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.
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.”