Maintaining his composure, Charles tried to call the regional head of the EPA to lodge a formal complaint about the agency’s organization, but the man was in Washington at a meeting about new hazardous waste regulations.

Desperately trying to maintain confidence in the concept of representative government, he called the Governor of New Hampshire and the Governor of Massachusetts. In both cases the result was identical. He could not get past secretaries who persistently referred him to the State Water Pollution Control Boards. No matter what he said, including the fact that he’d already called these people, the secretaries were adamant, and he gave up. Instead he called the Democratic senator from Massachusetts.

At first the response from Washington sounded promising, but then he was switched from low-level aide to low-level aide until he found someone conversant on environment. Despite his very specific complaint, the aide insisted on keeping the conversation general. With what sounded like a prepared speech, the man gave Charles ten full minutes of propaganda about how much the senator cared about environmental issues. While waiting for a pause, Charles saw Peter Morrison walk into the lab. He hung up while the aide was in mid-sentence.

The two men eyed each other across the polished floor of Charles’s lab, their outward differences even more apparent than usual. Morrison seemed to have made particular effort with his appearance that day, whereas Charles had suffered from having slept in his clothes at the lab.

Morrison had entered with a victorious smile, but as Charles turned to face him, the administrator noticed that Charles, too, was cheerfully smiling. Morrison’s own grin faltered.

Charles felt as if he finally understood Dr. Morrison. He was a has-been researcher who’d turned to administration as a way of salvaging his ego. Beneath his polished exterior, he still recognized that the researcher was the king and, in that context, resented his dependence on Charles’s ability and commitment.

“You’re wanted immediately in the director’s office,” said Dr. Morrison. “Don’t bother to shave.”

Charles laughed out loud, knowing the last comment was supposed to be the ultimate insult.

“You’re impossible, Martel,” snapped Dr. Morrison as he left.

Charles tried to compose himself before setting out for Dr. Ibanez’s office. He knew exactly what was going to happen and yet dreaded the upcoming encounter. Going to the director’s office had become a daily ritual. As he passed the somber oil paintings of previous directors, he nodded to some of them. When he got to Miss Evans, he just smiled and walked past, ignoring her frantic commands to stop. Without knocking, Charles sauntered into Dr. Ibanez’s office.

Dr. Morrison straightened up from bending over Dr. Ibanez’s shoulder. They’d been examining some papers. Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles with confusion.

“Well?” said Charles aggressively.

Dr. Ibanez glanced at Morrison, who shrugged. Dr. Ibanez cleared his throat. It was obvious he would have preferred a moment for mental preparation.

“You look tired,” said Dr. Ibanez uneasily.

“Thank you for your concern,” said Charles cynically.

“Dr. Martel, I’m afraid you’ve given us no choice,” said Dr. Ibanez, organizing his thoughts.

“Oh?” questioned Charles as if he was unaware of what was being implied.

“Yes,” said Dr. Ibanez. “As I warned you yesterday and in accordance with the wishes of the board of directors, you’re being dismissed from the Weinburger Institute.”

Charles felt a mixture of anger and anxiety. That old nightmare of being turned out from his position had finally changed from fantasy to fact. Carefully hiding any sign of emotion, Charles nodded to indicate that he’d heard, then turned to leave.

“Just a minute, Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Ibanez, standing up behind his desk.

Charles turned.

“I haven’t finished yet,” said Dr. Ibanez.

Charles looked at the two men, debating whether he wanted to stay or not. They no longer had any hold over him.

“For your own good, Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez, “I think in the future you should recognize that you have certain legitimate obligations to the institution that supports you. You’ve been given almost free rein to pursue your scientific interests but, you must realize that you owe something in return.”

“Perhaps,” said Charles. He did not feel that Dr. Ibanez harbored the same ill will as Dr. Morrison.

“For instance,” said Dr. Ibanez, “it’s been brought to our attention that you have a complaint about Recycle, Ltd.”

Charles’s interest quickened.

“I think you should remember,” continued Dr. Ibanez, “that Recycle and the Weinburger share a parent firm, Breur Chemicals. Recognizing this sibling association, I would have hoped that you would not have made any public complaints. If there is a problem, it should be aired internally and quietly rectified. That’s how business works.”

“Recycle has been dumping benzene into the river that goes past my house,” snarled Charles. “And as a result, my daughter has terminal leukemia.”

“An accusation like that is unprovable and irresponsible,” said Dr. Morrison.

Charles took an impulsive step toward Morrison, momentarily blinded by sudden rage, but then he remembered where he was. Besides, it wasn’t his nature to hit anyone.

“Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All I’m doing is trying to appeal to your sense of responsibility, and implore you to put your own work aside just long enough to do the Canceran study.”

With obvious irritation that Charles might be offered a second chance, Dr. Morrison turned from the conversation and stared out over the Charles River.

“It’s impossible,” snapped Charles. “Given my daughter’s condition, I feel an obligation to continue my own work for her sake.”

Dr. Morrison turned back with a satisfied, I-told-you-so expression.

“Is that because you think you could come up with a discovery in time to help your daughter?” asked Dr. Ibanez incredulously.

“It’s possible,” agreed Charles.

Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison exchanged glances.

Dr. Morrison looked back out the window. He rested his case.

“That sounds a little like a delusion of grandeur,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Well, as I said, you leave me no choice. But as a gesture of good will, you’ll be given a generous two months’ severance pay, and I’ll see that your medical insurance is continued for thirty days. However, you’ll have to vacate your laboratory in two days. We’ve already contacted a replacement for you, and he’s as eager to take over the Canceran study as we are to have it done.”

Charles glowered at the two men. “Before I go, I’d like to say something: I think the fact that the drug firm and a cancer research institute are both controlled by the same parent company is a crime, especially since the executives of both companies sit on the board of the National Cancer Institute and award themselves grants. Canceran is a wonderful example of this financial incest. The drug is probably so toxic that it won’t ever be used on people unless the tests continue to be falsified. And I intend to make the facts public so that won’t be possible.”

“Enough!” shouted Dr. Ibanez. He pounded his desk, sending papers swooping into the air. “When it comes to the integrity of the Weinburger or the potential of Canceran, you’d better leave well enough alone. Now get out before I retract the benefits we have extended to you.”

Charles turned to go.

“I think you should try to get some psychiatric help,” suggested Morrison in a professional tone.

Charles couldn’t suppress his own adolescent urges, and he gave Morrison the finger before walking from the director’s office, glad to be free from the institute he now abhorred.

“My God!” exclaimed Dr. Ibanez as the door closed. “What is wrong with that man?”