Fever by Robin Cook Page B

am your department head. You’re supposed to go through mewhen you have questions about administration, not to the director.”
    â€œMorrison, do me a favor,” said Charles, “get the hell out of my lab.”
    Morrison’s small eyes became suffused with a pale crimson. Minute beads of perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he spoke: “All I can say is that if it weren’t for our current emergency, Charles, I’d see that you were thrown out of the Weinburger today. Lucky for you we can’t afford another scandal. But you’d better shine on this Canceran project if you have any intentions of staying on staff here.”
    Without waiting for a response, Morrison stalked out of the lab. Charles was left with the low hum of the refrigerator compressors and the ticks of the automatic radioactivity counter. These were familiar sounds and they had a soothing effect on Charles. Maybe, he thought, the Canceran affair wouldn’t be too bad; maybe he could do the study quickly, provided the experimental protocol was decent; maybe Ellen was right and they could do both projects by working some nights.
    Suddenly the phone began to ring. He debated answering, hearing it ring three times, then four. On the fifth ring he picked it up.
    â€œHello,” said the caller. “This is Mrs. Crane from the bursar’s office at Northeastern University.”
    â€œYes,” said Charles. It took him a moment to associate the school with Chuck.
    â€œSorry to bother you,” said Mrs. Crane. “But your son gave us the number. It seems that the $1650 semester tuition is way overdue.”
    Charles toyed with a small tin of paper clips, wondering what to say. Not being able to pay bills was a new experience.
    â€œMr. Martel, are you there?”
    â€œDr. Martel,” said Charles, although as soon as he made the correction he felt foolish.
    â€œExcuse me, Dr. Martel,” said Mrs. Crane, genuinely compunctious. “Can we expect the money in the near future?”
    â€œOf course,” said Charles. “I’ll have a check on its way. I’m sorry for the oversight.”
    Charles hung up. He knew that he’d have to get a loan immediately. He hoped to hell that Chuck was doing reasonably well and that he wouldn’t major in psychology. He picked up the phone again, but didn’t dial. He decided it would save time if he went directly to the bank; besides, he felt like he could use some fresh air and a little time away from the Morrisons and Ibanezes of the world.

FOUR
    F lipping the pages of an old issue of Time magazine, Cathryn wrestled with a resurgence of anxiety. At first Dr. Wiley’s waiting room had been a sanctuary from the horrors of the rest of the hospital, but as time passed uncertainty and foreboding began to reassert themselves. Glancing at her watch she saw that Michelle had been back in the examining area for over an hour. Something must be wrong!
    She began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch repeatedly. To her discomfort there was no conversation in the room and almost no movement except for the hands of a woman who was knitting and the erratic gestures of two toddlers playing with blocks. All at once Cathryn realized what was bothering her. Everything was too flat, without emotion. It was like a two-dimensional picture of a three-dimensional scene.
    She stood up, unable to sit still for another moment. “Excuse me,” she said walking over to the nurse. “My little girl, Michelle Martel. Do you have any idea how much longer she’ll be?”
    â€œThe doctor hasn’t told us,” said the nurse politely. She satwith her back painfully straight so that her substantial buttocks protruded out the back of her chair.
    â€œShe’s been in there for a long time,” said Cathryn, searching for some reassurance.
    â€œDr. Wiley is very complete. I’m sure she’ll be out