“Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess they’re not breaking any laws.”

“But they’re dumping the stuff directly in the river!” exclaimed Charles. “I know that’s against the law.”

The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charles’s outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.

Charles lowered his voice. “Can we go back to your office?”

Mrs. Amendola nodded.

Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. “Mrs. Amendola, I’m going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.”

Charles went on to tell about Michelle’s leukemia, Tad Schonhauser’s death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.

“My God!” she said when Charles paused.

“Do you have children?” asked Charles.

“Yes!” said Mrs. Amendola with true fear in her voice.

“Then maybe you can understand what this is doing to me,” said Charles. “And maybe you can understand why I want to do something about Recycle, Ltd. I’m sure a lot of kids live along the Pawtomack. But obviously I need some help.”

“You want me to try to get the EPA involved,” said Mrs. Amendola. A statement, not a question.

“Exactly,” said Charles, “or tell me how to do it.”

“It would be best if you made your complaint in writing. Address it to me!”

“That’s easy,” said Charles.

“What about some documented proof? Could you get that?”

“I already have the analysis of the pond water,” said Charles.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Amendola. “Something from the factory itself: a statement by a former employee, doctored records, photos of the actual dumping. Something like that.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Charles, thinking about the last suggestion. He had a Polaroid camera…

“If you could supply me with some kind of proof, I think I could get the Surveillance Branch to confirm it, then authorize a full-scale probe. So it’s up to you. Otherwise it will just have to wait its turn.”

As Charles left the JFK Federal Building he was again fighting a feeling of depression. He was much less confident now about convincing any authority to do anything about Recycle, Ltd. Consequently, the idea of taking matters into his own hands was an increasingly enjoyable fantasy.

The more he thought about Breur Chemicals, the angrier he became that a handful of dull businessmen sitting around in oak-paneled conference rooms in New Jersey could destroy his happiness and rob him of that which he loved the most. Approaching the Weinburger, Charles decided he’d call the absentee parent company and let them know how he felt about them.

Since the Brighton scandal hit the media, security had been tightened at the Weinburger, and Charles had to knock on the massive glass door before it slid open. He was greeted by Roy, the guard, who demanded to see his identification.

“It’s me, Roy,” said Charles, waving his hand in front of Roy’s face. “Dr. Martel.”

“Orders,” explained Roy, with his hand still outstretched.

“Administrative nonsense,” mumbled Charles as he searched for his ID. “What next?”

Roy shrugged, waited to see the card, which Charles stuck two inches away from his face, then ceremoniously stepped aside. Even the usually coy Miss Andrews turned away without honoring him with her usual come-over-and-talk-to-me smile.

Charles ditched his coat, called information for New Jersey, and dialed Breur Chemicals. As he waited he looked around the lab wondering if Ellen was still offended. He didn’t see her and decided she must be in the animal room. At that moment Breur Chemicals answered the phone.

Later Charles admitted to himself he should not have called. He’d already had enough bad experiences that morning to have guessed what it would have been like to try to call a giant corporation with what they would consider a bothersome complaint. Charles was switched over to a low-level man in the Public Relations department.

Rather than try to placate Charles, the man accused him of being one of those unpatriotic nuts whose stupid and unfounded environmental concerns were responsible for putting American industry in a poor competitive position with companies overseas. The conversation degenerated into a shouting match about dumping benzene with Charles saying they were and the man saying they were not.

He slammed the phone down and spun around in a fury, looking for a way to vent his anger.

The door to the corridor opened and Ellen entered.

“Have you noticed?” asked Ellen with irritating nonchalance.

“Noticed what?” snapped Charles.

“All the lab books,” said Ellen. “They’re gone.”

Charles leaped to his feet, scanning his desk, then the countertops.

“There’s no sense looking for them,” said Ellen. “They’re upstairs.”

“What the hell for?”

“After you left this morning, Dr. Morrison stopped in to check on our progress with Canceran. Instead he caught me working with the mice we’d given the mammary cancer antigen. Needless to say, he was shocked that we were doing our own work. I’m supposed to tell you to go to Dr. Ibanez’s office as soon as you appeared.”

“But why did they take the books?” asked Charles. Fear blunted the edge of his anger. As much as he hated administrative authority, he also feared it. It had been that way ever since college where he’d learned that an arbitrary decision from the Dean’s office could affect his whole life. And now the administration had invaded his world and arbitrarily taken his lab books which for Charles was like taking a hostage. The contents of the lab books were associated in his mind with helping Michelle, despite how far-fetched that was in reality.

“I think you’d better ask Dr. Morrison and Dr. Ibanez that question,” said Ellen. “Frankly, I knew it was going to come to something like this.”

Ellen sighed and tossed her head in an I-told-you-so fashion. Charles watched her, surprised at her attitude. It added to his feeling of isolation.

Leaving his lab, he wearily climbed up the fire stairs to the second floor and walked past the familiar row of secretaries and presented himself to Miss Veronica Evans for the second time in two days. Although she was obviously unoccupied, she took her sweet time looking up over her glasses at Charles.

“Yes?” she said as if Charles were a servant. Then she told him to wait on a small leather couch. Charles was certain that the delay was made to impress upon him that he was a pawn. Time dragged while Charles could not decide which was the stronger emotion: anger, fear, or panic. But the need to get back his lab books kept him in his place. He had no idea if they were technically his property or the institute’s.

The longer he sat, the less certain he became that the books detailing his recent work would be a strong bargaining point. He began to wonder if Ibanez might actually fire him. He tried to think what he could do if he had trouble getting another research position. He felt so out of touch with clinical medicine that he didn’t think he could do that. And if he got fired, he wondered with renewed panic if he’d still be covered by health insurance. That was a real concern because Michelle’s hospital bills were going to be astronomical.

There was a discreet buzz on the intercom panel, and Miss Evans turned to Charles imperiously and said: “The director will see you now.”

Dr. Carlos Ibanez stood up behind his antique desk as Charles entered. His figure was backlit from the windows, making his hair and goatee shine like polished silver.

Directly in front of the desk were Joshua Weinburger, Sr. and Joshua Weinburger, Jr., whom Charles had met at infrequent mandatory social functions. Although close to eighty, the senior seemed more animated than the junior, with lively blue eyes. He regarded Charles with great interest.