“No,” said Charles quickly. “Absolutely not.” Even that was a half lie; although Elizabeth had lymphoma, she died in a terminal leukemic crisis. Charles felt cornered. He had to get away to think.

“What is it then?” demanded Michelle.

“I don’t know,” said Charles as he guiltily checked his watch. “That’s why you’re here. To find out. Cathryn is going to stay with you to keep you company. I’ve got to get to the lab. I’ll be back.”

Without any warning, Michelle abruptly retched. Her slender body heaved, and she threw up a small amount of her recently consumed breakfast. Cathryn tried to get out of the way but some of the vomit got on her left sleeve.

Charles responded instantly by stepping into the corridor and yelling for a nurse. An aide only two doors down came flying in, expecting a crisis, and was pleased to discover it was a false alarm.

“Don’t you worry, princess,” said the woman casually, pulling off the soiled top sheet. “We’ll have it cleaned up in a second.”

Charles put the back of his hand against Michelle’s forehead. It was moist and hot. Her fever was still there. Charles knew what caused the vomiting; it was the medicine. He felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. The small room was making him feel claustrophobic.

Michelle grabbed his hand and held it as if she’d slipped at the edge of an abyss and Charles was her only salvation. She looked into the blue eyes that were mirrors of her own. But she thought she saw firmness instead of acquiescence; irritation instead of understanding. She let go of the hand and fell back onto the pillow.

“I’ll be over later, Michelle,” said Charles, upset that the medicine was already causing potentially dangerous side effects. To the aide Charles said: “Does she have something ordered for nausea and vomiting?”

“Indeed she does,” said the nurse. “There is a standing order for Compazine PRN. I’ll get her some in a minute.”

“Is it a needle?” cried Michelle.

“No, it’s a pill,” said the aide. “Provided your tummy keeps it down. If not, then it will have to go in your rump.” She gave Michelle’s foot a playful squeeze.

“I’ll just walk Charles to the elevator, Michelle,” said Cathryn, seeing Charles start for the door. She caught up with him in the hall, grabbing his arm. “Charles, what is the matter with you?”

Charles didn’t stop.

“Charles!” cried Cathryn, yanking him around to face her. “What is it?”

“I’ve got to get out of here,” said Charles, nervously stroking his hair. “I can’t stand to see Michelle suffer. She looks terrible. I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure she should get any of that medicine.”

“No medicine?” cried Cathryn. Instantly she remembered that Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley were worried that Charles might interrupt Michelle’s treatment.

“Her vomiting,” said Charles angrily. “That’s only the beginning.” Charles started to say that he was sure Michelle was not going to go into remission, but he held his tongue. There would be time for more bad news for Cathryn and for the present he did not want to destroy the hope.

“But the medicine is her only chance,” pleaded Cathryn.

“I’ve got to go,” said Charles. “Call me if there is any change. I’ll be at the lab.”

Cathryn watched Charles rush down the crowded corridor. He didn’t even wait for the elevator. She saw him duck into the stairwell instead. When Dr. Wiley told her that they were going to rely on her strength, she had no idea what he’d meant. Now she was beginning to comprehend.

Charles turned into the institute parking lot, leaped out of the car, and pulled the jar of pond water from behind the seat. He ran across the tarmac and had to bang on the glass door before the receptionist opened it. Turning right instead of left in the main hallway, he ran down to the analysis lab. One of the technicians whom Charles respected was sitting on the countertop with his morning coffee.

“I want this water analyzed for contaminants,” said Charles, out of breath.

“Rush job?” quipped the technician, noting Charles’s excitement.

“Sorta,” said Charles. “I’m particularly interested in organic solvents. But whatever else you can tell me about the water would be helpful.”

The technician unscrewed the cap, took a whiff, and blinked. “Whew. I hope you don’t use this stuff with your scotch.”

Charles hurried back toward his own lab. His mind was pulsing with a confusion of thoughts which flashed in and out of his consciousness with bewildering rapidity.

He acknowledged that he had no way of rationally solving the dilemma he felt about Michelle’s treatment. Instead he decided to put his own research into high gear in the futile hope that he could accomplish something extraordinary in time for Michelle; and to try to have Recycle, Ltd. closed down. Revenge was a powerful emotion, and its presence dulled the anxiety about Michelle. By the time he reached the door to his lab, Charles found himself with clenched fists. But he hesitated, remembering his vow that morning to use his intelligence rather than his unreliable emotions. Composing himself, he calmly opened the door.

Ellen, who’d been busy reading the Canceran protocol at Charles’s desk, slowly put the book down. There was a studied deliberateness to her movements, which bothered Charles even in his distracted state.

“Did the entire batch of mice get the mammary cancer antigen?” he demanded.

“They did,” answered Ellen. “But…”

“Good,” interrupted Charles, going up to their small blackboard. He picked up a piece of chalk and after erasing what was already on the board, he began diagramming the method they would use to assay the T-lymphocyte responses in the injected mice in order to chart their immunological response. When he finished, the small board was filled with an elaborate progression of steps. “Also,” said Charles, putting down the chalk, “we’re going to try something different. It’s not meant to be scientific. Its purpose is to provide a kind of rapid survey. I want to make a large number of dilutions of the cancer antigen and begin a single mouse with each dilution. I know it will have no statistical significance. It’s a shotgun survey, but it might be helpful. Now, while you check yesterday’s mice and inject them with a second challenge of the cancer antigen, I’m going to make some calls.” Charles wiped the chalk dust on his trousers, reaching for the phone.

“Can I say something now?” queried Ellen, cocking her head to the side with an I-told-you-so expression.

“Of course,” said Charles, holding the receiver.

“I checked the mice who got the first dose of Canceran.” She paused.

“Yeah?” said Charles, wondering what was coming.

“Almost all of them died last night.”

Charles’s face clouded with disbelief. “What happened?” He put down the receiver.

“I don’t know,” admitted Ellen. “There’s no explanation except for the Canceran.”

“Did you check the dilution?”

“I did,” said Ellen. “It was very accurate.”

“Any sign that they died from an infectious agent?”

“No,” said Ellen. “I had the vet take a look. He hasn’t autopsied any but he thinks they died of cardiac insult.”

“Drug toxicity!” said Charles, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where’s the original Canceran protocol?” asked Charles with mounting concern.

“Right there on your desk. I was glancing through it when you came in.”

Charles picked up the volume and flipped through the toxicity section. Then he reached for the preliminary protocol they’d made up the day before. He scanned the figures. When he finished, he tossed the new protocol and the original onto his desk.

“That fucking bastard,” snarled Charles.

“It has to be the explanation,” agreed Ellen.

“Brighton must have falsified the toxicity data, too. Holy shit, that means the whole Canceran study that Brighton has spent two years on is no good. Canceran must be much more toxic than Brighton reported. What a joke! Do you know how much the National Cancer Institute has paid so far for testing this drug?”