently taken great effort to brush his naturally curly hair straight. To his credit, the man gave Charles his full attention. He was fastidiously dressed and when he spoke, he spoke with an accent almost English in its precision.

“I’m afraid you’re not in the right section,” said the young man after hearing Charles’s request.

“Your division doesn’t handle benzene?”

“We handle benzene all right,” said the man, “but we just handle the permits and licensing of hazardous materials.”

“Where do you suggest I go?” asked Charles, controlling himself.

“Hmmm,” said the man, putting a carefully manicured finger to the tip of his nose. “You know, I haven’t the slightest idea. This has never come up. Wait, let me ask somebody else.”

With a light, springy step, the young man stepped around the desk, smiled at Charles, and disappeared into the interior of the maze. His shoes had metal taps and the sound carried back to Charles, distinct from the sounds of nearby typewriters. Charles fidgeted as he waited. He had the feeling his efforts were going to turn out to be totally in vain.

The young black came back.

“Nobody really knows where to go,” he admitted. “But it was suggested that perhaps you could try the Water Programs Division on the twenty-second floor. Maybe they can help.”

Charles thanked the man, appreciating at least his willingness to help, and returned to the stairwell. With dampened enthusiasm but augmented anger, Charles climbed the six flights of stairs to the twenty-second floor. When he’d passed the twenty-first floor he’d had to skirt a group of three young men passing a joint among them. They’d eyed Charles with brazen arrogance.

The twenty-second floor was a mix of offices with normal plasterboard walls alternating with open areas containing chest-high dividers. At a nearby watercooler, Charles got directions to the Water Programs Division.

Charles found the receptionist’s desk but it was empty. A smoldering cigarette suggested the occupant was in the vicinity but even after a short wait, no one materialized. Emboldened by exasperation, Charles stepped around the desk and entered the interior office space. Some of the cubicles were occupied with people on the phone or busy at a typewriter. Charles wandered until he came upon a man carrying a load of federal publications.

“Pardon me,” said Charles.

The man eased the stack of pamphlets onto his desk and acknowledged Charles. Charles went through his now-automatic routine. The man straightened the pile of pamphlets while he thought, then turned to Charles. “This isn’t the right department for reporting that kind of thing.”

“Jesus Christ!” Charles exploded. “This is the Water Department. I want to report a poisoning of water.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me,” defended the man. “We’re only tasked with monitoring water treatment facilities and sewerage disposal facilities.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charles with little sympathy. “You have no idea how frustrating this is. I have a simple complaint. I know a factory that’s dumping benzene into a river.”

“Maybe you should try the Hazardous Substance department,” said the man.

“I already did.”

“Oh,” said the man, still thinking. “Why don’t you try the Enforcement Division up on twenty-three?”

Charles eyed the man for a moment, dumbfounded. “Enforcement Division?” echoed Charles. “Why hasn’t someone suggested that before?”

“Beats me,” said the man.

Charles muttered obscenities under his breath as he found another stairwell and climbed to the twenty-third floor. He passed the Financial Management Branch, the Personnel Branch, and the Program Planning and Development Branch. Just beyond the men’s room was the Enforcement Division. Charles stepped inside.

A black girl with large, purple-shaded glasses looked up from the latest Sidney Sheldon novel. She must have been at a good part because she didn’t hide her irritation at being bothered.

Charles told her what he wanted.

“I don’t know anything about that,” said the girl.

“Whom should I talk to?” said Charles slowly.

“I don’t know,” said the girl, going back to her book.

Charles leaned on the desk with his left hand, and with his right snatched away the paperback. He slammed it down on the desk so that the girl jumped back.

“Sorry I lost your place,” said Charles. “But I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”

“Miss Stevens?” asked the girl, unsure of what Charles might do next.

“Miss Stevens will be fine.”

“She’s not in today.”

Charles drummed his fingers on the desk, resisting the temptation to reach over and give the girl a shake.

“All right,” he said. “How about the next person in command who is here.”

“Mrs. Amendola?” suggested the girl.

“I don’t care what her name is.”

Keeping a wary eye on Charles, the young woman got to her feet and disappeared.

When she reappeared, five minutes later, she had a concerned woman in tow who looked about thirty-five.

“I’m Mrs. Amendola, assistant supervisor here. Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Charles Martel and I’m trying to report a factory that is dumping poisonous chemicals into a river. I have been sent from one department to another until someone suggested there was an Enforcement Division. But when I arrived here the receptionist was somewhat less than cooperative, so I demanded to speak to a supervisor.”

“I told him that I didn’t know anything about dumping chemicals,” explained the young black girl.

Mrs. Amendola considered the situation for a moment, then invited Charles to follow her.

After passing a dozen cubicles, they entered a tiny and windowless office enlivened with travel posters. Mrs. Amendola motioned toward a lounge chair and squeezed herself behind the desk.

“You must understand,” said Mrs. Amendola, “we don’t have people walking in off the street with your kind of complaint. But of course, that doesn’t excuse rudeness.”

“What the hell do you people enforce if it’s not fouling the environment,” said Charles with hostility. After leading him to her office to placate him, Charles had the feeling that she was just going to refer him to another department.

“Our main job,” explained the woman, “is to make sure that factories handling hazardous waste have filed for all the proper permits and licenses. It’s a law that they do this and we enforce the law. Sometimes we have to take businesses to court and fine them.”

Charles lowered his face into his hands and massaged his scalp. Apparently the absurdity that Mrs. Amendola was describing was not apparent to her.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Amendola tilted forward in her chair.

“Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying,” said Charles. “The primary task of the Enforcement Division of the EPA is to make sure that paperwork gets done. It has nothing to do with enforcing the Clean Water Act or anything like that?”

“That’s not entirely correct,” said Mrs. Amendola. “You must remember that the whole concern for the environment is relatively new. Regulations are still being formulated. The first step is registering all users of hazardous materials and informing them of the rules. Then and only then will we be in a position to go after the violators.”

“So, for now, unscrupulous factories can do what they want,” said Charles.

“That’s not entirely correct either,” said Mrs. Amendola. “We do have a surveillance branch which is part of our analytical laboratory. Under the present administration our budget has been cut and unfortunately that branch is quite small, but that’s the place your complaint should go. After they document a violation, they turn it over to us and we assign the case to one of the EPA lawyers. Tell me, Dr. Martel. What is the name of the factory you are concerned about?”

“Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.

“Why don’t we check their paperwork?” said Mrs. Amendola rising from her desk.

Charles followed the woman out of her tiny office and down a long corridor. She paused at a secured door and inserted a plastic card in a slot.

“We’re going on-line with a pretty sophisticated data processor,” said Mrs. Amendola, holding the door open for Charles, “so we’re having to tighten security.”

Inside the room the air was cooler and cleaner. There was no odor of cigarette smoke. Apparently the computer terminal’s well-being was more important than employee health. Mrs. Amendola sat down in front of a free terminal and typed in

There was a ten-second delay after which the cathode ray tube blinked to life. Recycle, Ltd. was described in computer shorthand, including the fact that it was wholly owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey. Then all the hazardous chemicals involved with the plant were listed, followed by the date applications for permit or license were filed and the date they were granted.

“What chemicals are you interested in?” said Mrs. Amendola.

“Benzene, mostly.”

“Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess they’re not breaking any laws.”

“But they’re dumping the stuff directly in the river!” exclaimed Charles. “I know that’s against the law.”

The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charles’s outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.

Charles lowered his voice. “Can we go back to your office?”

Mrs. Amendola nodded.

Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. “Mrs. Amendola, I’m going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.”

Charles went on to tell about Michelle’s leukemia, Tad Schonhauser’s death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.

“My God!” she said when Charles paused.

“Do you have children?” asked Charles.

“Yes!” said Mrs. Amendola with true fear in her voice.

“Then maybe you can understand what this is doing to me,” said Charles. “And maybe you can understand why I want to do something about Recycle, Ltd. I’m sure a lot of kids live along the Pawtomack. But obviously I need some help.”

“You want me to try to get the EPA involved,” said Mrs. Amendola. A statement, not a question.

“Exactly,” said Charles, “or tell me how to do it.”

“It would be best if you made your complaint in writing. Address it to me!”

“That’s easy,” said Charles.

“What about some documented proof? Could you get that?”

“I already have the analysis of the pond water,” said Charles.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Amendola. “Something from the factory itself: a statement by a former employee, doctored records, photos of the actual dumping. Something like that.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Charles, thinking about the last suggestion. He had a Polaroid camera…

“If you could supply me with some kind of proof, I think I could get the Surveillance Branch to confirm it, then authorize a full-scale probe. So it’s up to you. Otherwise it will just have to wait its turn.”

As Charles left the JFK Federal Building he was again fighting a feeling of depression. He was much less confident now about convincing any authority to do anything about Recycle, Ltd. Consequently, the idea of taking matters into his own hands was an increasingly enjoyable fantasy.

The more he thought about Breur Chemicals, the angrier he became that a handful of dull businessmen sitting around in oak-paneled conference rooms in New Jersey could destroy his happiness and rob him of that which he loved the most. Approaching the Weinburger, Charles decided he’d call the absentee parent company and let them know how he felt about them.

Since the Brighton scandal hit the media, security had been tightened at the Weinburger, and Charles had to knock on the massive glass door before it slid open. He was greeted by Roy, the guard, who demanded to see his identification.

“It’s me, Roy,” said Charles, waving his hand in front of Roy’s face. “Dr. Martel.”

“Orders,” explained Roy, with his hand still outstretched.

“Administrative nonsense,” mumbled Charles as he searched for his ID. “What next?”

Roy shrugged, waited to see the card, which Charles stuck two inches away from his face, then ceremoniously stepped aside. Even the usually coy Miss Andrews turned away without honoring him with her usual come-over-and-talk-to-me smile.

Charles ditched his coat, called information for New Jersey, and dialed Breur Chemicals. As he waited he looked around the lab wondering if Ellen was still offended. He didn’t see her and decided she must be in the animal room. At that moment Breur Chemicals answered the phone.

Later Charles admitted to himself he should not have called. He’d already had enough bad experiences that morning to have guessed what it would have been like to try to call a giant corporation with what they would consider a bothersome complaint. Charles was switched over to a low-level man in the Public Relations department.

Rather than try to placate Charles, the man accused him of being one of those unpatriotic nuts whose stupid and unfounded environmental concerns were responsible for putting American industry in a poor competitive position with companies overseas. The conversation degenerated into a shouting match about dumping benzene with Charles saying they were and the man saying they were not.

He slammed the phone down and spun around in a fury, looking for a way to vent his anger.

The door to the corridor opened and Ellen entered.

“Have you noticed?” asked Ellen with irritating nonchalance.

“Noticed what?” snapped Charles.

“All the lab books,” said Ellen. “They’re gone.”

Charles leaped to his feet, scanning his desk, then the countertops.

“There’s no sense looking for them,” said Ellen. “They’re upstairs.”

“What the hell for?”

“After you left this morning, Dr. Morrison stopped in to check on our progress with Canceran. Instead he caught me working with the mice we’d given the mammary cancer antigen. Needless to say, he was shocked that we were doing our own work. I’m supposed to tell you to go to Dr. Ibanez’s office as soon as you appeared.”

“But why did they take the books?” asked Charles. Fear blunted the edge of his anger. As much as he hated administrative authority, he also feared it. It had been that way ever since college where he’d learned that an arbitrary decision from the Dean’s office could affect his whole life. And now the administration had invaded his world and arbitrarily taken his lab books which for Charles was like taking a hostage. The contents of the lab books were associated in his mind with helping Michelle, despite how far-fetched that was in reality.

“I think you’d better ask Dr. Morrison and Dr. Ibanez that question,” said Ellen. “Frankly, I knew it was going to come to something like this.”

Ellen sighed and tossed her head in an I-told-you-so fashion. Charles watched her, surprised at her attitude. It added to his feeling of isolation.

Leaving his lab, he wearily climbed up the fire stairs to the second floor and walked past the familiar row of secretaries and presented himself to Miss Veronica Evans for the second time in two days. Although she was obviously unoccupied, she took her sweet time looking up over her glasses at Charles.

“Yes?” she said as if Charles were a servant. Then she told him to wait on a small leather couch. Charles was certain that the delay was made to impress upon him that he was a pawn. Time dragged while Charles could not decide which was the stronger emotion: anger, fear, or panic. But the need to get back his lab books kept him in his place. He had no idea if they were technically his property or the institute’s.

The longer he sat, the less certain he became that the books detailing his recent work would be a strong bargaining point. He began to wonder if Ibanez might actually fire him. He tried to think what he could do if he had trouble getting another research position. He felt so out of touch with clinical medicine that he didn’t think he could do that. And if he got fired, he wondered with renewed panic if he’d still be covered by health insurance. That was a real concern because Michelle’s hospital bills were going to be astronomical.

There was a discreet buzz on the intercom panel, and Miss Evans turned to Charles imperiously and said: “The director will see you now.”

Dr. Carlos Ibanez stood up behind his antique desk as Charles entered. His figure was backlit from the windows, making his hair and goatee shine like polished silver.

Directly in front of the desk were Joshua Weinburger, Sr. and Joshua Weinburger, Jr., whom Charles had met at infrequent mandatory social functions. Although close to eighty, the senior seemed more animated than the junior, with lively blue eyes. He regarded Charles with great interest.

Joshua Weinburger, Jr. was the stereotypical businessman, impeccably attired, obviously extremely reserved. He glanced at Charles with a mixture of disdain and boredom, switching his attention back to Dr. Ibanez almost immediately.

Seated to the right of the desk was Dr. Morrison, whose dress mirrored Joshua Weinburger, Jr.’s in its attention to detail. A silk handkerchief, which had been carefully folded, then casually flared, protruded from his breast pocket.

“Come in, come in!” commanded Dr. Ibanez good-naturedly.

Charles approached Dr. Ibanez’s huge desk, noticing the conspicuous lack of a fourth chair. He ended up standing between the Weinburgers and Morrison. Charles didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he stuck them into his pockets. He looked out of place among these businessman with his frayed oxford-cloth shirt, his wide out-of-style tie, and poorly pressed slacks.

“I think we should get right to business,” said Dr. Ibanez. “The Weinburgers, as co-chairmen of the board of directors, have graciously come to help us manage the current crisis.”

“Indeed,” said Weinburger, Jr., turning slightly in his chair so as to look up at Charles. He had a tremor of his head and it rotated rapidly in a short arc to and fro. “Dr. Martel, it’s not the policy of the board of directors to interfere in the creative process of research. However, there are occasionally circumstances in which we must violate this rule and the current crisis is such a time. I think you should know that Canceran is a potentially important drug for Lesley Pharmaceuticals. To be very blunt, Lesley Pharmaceuticals is in precarious financial condition. Within the last few years, their patents have run out on their line of antibiotics and tranquilizers, and they are in desperate need of a new drug to market. They have committed their scarce resources into developing a chemotherapy line, and Canceran is the product of that research. They hold the exclusive patent on Canceran but must get the drug on the market. The sooner the better.”

Charles studied the faces of the men. Obviously they weren’t going to dismiss him summarily. The idea was to soften him up, make him understand the financial realities, then convince him to recommence work on Canceran. He had a glimmer of hope. The Weinburgers couldn’t have risen to their positions of power without intelligence, and Charles began to formulate in his mind the way he would convince them that Canceran was a bad investment, that it was a toxic drug and would probably never be marketed.

“We already know what you discovered about the toxicity of Canceran,” said Dr. Ibanez, taking a short puff on his cigar and unknowingly undermining Charles. “We realize that Dr. Brighton’s estimates are not entirely accurate.”

“That’s a generous way of putting it,” said Charles, realizing with dismay that his trump card had been snatched from him. “Apparently all the data in the Canceran studies done by Dr. Brighton has been falsified.” He watched the reaction of the Weinburgers out of the corners of his eyes, hoping for a response but seeing none.

“Most unfortunate,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “The solution is salvaging what we can and going forward.”

“But my estimates suggest the drug is extremely toxic,” said Charles desperately, “so toxic, in fact, that it might have to be given in homeopathic doses.”

“That’s not our concern,” said Joshua Weinburger, Jr. “That’s a marketing problem, and that’s the one department at Lesley Pharmaceuticals that is outstanding. They could sell ice to Eskimos.”

Charles was dumbfounded. There wasn’t even the pretense of ethicality. Whether the product would help people made no difference. It was business—big business.

“Charles!” said Dr. Morrison, speaking for the first time. “We want to ask if you could run the efficacy and toxicity studies concurrently.”

Charles switched his gaze to Dr. Morrison and stared at him with contempt. “That kind of approach would be reducing inductive research to pure empiricism.”

“We don’t care what you call it,” said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. “We just want to know if it could be done.”

Joshua Weinburger, Sr. laughed. He liked aggressive people and aggressive ideas.

“And we don’t care how many test animals you use,” said Morrison generously.

“That’s right,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “Although we’d recommend you use mice since they’re considerably cheaper, you can use as many as you’d like. What we’re suggesting is doing efficacy studies at a very wide range of dosages. At the conclusion of the experiment, new toxicity values could be extrapolated and then substituted for the falsified data in the original toxicity study done by Dr. Brighton. Simple as that, and we’d save lots of time! What do you say, Charles?”

“Before you answer,” said Morrison, “I think I should warn you that if you refuse, it will be in the best interests of the institute to let you go and seek someone who will give Canceran the attention it deserves.”

Charles looked from face to face. His fear and panic had disappeared. Anger and contempt remained. “Where are my lab books?” he asked with a tired voice.

“Safe and sound in the vault,” said Dr. Ibanez. “They are the property of the institute but you will get them back as soon as you finish Canceran. You see, we want you to concentrate on Canceran and we feel that having your own books might be too much of a temptation.”

“We can’t emphasize enough the need for speed,” added Joshua Weinburger, Jr. “But as an added incentive, if you can have a preliminary study done in five months, we’ll give you a bonus of ten thousand dollars.”

“I’d say that is very generous,” said Dr. Ibanez. “But you don’t have to decide right this moment. In fact, we have agreed to give you twenty-four hours. We don’t want you to feel coerced. But just so you know, we will be making preliminary inquiries into finding your replacement. Until then, Dr. Charles Martel.”

With disgust, Charles whirled and headed for the door. As he reached it, Dr. Ibanez called out: “One other thing. The board of directors and the administration want to convey their condolences regarding your daughter. We hope she recovers quickly. The Institute health plan, by the way, only holds while you are actively employed. Good day, doctor.”

Charles wanted to scream. Instead he ran the length of the administrative department and thundered down the metal fire stairs to his office, but once there, he didn’t know whether he wanted to stay. For the first time he felt that being part of the Weinburger Institute was a disgrace. He hated the fact that they even knew about Michelle. On top of that they were using Michelle’s illness as leverage against him. It was an outrage. God!

He looked around his laboratory, his home for the last eight years. He felt as if he knew every piece of glassware, each instrument, every bottle of reagent. It didn’t seem fair that he could be rudely plucked from this environment at whim, especially now that he was making such progress.

His eye fell on the culture he’d set up with Michelle’s leukemia cells. With great effort he went over to the incubator, peering in at the rows of carefully arranged glass tubes. It appeared to be progressing well, and Charles felt a much-needed sense of satisfaction. As far as he could tell, his progress of isolating and augmenting a cancer antigen seemed to work as well with human cells as it did with animal cells. Since it was already time for the next step, Charles rolled up his sleeves and tucked his tie inside his shirt. Work was Charles’s anesthetic and he bent to the task. After all, he had twenty-four hours before he’d have to bow to the demands of the administration. He knew but did not want to admit to himself that he had to give in for Michelle’s sake. He really had no choice.