“No, but I can guess.”

“Millions and millions!” Charles slapped his forehead.

“What are we going to do?”

“We? What are they going to do! The whole project has to be started over, which means an additional three years!”

Charles could feel his vow to maintain an impassioned distance dissolve. To finish the efficacy study was one thing, but starting the whole Canceran project from scratch was something else. He would not do it, especially since now with Michelle ill he had to increase the pace of his own work.

“I have a feeling they’ll still want us to do Canceran,” said Ellen.

“Well I don’t give a damn,” snapped Charles. “We’re finished with Canceran. If Morrison and Ibanez give us trouble, we’ll slap them in the face with the proof that the toxicity study isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. We’ll threaten to tell the press. With that kind of scandal, I think even the National Cancer Institute might question where it’s putting its money.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Ellen. “I think we should…”

“That’s enough, Ellen!” yelled Charles. “I want you to start testing for antibodies in our first batch of mice, then reinject them. I’ll handle the administration in respect to Canceran.”

Ellen angrily turned her back. As usual, Charles had gone too far. She began her work, making as much noise with the glassware and instruments as she could.

The phone rang under Charles’s arm. He picked it up on the first ring. It was the technician down in analysis.

“You want a preliminary report?” asked the chemist.

“Please,” snapped Charles.

“The major contaminant is benzene and it’s loaded with it. But also there’s lesser amounts of toluene, as well as some trichloroethylene and carbon tetrachloride. Vile stuff! You could practically clean your oil-base paintbrushes in it. I’ll have a full report later this afternoon.”

Charles thanked the man and hung up. The report was no surprise, but he was glad to have the documented proof. Involuntarily the image of Michelle appeared before him, and he forcibly blurred it by grabbing the Boston phone directory off the shelf over his desk. He hurried to the section for the Federal Government, finding a series of numbers for the Environmental Protection Agency. He dialed the general information number. A recording answered saying that the EPA was open from nine to five. It was not yet nine.

Charles then flipped to the section for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He wanted to find the incidence of leukemia and lymphoma along the course of the Pawtomack River. But there was no listing for a Tumor or Cancer Registry. Instead his eye caught the words “Vital Statistics.” He called that number but got the identical recording he’d gotten calling the EPA. Checking the time, Charles realized that he had about twenty minutes before the bureaucratic offices would be open.

He went over to Ellen and began helping her set up to analyze whether any of the mice they’d injected with the mammary cancer antigen showed any signs of increased immunological activity. Ellen was obviously not speaking. Charles could tell she was angry and felt that she was taking advantage of their familiarity.

While he worked Charles allowed himself to fantasize about his latest research approach. What if the mice injected with the mammary cancer antigen responded to the antigen rapidly and the acquired sensitivity could be easily transferred to the cancerous mice via the transfer factor? Then the cancerous mice would cure themselves of that particular strain. It was beautifully simple… maybe too simple, thought Charles. If only it would work. If only he could speed up the whole process for Michelle…

The next time Charles looked up, it was well after nine. Leaving Ellen in her sullen mood, Charles went back to his desk and called the EPA General Information number. This time it was answered by a woman with a bored Boston accent.

Charles introduced himself and said he wanted to report serious dumping of poisonous material into a river.

The woman was not impressed. She put Charles on hold.

Another woman picked up, who sounded so similar to the first that Charles was surprised when she asked him to repeat his request.

“You’ve got the wrong extension,” said the woman. “This is the Water Programs Division and we don’t handle dumping. You want the Toxic Chemicals Program. Just a minute.”

Charles was again put on hold. There was a click followed by a dial tone. Charles dropped the receiver and grabbed the phone directory. Checking under the EPA he found the listing for Toxic Chemical Program and dialed it.

An identical voice answered. Charles wondered if they cloned people at the EPA. Charles repeated his request but was told that the Toxic Chemical Program had nothing to do with infractions and that he should call the number for Oil and Hazardous Material Spills. She gave it to him and hung up before he could reply.

He redialed, punching the numbers so hard that the tip of his middle finger tingled in protest.

Another woman! Charles repeated his request without trying to hide his annoyance.

“When did the spill take place?” asked the woman.

“This is continuous dumping, not a one-time accident.”

“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “We only handle spills.”

“Can I speak to your supervisor?” growled Charles.

“Just a minute,” sighed the woman.

Charles waited impatiently, rubbing his face with his hands. He was perspiring.

“Can I help you?” asked still another woman coming on the line.

“I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m calling to report that there is a factory regularly dumping benzene which is a poison.”

“Well, we don’t handle that,” interrupted the woman. “You’ll have to call the proper state agency.”

“What?” yelled Charles. “What the hell does the EPA do then?”

“We are a regulatory agency,” said the woman calmly, “tasked to regulate the environment.”

“I would think that dumping a poison into a river would be something that would concern you.”

“It very well could be,” agreed the woman, “but only after the state had looked into it. Do you want the number for the proper state agency?”

“Give it to me,” said Charles wearily. As he hung up he caught Ellen staring at him. He glared and she went back to work.

Charles waited for the dial tone, then dialed again.

“Okay,” said the woman after hearing his problem. “What river are you talking about?”

“The Pawtomack,” said Charles. “My God, am I finally talking to the right people?”

“Yes, you are,” reassured the woman. “And where is the factory you think is dumping?”

“The factory is in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.

“Shaftesbury?” questioned the woman. “That’s in New Hampshire, isn’t it?”

“That’s right but…”

“Well, we don’t handle New Hampshire.”

“But the river is mostly in Massachusetts.”

“That might be,” said the woman, “but the origin is in New Hampshire. You’ll have to talk to them.”

“Give me strength,” muttered Charles.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have their number?”

“No. You’ll have to get it through Information.”

The line went dead.

Charles called New Hampshire information and obtained the number to State Services. There was no listing for Water Pollution Control, but after calling the main number, Charles got the extension he wanted. Thinking that he was beginning to sound like a recording, he repeated his request once again.

“Do you want to report this anonymously?” asked the woman.

Surprised by the question, Charles took a moment to respond. “No. I’m Dr. Charles Martel, R.D. #1, Shaftesbury.”

“All right,” said the woman slowly, as if she were writing the material down. “Where does the alleged dumping occur?”

“In Shaftesbury. A company called Recycle, Ltd. They’re discarding benzene in the Pawtomack.”