Robin Cook - Fever

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.”