“The tank that holds the benzene has a pipe that connects directly with the roof drain,” said Charles.

“That’s not very subtle,” said Mrs. Amendola.

“I think it’s about as blatant as you can get,” said Charles. “And on top of that they have a pool of chemicals up there that regularly seeps into the river.”

“Did you get some photos?” asked Mrs. Amendola.

“I tried to, but couldn’t,” said Charles. “I think your people might have more luck than I.” Charles couldn’t see any reason to get into a discussion with the EPA about the destruction of his camera. If it would have helped to get the EPA interested, he would have. As it was he was afraid it might discourage them altogether.

“I’ll make some calls,” said Mrs. Amendola. “But I can’t promise you anything. I’d have more luck if I had the written complaint you promised to send me and a couple of photos, even if they were lousy.”

Charles told her he’d get to it as soon as he could but he’d appreciate it if she’d go ahead and try to get some action based on the information he’d already given her. As he hung up he was not very confident that anything would be done.

Returning to the laboratory bench, he watched Ellen’s preparation. He didn’t interfere because Ellen was far more dexterous than he. Instead he busied himself with the dilution of Michelle’s leukemic antigen to prepare it for injection into the mice. Since the vial was sterile, Charles used sterile technique to withdraw an exact volume of the solution. This aliquot was then added to a specific amount of sterile saline to make the concentration he desired. The vial with the remaining antigen went into the refrigerator.

With the dilution completed, Charles gave it to Ellen and told her to continue what she was doing because he was going out to find a lawyer. He told her he’d be back before lunch.

After the door closed Ellen stood there for a full five minutes watching the second hand rotate around the face of the clock. When Charles didn’t return, she called the receptionist who confirmed that Charles had left the institute. Only then did she dial Dr. Morrison. As soon as he got on the line she told him that Charles was still working on his own research; in fact, expanding it, and still behaving peculiarly.

“That’s it,” said Dr. Morrison. “That is the last straw. No one can fault us for trying, but Charles Martel is finished at the Weinburger.”

Charles’s quest for legal representation was not as easy as he’d anticipated. Unreasonably equating skill and understanding with impressive quarters, he headed into downtown Boston, parking his car in the government center garage. The first impressive high-rise office building was I State Street. It had a fountain, wide expanses of polished marble, and lots of tinted glass. The directory listed numerous law firms. Charles picked the one closest to the top: Begelman, Canneletto, and O’Malley, hoping that the metaphorical implication of their high position would reflect itself in their performance. However, the only correlation turned out to be their estimated fee.

Apparently the firm did not expect street traffic and Charles was forced to wait on an uncomfortable Chippendale love seat which would have been as good for making love as a marble park bench. The lawyer who finally saw Charles was as junior a partner as possible. To Charles he looked about fifteen years old.

Initially the conversation went well. The young lawyer seemed genuinely surprised that a judge had granted temporary guardianship ex parte to a legal relative in place of a blood relative. However, the man was less sympathetic when he learned that Charles wanted to stop the treatment recommended by the specialists. He still would have been willing to help if Charles had not launched into impassioned accusations against Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury. When the lawyer began to question Charles’s priorities, they ended up in an argument. Then the man accused Charles of barratry, which particularly inflamed Charles because he did not know what it meant.

Charles left unrepresented, and instead of trying other firms in the building, he consulted the yellow pages in a nearby drugstore. Avoiding fancy addresses, Charles looked for lawyers who were out on their own. He marked a half dozen names and began calling, asking whoever answered if they were busy or if they needed work. If there was a hesitation, Charles hung up and tried the next. On the fifth try, the lawyer answered the phone himself. Charles liked that. In response to Charles’s question, the lawyer said he was starving. Charles said he’d be right over. He copied down the name and address: Wayne Thomas, 13 Brattle Street, Cambridge.

There was no fountain, no marble, no glass. In fact, 13 Brattle Street was a rear entrance, reached through a narrow, canyonlike alley. Beyond a metal door rose a flight of wooden steps. At the top were two doors. One was for a palm reader, the other for Wayne Thomas, Attorney-at-Law. Charles entered.

“Okay, man, sit right here and tell me what you got,” said Wayne Thomas, pulling over a straight-backed chair. As Wayne got out a yellow pad, Charles glanced around the room. There was one picture: Abe Lincoln. Otherwise the walls were freshly painted white plaster. There was a single window through which Charles could see a tiny piece of Harvard Square. The floor was hardwood, recently sanded and varnished. The room had a cool, utilitarian appearance.

“My wife and I decorated the office,” said Wayne, noticing Charles’s wandering eyes. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” said Charles. Wayne Thomas didn’t look as if he were starving. He was a solid six-foot black in his early thirties, with a full beard. Dressed in a three-piece, blue pin-striped suit, he was a commanding presence.

Handing over the temporary guardianship citation, Charles told his story. Except for jotting down some notes, Wayne listened intently and did not interrupt like the young fellow at Begelman, Canneletto, and O’Malley. When Charles got to the end of his tale, Wayne asked a series of probing questions. Finally he said, “I don’t think there’s much we can do about this temporary guardianship until the hearing. With a guardianship ad litim they’ve covered their tracks, but I’ll need the time to prepare the case anyway. As for Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury, I can start right away. However, there is the question about a retainer.”

“I’ve got a three-thousand-dollar loan coming,” said Charles.

Wayne whistled. “I’m not talking about that kind of bread. How about five hundred?”

Charles agreed to send the money as soon as he got the loan. He shook hands with Wayne and for the first time noticed the man wore a thin gold earring in his right ear.

Returning to the Weinburger, Charles felt a modicum of satisfaction. At least he’d started the legal process and even if Wayne wasn’t ultimately successful, he would at the very least cause Charles’s adversaries some inconvenience. Outside of the thick glass entrance door, Charles waited impatiently. Miss Andrews, who’d obviously seen him, chose to complete a line of type before releasing the door. As Charles passed her, she picked up the telephone. That wasn’t an auspicious sign.

The lab was empty. He called for Ellen and, receiving no answer, checked the animal room, but she wasn’t there. When he looked up at the clock he realized why. He’d been gone longer than he’d expected. Ellen was obviously out for lunch. He went over to her work area and noticed that the dilution he’d prepared of Michelle’s leukemic antigen had not been touched.

Returning to his desk, he again called Mrs. Amendola at the EPA to ask if she’d had any luck with the surveillance department. With thinly disguised impatience, she told him that his was not the only problem she was working on and that she’d call him, rather than vice versa.