Robin Cook - Fever

“Did you mean what you said about working nights?” asked Charles. In his mind he tried to estimate the feasibility of continuing the work on the mysterious blocking factor while they labored with Canceran. It would be possible, although they’d have to put in long hours and slow down considerably. But even if they were able to isolate a single protein in a single animal which functioned as a blocking agent, they’d have something. Even if only one mouse became immunized to its tumor, it would be spectacular. Charles was well aware that success with a single case was hardly a reason to generalize, but he felt that a single cure would provide the basis for convincing the institute to back his work.

“Look,” said Ellen. “I know how much this work of yours means to you, and I know you think you’re close to some sort of a conclusion. I don’t know whether it’s going to be positive or negative in the final analysis but that doesn’t matter. You need to know. And you will. You’re the most stubborn person I ever met.”

Charles examined Ellen’s face. What did she mean, stubborn? He didn’t know whether it was a compliment or an insult, and he had no idea how the conversation had switched to his personality. But Ellen’s expression was neutral, her unfathomable eyes unwavering.

Noticing Charles’s stare, Ellen smiled, then said: “Don’t look so surprised. If you’re willing to work nights, so am I. In fact, I can bring in some things to eat on the days we work evenings so we can have supper right here.”

“I’m not sure you realize how tough it will be,” said Charles. “We’d be practically living here.”

“The lab is bigger than my apartment,” said Ellen with a laugh, “and my cats take care of themselves.”

Charles turned his gaze back to his recently concocted flow diagram. But he wasn’t thinking about Canceran. He was wrestling with the advisability of working evenings with Ellen. “You understand that I have no idea whether I can get Morrison to pay you overtime?” he said.

“I don’t…” began Ellen, but she didn’t finish. The phone interrupted them.

“You answer it,” said Charles. “I don’t want to talk with anyone.”

Ellen slid off her stool and, leaning on Charles’s shoulder, reached across his desk for the receiver. Her hand rested on Charles as she said hello, but it was quickly removed. Abruptly she dumped the receiver in his lap and walked away. “It’s your wife.”

Charles fumbled for the phone as it slid between his legs, retrieving it by pulling on the coiled cord. Of all the times for Cathryn to be calling, he thought.

“What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“I want you to come over here to Dr. Wiley’s office,” said Cathryn in a stiffly controlled voice.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

“Cathryn, this hasn’t been a good morning for me. Give me an idea of what’s happening.”

“Charles, just come over here!”

“Cathryn, the roof has fallen in on top of me this morning. I can’t leave now.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” said Cathryn. Then she hung up.

“Fuck!” shouted Charles as he slammed down the receiver. He swung around in his chair and saw that Ellen had retreated behind her desk. “On top of everything, Cathryn wants me over at the pediatrician’s office but won’t tell me what it’s about. God! What else can happen today?”

“That’s what you get for marrying a typist.”

“What?” asked Charles. He’d heard but the comment seemed out of context.

“Cathryn doesn’t understand what we are doing. I don’t think she can comprehend the pressures you feel.”

Charles peered quizzically at Ellen, then shrugged. “You’re probably right. Obviously she thinks I can just drop everything and run over there. Maybe I should call Wiley and find out what’s going on.” Charles snapped the phone off the hook and started dialing, but midway he stopped. Slowly he replaced the receiver. The thought of Michelle planted a seed of concern under his irritation. Vividly he remembered the morning’s nosebleed. “I’d better run over there. It won’t take very long.”

“But what about our schedule?” asked Ellen.

“We’ll talk more when I get back. Meanwhile why don’t you prepare the dilution of Canceran for the mice. We’ll inject the first batch as soon as I return.” Charles went over to the metal locker near the door and pulled out his coat. “Have the mice brought up here to our own animal room. It will make it a lot easier.”

Ellen watched the door close behind Charles. No matter what she resolved outside of the lab, whenever she was face to face with him, it seemed that her feelings were hurt. Ellen knew it was absurd but she couldn’t protect herself. And now she felt such a mixture of disappointment and anger that she could have cried. She had allowed the idea of working together at night to excite her. But it was stupid, adolescent. She knew deep down that it would not lead to anything and ultimately cause her more heartache.

Thankful for something specific to do, Ellen forced herself over to the counter where the sterile bottles of Canceran had been left. It was a white powder, like confectioner’s sugar waiting for the introduction of sterile water. It wasn’t as stable in solution as it was in solid form so it had to be reconstituted before it was used. She got out the sterile water, then used the desktop computer to work out the optimum dilution.

As she was getting out the syringes, Dr. Morrison came into the lab.

“Dr. Martel isn’t here,” said Ellen.

“I know,” said Morrison. “I saw him leave the building. I wasn’t looking for him. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

Putting the syringe down, Ellen thrust her hands into her jacket pockets and came around the end of the counter to face the man. It was not usual for the head of the department of physiology to seek her out, especially behind Charles’s back. Yet with everything else that had happened that morning, she wasn’t all that surprised. Besides, Morrison’s face had such a Machiavellian look that such intrigue seemed appropriate.

Coming over to her, Morrison produced a slim, gold cigarette case, snapped the case open, and extended it toward Ellen. When she shook her head, Morrison withdrew a cigarette. “May I smoke in here?” he asked.

Ellen shrugged. Charles didn’t allow it but not because of danger. He just hated the smell. Ellen felt a stab of rebellious joy as she tacitly acquiesced.

Morrison produced a gold lighter that matched his cigarette case from his vest pocket and made an elaborate ritual out of lighting his cigarette. It was a staged gesture, designed to keep Ellen waiting.

“I suppose you know what has happened today concerning the Brighton case,” said Morrison at length.

“A little bit,” agreed Ellen.

“And you know that Charles has been selected to continue the Canceran study?”

Ellen nodded.

Morrison paused and blew smoke out in successive rings. “It’s extremely important for the institute that this study be concluded… successfully.”

“Dr. Martel has already started on it,” said Ellen.

“Good. Good,” said Morrison.

Another pause.

“I don’t know exactly how to put this,” said Morrison. “But I’m concerned about Charles messing up this experiment.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Ellen. “If there’s one thing you can count on with Charles, it is scientific integrity.”

“It’s not his intellectual capabilities that concern me,” said Morrison. “It’s his emotional stability. To be perfectly candid, he seems a bit impulsive. He’s hypercritical of everyone else’s work and seems to feel he has a corner on the scientific method.”