Charles swung around and looked up at Morrison, whose veins were standing out on the sides of his forehead like strands of spaghetti. The man was furious.

“I’ve had just about all I can tolerate,” he shouted through blanched lips. “I’m tired of your lack of respect. What makes you think you’re so important that you don’t have to follow normal protocol? I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am your department head. You’re supposed to go through me when you have questions about administration, not to the director.”

“Morrison, do me a favor,” said Charles, “get the hell out of my lab.”

Morrison’s small eyes became suffused with a pale crimson. Minute beads of perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he spoke: “All I can say is that if it weren’t for our current emergency, Charles, I’d see that you were thrown out of the Weinburger today. Lucky for you we can’t afford another scandal. But you’d better shine on this Canceran project if you have any intentions of staying on staff here.”

Without waiting for a response, Morrison stalked out of the lab. Charles was left with the low hum of the refrigerator compressors and the ticks of the automatic radioactivity counter. These were familiar sounds and they had a soothing effect on Charles. Maybe, he thought, the Canceran affair wouldn’t be too bad; maybe he could do the study quickly, provided the experimental protocol was decent; maybe Ellen was right and they could do both projects by working some nights.

Suddenly the phone began to ring. He debated answering, hearing it ring three times, then four. On the fifth ring he picked it up.

“Hello,” said the caller. “This is Mrs. Crane from the bursar’s office at Northeastern University.”

“Yes,” said Charles. It took him a moment to associate the school with Chuck.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Mrs. Crane. “But your son gave us the number. It seems that the $1650 semester tuition is way overdue.”

Charles toyed with a small tin of paper clips, wondering what to say. Not being able to pay bills was a new experience.

“Mr. Martel, are you there?”

“Dr. Martel,” said Charles, although as soon as he made the correction he felt foolish.

“Excuse me, Dr. Martel,” said Mrs. Crane, genuinely compunctious. “Can we expect the money in the near future?”

“Of course,” said Charles. “I’ll have a check on its way. I’m sorry for the oversight.”

Charles hung up. He knew that he’d have to get a loan immediately. He hoped to hell that Chuck was doing reasonably well and that he wouldn’t major in psychology. He picked up the phone again, but didn’t dial. He decided it would save time if he went directly to the bank; besides, he felt like he could use some fresh air and a little time away from the Morrisons and Ibanezes of the world.

Flipping the pages of an old issue of Time magazine, Cathryn wrestled with a resurgence of anxiety. At first Dr. Wiley’s waiting room had been a sanctuary from the horrors of the rest of the hospital, but as time passed uncertainty and foreboding began to reassert themselves. Glancing at her watch she saw that Michelle had been back in the examining area for over an hour. Something must be wrong!

She began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch repeatedly. To her discomfort there was no conversation in the room and almost no movement except for the hands of a woman who was knitting and the erratic gestures of two toddlers playing with blocks. All at once Cathryn realized what was bothering her. Everything was too flat, without emotion. It was like a two-dimensional picture of a three-dimensional scene.

She stood up, unable to sit still for another moment. “Excuse me,” she said walking over to the nurse. “My little girl, Michelle Martel. Do you have any idea how much longer she’ll be?”

“The doctor hasn’t told us,” said the nurse politely. She sat with her back painfully straight so that her substantial buttocks protruded out the back of her chair.

“She’s been in there for a long time,” said Cathryn, searching for some reassurance.

“Dr. Wiley is very complete. I’m sure she’ll be out shortly.”

“Does he frequently take over an hour?” asked Cathryn. She felt superstitiously ambivalent about asking any questions at all, as if the asking would influence the ultimate outcome.

“Certainly,” said the nurse receptionist. “He takes whatever time he needs. He never rushes. He’s that kind of a doctor.”

But why does he need all that time, wondered Cathryn as she returned to her seat. The image of Tad with his plastic cell kept returning to Cathryn’s troubled mind. It was a horrifying shock to realize that children do get serious illnesses. She had believed that it was a rare occurrence that happened to someone else’s child, a child one didn’t know. But Tad was a neighbor, her daughter’s friend. Cathryn shuddered.

Picking up yet another magazine, Cathryn glanced at the advertisements; there were smiling, happy people, shining floors, buying new cars. She tried to decide what to fix for dinner but never completed the thought. Why was Michelle taking so long? Two more mothers arrived with pink swathed parcels that were obviously babies. Then came another mother and child: a small boy about two with a huge violaceous rash that covered half his face.

The waiting room was now packed and Cathryn began to have trouble breathing. Getting up to make room for the second mother carrying her infant, Cathryn tried to avoid seeing the two-year-old with the horribly disfiguring rash. Her fears mounted. It had been over an hour and twenty minutes since she’d left Michelle. She realized she was trembling.

Once again she approached the nurse and self-consciously stood before her desk until the woman acknowledged her presence.

“Can I help you?” she said in a painfully courteous manner. Cathryn wanted to reach over and shake this woman whose starched whiteness inflamed Cathryn’s precarious emotions. She didn’t need politeness, she needed warmth and understanding, an ounce of sensitivity.

“Do you think it could be possible,” asked Cathryn, “to find out what’s taking so long?”

Before the receptionist could respond, the door to her left opened and Dr. Wiley leaned into the room. He searched the waiting area until his eyes found Cathryn. “Mrs. Martel, can I speak to you for a moment?” His voice was noncommittal and he turned back inside, leaving the door ajar.

Cathryn hurried after him, nervously touching the flowered combs in her hair to be sure they were in place, and closed the door behind her carefully. Wiley had retreated to his desk but had not sat down in the chair. Instead he was half-sitting on the front edge, his arms folded across his chest.

Exquisitely sensitive to every nuance, Cathryn scrutinized Dr. Wiley’s broad face. His forehead was deeply lined, something Cathryn hadn’t noticed on her first encounter. The man didn’t smile.

“We need your permission for a test,” said Dr. Wiley.

“Is everything all right?” asked Cathryn. She tried to sound normal but her voice was too high.

“Everything is under control,” said Dr. Wiley. Unfolding his arms, he reached out for a paper on his desk. “But we need to do a specific diagnostic test. I’m going to need your signature on this form.” He handed the paper to Cathryn. She took it, her hand quivering.

“Where is Michelle?” Cathryn’s eyes scanned the form. It was written in standard medicalese.

“She’s in one of the examining rooms. You can see her if you’d like although I’d rather go ahead with this test before you do. It’s called a bone marrow aspiration.”

“Bone marrow?” Cathryn’s head shot up. The words evoked the awesome image of Tad Schonhauser in his plastic tent.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” said Dr. Wiley, noticing Cathryn’s shocked response. “It’s a simple test, very similar to taking a sample of blood.”