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procedure was that it might not work, and that my hand was poised with a cardiac needle, ready to drive it home, if that was the case. He made it clear, though, that if we ever felt the urge to try out our toy again, we had better have an okay from the committee and a release from the patient.”
    “As if that dude was capable of signing a release.”
    “What’s the point you’re driving at?” Eric asked.
    “The point is that the whole goddam hospital knows what we did. This Caduceus may see you as someone who might be willing to bend the rules a bit in the interest of getting some stuff done around here; something that hasn’t been approved by the H.E. Committee. Isn’t that what it sounded like?”
    “Sort of. But that damn electrolarynx sure gave the whole thing a sinister cast.”
    “Regardless, we should know whether or not the guy is for real in a few hours.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well,” he said, “if Marshall gets that job in the E.R., I think you can safely say that Caduceus is a bag of shit.”
    “What if I get it?”
    Subarsky lowered his skateboard-sized feet to the floor.
    “In that case, my friend,” he said, “I guess you won’t really know.”

T he administrative wing of White Memorial, located on the ground floor of the Drexel Building, was designed to impress. Crystal chandeliers overhung Oriental carpeting, and cracked, ornately framed oil portraits lined the walls. Guarding the entry to the corridor, a busty, broad-shouldered receptionist coolly appraised Eric from behind a Louis XIV desk.
    “I’m Dr. Najarian,” he said. “I’m here for a committee meeting.”
    After spending several hours with Subarsky, he had returned to his apartment and changed—first into the dark suit he had last worn at his med school graduation, and which he ultimately decided was woefully outdated; next into brown slacks and a tweed sport coat that turned out to have a two-inch tear along one shoulder seam; and finally into gray trousers and his navy-blue blazer. It was fortunate, he acknowledged, that he wasn’t any
more
nervous about the meeting, because the search for the right attirehad spanned his entire wardrobe. Still, the receptionist seemed to approve of the result.
    “Dr. Teagarden’s committee?” she asked, smiling and pushing her shoulders back just a bit.
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, they’re just getting started. She asked me to have you candidates wait down there in the sitting room.”
    “Urn … exactly how many of
us candidates
are there?”
    “Oh, just two. Dr. Marshall’s already there.”
    “Good.”
    “He’s been here for half an hour.”
    “Bad.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Nothing. Listen, thanks. Thanks a lot.”
    “No problem. If you need anything, my name’s Susan.”
    Eric thanked her again and headed down the corridor.
    “Anything at all,” he heard her say.
    “So,” Eric said as he entered the plush sitting area,
“you’re
the other candidate the receptionist was talking about. What a surprise.”
    “Just a second,” Marshall said, engrossed in a book, which Eric managed to see was something by John Updike. “I just want to finish this page. Updike’s some talent, don’t you think?”
    “I haven’t read him.” In fact, Eric reflected somewhat wistfully, he hadn’t read anything outside of medicine in longer than he could remember.
    “Well, then,” Marshall said with genuine enthusiasm, “you’ve got a real treat in store.”
    With his tortoiseshell glasses and aquiline features, Reed Marshall resembled Clark Kent, and in fact was called that in some quarters of the E.R. Eric settled into a high-backed oxblood leather chair and watched as Marshall finished. The two of them had known each other since internship, and had sharedmany of the victories and much of the heartache that went with becoming a physician. Two years older than Eric, Reed had a wife, a son, a circle of successful friends, and virtually universal respect around the