Fever by Robin Cook Read Free Book Online Page A

his narrow tortoiseshell glasses. His face was taut, angry.
    â€œI’ll be by in ten or fifteen minutes,” said Charles. “I just have a few more important things to do.”
    Morrison considered Charles’s statement for a moment. “I’ll be waiting in my office.” The door closed slowly behind him.
    â€œYou shouldn’t bait him,” said Ellen, after Morrison had left. “All it can do is cause trouble.”
    â€œIt’s good for him,” said Charles. “It gives him something to think about. For the life of me, I don’t know what else he does in that office of his.”
    â€œSomeone has to attend to the administration,” said Ellen.
    â€œThe irony is that he once was a decent researcher,” said Charles. “Now his entire life is dominated by his ambition to become director, and all he does is push papers, have meetings, go to lunch, and attend benefits.”
    â€œThose benefits raise money.”
    â€œI suppose,” said Charles. “But you don’t need a Ph.D. in physiology to do that. I just think it is a waste. If the peopledonating money at those fund-raisers ever found out how little of it actually gets applied to research, they’d be appalled.”
    â€œI agree with you there,” Ellen replied. “But why don’t you let me finish loading these samples. You go see Morrison and get it over with because I am going to need you to help draw blood from the rats.”
    Ten minutes later Charles found himself climbing the metal fire stairs to the second floor. He had no idea why Morrison wanted to see him, although he guessed it was going to be another pep talk, trying to get him to publish a paper for some upcoming meeting. Charles had very different ideas from his colleagues about publication. It had never been his inclination to rush into print. Although research careers often were measured by the number of articles a doctor published, Charles’s dogged dedication and brilliance had won him a greater respect from his colleagues, many of whom often said that it was men like Charles who made the great scientific discoveries. It was only the administration who complained.
    Dr. Morrison’s office was in the administrative area on the second floor where the halls were painted a pleasant beige and hung with somber oil paintings of past directors clothed in academic robes. The atmosphere was a world apart from the utilitarian labs on the ground and first floors and gave the impression of a successful law office rather than a nonprofit medical organization. Its opulence never failed to irritate Charles; he knew that the money had come from people believing they were contributing to research.
    In this frame of mind, Charles made his way to Morrison’s office. Charles was about to enter when he noticed that all the secretaries in the administration area were watching him. There was that same feeling of suppressed excitement that Charles had sensed when he arrived that morning. It was as if everyone were waiting for something to happen.
    As Charles went inside, Morrison stood up from his broad mahogany desk and stepped around into the room with his hand outstretched. His earlier irritated demeanor had vanished. By habit Charles shook the hand but was baffled by thegesture. He had nothing in common with this man. Morrison was dressed in a freshly pressed pin-striped suit, starched white shirt, and silk tie; his hand-sewn loafers were professionally shined. Charles was wearing his usual blue oxford shirt, open at the collar, with his tie loosened and tucked between the second and third buttons; his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. His trousers were baggy khakis and his shoes, scuffed cordovans.
    â€œWelcome,” said Morrison as if he hadn’t already seen Charles that morning. With a sweep of his hand he motioned for Charles to sit on the leather couch in the rear of the office, which afforded a view out over