“But I can’t leave my work,” said Charles, feeling a sense of desperation. “Not now. Things are going too well. What about my development of the process of the hybridoma? That should count for something.”
“Ah, the hybridoma,” said Morrison. “A wonderful piece of work. Who would have thought that a sensitized lymphocyte could be fused with a cancer cell to make a kind of cellular antibody factory. Brilliant! There are only two problems. One: it was many years ago; and two: you failed to publish the discovery! We should have been able to capitalize on it. Instead, another institution got the credit. I wouldn’t count on the hybridoma development to ensure your position with the board of directors.”
“I didn’t stop to publish the hybridoma process because it was just a single step in my experiment protocol. I’ve never been eager to rush into print.”
“We all know that. In fact, it’s probably the major reason you’re where you are and not a department head.”
“I don’t want to be a department head,” yelled Charles, beginning to lose his patience. “I want to do research, not push around papers and go to benefits.”
“I suppose that’s meant as a personal insult,” said Morrison.
“You can take it as you will,” said Charles, who had abandoned his efforts at controlling his anger. He stood up, approached Morrison’s desk, and pointed an accusing finger at the man. “I’ll tell you the biggest reason I can’t take over the Canceran project. I don’t believe in it!”
“What the hell does that mean?” Morrison’s patience had also worn thin.
“It means that cellular poisons like Canceran are not the ultimate answer to cancer. The presumption is that they kill cancer cells faster than normal cells so that after the malignancy is stopped the patient will still have enough normal cells to live. But that’s only an interim approach. A real cure for cancer can only come from a better understanding of the cellular processes of life, particularly the chemical communication between cells.”
Charles began to pace the room, nervously running his fingers through his hair. Morrison, by contrast, didn’t move. He just followed Charles’s gyrations with his eyes.
“I tell you,” shouted Charles, “the whole attack on cancer is coming from the wrong perspective. Cancer cannot be considered a disease like an infection because it encourages the misconception that there will be a magic bullet cure like an antibiotic.” Charles stopped pacing and leaned over the desk toward Morrison. His voice was quieter, but more impassioned. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Dr. Morrison. Cancer is not a disease in the traditional sense, but an unmasking of a more primitive life-form, like those that existed at the beginning of time when multicellular organisms were evolving. Think of it. At one time, eons ago, there were only single-celled creatures who selfishly ignored each other. But then, after a few million years, some of them teamed up because it was more efficient. They communicated chemically and this communication made multicellular organisms like us possible. Why does a liver cell only do what a liver cell does, or a heart cell, or a brain cell? The answer is chemical communication. But cancer cells are not responsive to this chemical communication. They have broken free, gone back to a more primitive stage, like those single-cell organisms that existed millions of years ago. Cancer is not a disease but rather a clue to the basic organization of life. And immunology is the study of this communication.”
Charles ended his monologue leaning forward on his hands over Morrison’s desk. There was an awkward silence. Morrison cleared his throat, pulled out his leather desk chair, and sat down.
“Very interesting,” he said. “Unfortunately, we are not in a metaphysical business. And I must remind you that the immunological aspect of cancer has been worked on for more than a decade and contributed very little to the prolongation of the cancer victim’s life.”
“That’s the point,” interrupted Charles. “Immunology will give a cure, not just palliation.”
“Please,” said Morrison softly. “I listened to you, now listen to me. There is very little money available for immunology at the present time. That’s a fact. The Canceran project carries a huge grant from both the National Cancer Institute as well as the American Cancer Society. The Weinburger needs that money.”
Charles tried to interrupt, but Morrison cut him off. Charles slumped back into a chair. He could feel the weight of the institute’s bureaucracy surround him like a giant octopus.
Morrison ritually removed his glasses and placed them on his blotter. “You are a superb scientist, Charles. We all know that, and that’s why we need you at this moment. But you’re also a maverick and in that sense more tolerated than appreciated. You have enemies here, perhaps motivated by jealousy, perhaps by your self-righteousness. I have defended you in the past. But there are those who would just as soon see you go. I’m telling you this for your own good. At the meeting last night I mentioned that you might refuse taking over the Canceran project. It was decided that if you did, your position here would be terminated. It will be easy enough to get someone to take your place on a project like this.”
Terminated! The word echoed painfully in Charles’s mind. He tried to collect his thoughts.
“Can I say something now?” asked Charles.
“Of course,” said Morrison, “tell me that you’re going to take over the Canceran project. That’s what I want to hear.”
“I’ve been very busy downstairs,” said Charles, ignoring Morrison’s last comment, “and I’m moving very rapidly. I have been purposefully secretive but I believe that I am truly close to understanding cancer and possibly a cure.”
Morrison studied Charles’s face, trying to garner a hint as to his sincerity. Was this a trick? A delusion of grandeur? Morrison looked at Charles’s bright blue eyes, his high lined forehead. He knew all about Charles’s past, his wife’s death, his sudden move from clinical medicine into research. He knew that Charles was a brilliant worker, but a loner. He suspected that Charles’s idea of “truly close” might well constitute ten years.
“A cure for cancer,” said Morrison, not bothering to smooth the sarcastic edge to his voice. He kept his eyes on Charles’s face. “Wouldn’t that be nice. We’d all be very proud. But… it will have to wait until the Canceran study is done. Lesley Pharmaceuticals, who holds the patent, is eager to get production rolling. Now, Dr. Martel, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. The matter is closed. The Canceran lab books are available, so get cracking. Good luck. If you have any problems let me know.”
Charles stumbled out of Morrison’s office in a daze, crushed at the prospect of being forced away from his own research at such a critical time. Aware of the quizzical stare from Morrison’s prim secretary, Charles half ran to the fire stairs, banging open the door. He descended slowly, his mind reeling. Never in his life had anyone ever threatened to fire him. Although he felt confident he could get a job, the idea of being cast adrift even for a short time was devastating, especially with all his ongoing financial obligations. When he had given up his private practice, Charles had given up his status as moderately well-to-do. On his research salary, they barely made it, especially with Chuck in college.
Reaching the first floor, Charles turned down the hall, toward his lab. He needed some time to think.