Robin Cook: Fever

“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.”