“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.”

Impulsive? The word hit a familiar chord in Ellen’s memory. As if it were yesterday she could remember the last evening she’d spent with Charles. They’d had dinner at the Harvest Restaurant, gone back to her apartment on Prescott Street, and made love. It had been a warm and tender night, but as usual Charles had not stayed over. He’d said he had to be home when the children woke up. The next day at work he had behaved as he always did, but they never went out again and Charles never offered a word of explanation. Then he’d married the temporary typist. It seemed like one day Ellen heard he’d been seeing this girl, and the next he was marrying her. Ellen agreed that impulsive was a good description of Charles; impulsive and stubborn.

“What do you want me to say?” said Ellen, struggling to bring her mind to the present.

“I guess I want you to reassure me,” said Morrison.

“Well,” said Ellen. “I agree that Charles is temperamental, but I don’t think it will influence his work. I think you can count on him to do the Canceran study.”

Morrison relaxed and smiled, his small teeth visible behind thin lips. “Thank you, Miss Sheldon. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Reaching into the sink, he ran water on his half-smoked cigarette and dropped it into the wastebasket. “One other thing. I was wondering if you would do me and the institute a big favor. I’d like you to report any abnormal behavior on Charles’s part in relation to the Canceran project. I know this is an awkward request, but the entire board of directors will be grateful for your cooperation.”

“All right,” said Ellen quickly, not sure how she really felt about it. At the same time she thought that Charles deserved it. She’d put forth a lot of effort for the man and he’d not appreciated it. “I’ll do it with the proviso that anything I say remains anonymous.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Morrison. “That goes without saying. And, of course, you will report to me directly.”

At the door, Morrison paused. “It’s been nice talking with you, Miss Sheldon. I’ve been meaning to do it for some time. If you need anything, my office is always open.”

“Thank you,” said Ellen.

“Maybe we could even have dinner sometime.”

“Maybe,” said Ellen.

She watched the door close. He was a strange-looking man but he was decisive and powerful.

Crossing the river by way of the Harvard Bridge, Charles struggled with a recalcitrant heater. He could not get the control arm to move to the heat position. As a consequence of his efforts, the Pinto swerved, to the dismay of neighboring motorists who responded by pressing their horns. In desperation, he hit the control with the heel of his hand only to be rewarded with the plastic arm snapping off and falling to the floor.

Resigning himself to the chill, Charles tried to concentrate on the road. As soon as he could, he turned right off Massachusetts Avenue and skirted the Back Bay Fens, a neglected and trash-littered park in the center of what once was an attractive residential neighborhood. He passed the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and then the Gardner Museum. As the traffic cleared, his mind wandered. To Charles it seemed emotionally cruel of Cathryn to leave him dangling, a victim of his own imagination. Could Michelle’s nosebleed have started again? No, that seemed too simple. Maybe they needed to do some test like an IVP and Cathryn didn’t want to give permission. No, there would be no reason why she wouldn’t explain that over the phone. It had to be some medical problem. Maybe appendicitis. Charles remembered the abdominal tenderness, the low-grade fever. Maybe it was a subacute appendicitis and they wanted to operate. And Charles knew how hospitals affected Cathryn. They made her crazy.