LIBBY, Mont. -- No one can say, "Nobody told me" anymore.

Libby's "dirty little secret," as some victims call it, was aired with fury, melancholy and fear Wednesday night before state and federal health and environmental officials in the town gymnasium, packed with almost 600 people, many of them carrying cylinders of oxygen to augment breath shortened by damaged lungs. The topic of the meeting was death. Death caused by the tremolite asbestos fibers in the vermiculite ore miners took from nearby Zonolite Mountain for decades. Death of parents and grandparents. The imminent death of many of the people sitting on the hard metal chairs and wooden bleachers. And -- in the most passionate speeches of a passionate night -- the death that many fear is awaiting the children of Libby.

A Post-Intelligencer investigation last month revealed that at least 192 people have died of asbestos-related disease from the mine near Libby, owned for 30 years by The W.R. Grace Co. At least another 375 have been diagnosed with fatal disease. The P-I articles also detailed how federal, state and local agencies had not stepped forward to help the people of Libby, either denying knowledge of the problem or pointing to other agencies for solutions.

Patrick Vinion told the crowd of his fears for his three children.

"In the local paper our health department says we only have 1 percent tremolite in our town. One percent of tremolite is not acceptable no matter what anybody says," he yelled, slamming his fist on the podium, the noise echoing through the gym like the blast of a concussion grenade.

"One percent of tons of tremolite and I guarantee it will kill your kids," he added in almost a whisper.

A woman in the bleachers, tightly hugging two young girls nestled beside her, closed her eyes and shook her head.

Vinion anguished over the misinformation doled out to the miners and the community over the years about the danger from the pinkish ore that was supporting most of the town.

"When my father was a young man they told him, 'You can't eat enough of that stuff. It won't bother you.' He's dead," he said.

"When I started getting sick when I was younger, they told me, 'You never worked there. It's not possible. You can't get it that way.' Well, it's more than possible. I'm dying of it."

Mark Simonich, the head of Montana's Department of Environmental Quality, admitted that "mistakes were made" by state agencies in the past. He urged the people to tell their stories, but to be polite.

They were, for the most part, but anger over what they saw as betrayal by Grace, by the government and by some of the town's physicians, was always close to the surface.

Terry Smith, who lost both of his parents to the asbestos, said he's concerned that people are getting the wrong diagnoses from their doctors.

Many of the people walking around town with oxygen bottles think they have emphysema, he said.

He talked about his father and uncle both being told that their breathing problems were from emphysema and that's what they were being treated for.

"When my father died, they figured out it was asbestosis," Smith said. "When my uncle died, they removed his lungs and they were filled with asbestos.

"See a specialist. Find out what's really happening to you," he implored.

Many in the audience nodded and cheered loudly in agreement.

The gathering was a fountain of emotion, with the fervor of a revival meeting and the reverential embrace of an Irish wake.

Roger Sullivan, whose law firm represents many of the people in the audience in their lawsuits against Grace, presented a detailed history of the mine, which in its heyday produced 80 percent of the world's vermiculite.

Using charts, maps and aerial photographs, he walked the investigators and the townsfolk through Grace's own figures showing how much asbestos was in the dust that escaped from the mine.

A litany of complex statistics and calculations, which might normally set a crowd dozing, had people sitting on the edges of their chairs.

He explained how the largest stack in the ore-processing mill was spewing 10,000 pounds of asbestos each day, and how the wind would disperse it over the town. He said the sparsely covered tailing pile, given a clean bill of health by state investigators, still contains 5 billion pounds of asbestos.

Many in the crowd gasped when he projected a huge blowup of a lethal tremolite fiber. Several people touched their chests. A couple hugged their spouses.

Gayla Benefield lost her parents and was one of the few loud voices telling any government official that she could buttonhole that the health of Libby had to be studied.

She read a news clipping from the local paper, which quoted Grace's manager for the mine cleanup, Alan Stringer, in glowing detail about the "incredible" job that the company did in restoring the mine to such a pristine condition that the Montana Mining Association gave Grace an award of excellence. The article talked of elk grazing in the lush grass and trees that Grace has planted.

"That's not what's up there," she said as she described the towering, mostly barren, tailing pile and the nearby pond, which the state admits are filled with asbestos dust.

"That's the dust which killed my dad. That's the dust that killed mom. I don't want it to harm my children or grandchildren," she said.

Stringer came from California to attend the meeting. He did not speak.

A day earlier, Grace Chairman and CEO Paul Norris flew into Helena with a bevy of lawyers and vice presidents to meet with the governor. They told state officials that they would participate in the Libby meeting. They didn't.

The presence of Grace officials in the state capitol did little to comfort Bonnie Gestring of the Montana Environmental Information Center. To the cheers of the crowd she called for an investigation of "why Libby fell through the cracks."

"I can't believe so many have died before something happens. I can't see how the laws could have been followed and people have been hurt so terribly," she said angrily.

Norita Skramstad and her husband, Les, who both are dying from asbestos-related disease, told the crowd:

"It is a death sentence. There is nothing you can do about it. Our biggest concern now must be the children of this town. We don't know if they have it and we must find out. This lies dormant and then springs its ugly head up and it's full-blown."

Montanans usually hold their emotions pretty close to their vests. Not here. Not at this meeting.

Grown men, many full-bearded, decked out in hunting caps and heavy flannel shirts, gruff-looking loggers, miners and truck drivers, wept without embarrassment.

One man, looking much older than his 60 years, pressed a plastic oxygen mask to his face. Tears streamed down both sides.

"It's true. It's true. I know it, but this is the first time I've heard other folk talk about it openly," he sobbed. His wife hugged him hard. "Let him be," she said. "He'll be all right."

George Bauer, a Libby city councilman, wasn't surprised by the tears.

"This is a close community that cares for each other and I think people were surprised at what they heard," said Bauer, who has held office for 24 years. "My eyes were opened. I had no idea of the damage that was done."

He wasn't alone.

Even the professionals, those who deal with health and environmental disasters, appeared shaken.

Across the gym, in the corner of the bleachers, sat Paul Peronard, EPA's on-scene coordinator, and his team of toxicologists, medical coordinator and public relations specialist.

The plight of the people, Peronard said, made him feel like "someone had ripped the lining of my stomach out."

"I can't tell you how bad I feel for these people. Everybody has failed them up to this point and I'm going to make sure that stops. We've got to do right by these people." He reflected on other cleanup sites to which his team has responded.

"We talk about possible risks, people who might get ill in the future or in very serious cases might die. Here in Libby, they've already died and many, many more are dying. We've never seen anything like this. I can understand why some of these people are terrified."

Libby's mayor, Tony Berget, said the meeting did little to lessen the anger in the town.

"There is still a split in the town. A lot of people think Grace was good for the community, treated us well and did nothing wrong," the mayor said. "Others are worried about real estate sales and Christmas buying."

Don Judge, the head of the Montana AFL-CIO, told the crowd he'd just returned from Seattle and the World Trade Organization meeting. He said he heard delegates from France say they wanted to ban the importation of asbestos products into their country, and heard Canadian representatives say they want to sell their asbestos everywhere.

"Do they know about, Libby, Montana? Do they know about the miners and spouses and children of Libby, Montana? Do they understand that they're transporting this white death all across the world?"

With embarrassment obvious in his tone, the union leader apologized for the AFL-CIO's lack of knowledge and assistance.

"We didn't understand what was happening," Judge said. "We knew that people had good jobs and good benefits and the community of Libby was thriving because of it. Only after the plant was shut down did we understand the extent of what had been foisted upon the workers in this community, their spouses and children."

Judge worried about what the children must think.

"They would be frightened to death that they were going to suffer like their grandparents, their uncles and their fathers. The government has the responsibility to those kids to make sure this town is clean. We're going to ride somebody's ass to make sure it's done.

"The children need to understand that they will be free to breathe the air, to drink the water, to even play on the streets of this community. They need to understand that so they can go back to being kids."