“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?”
“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.