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Authors: Harry Stein
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think you’ll get anywhere around here without one?”
Logan shook his head. “Not me. I’m steering clear of that stuff. I want to stay on good terms with all of them.”
“Not possible. Trust me, they’re sizing us up, same as we are them. Every one of them’s looking to put together the best team.”
“Fine,” said Logan, exasperated. “Who do you want?”
His friend grinned. “Me? Markell—why not shoot for the top?”
They both laughed; they hadn’t so much as laid eyes on the august director of the ACF.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
They wheeled. There, to their intense discomfort, his motorcycle helmet under his arm, stood Gregory Stillman. How much had he heard? His small, hard smile gave away nothing.
“Hello, Dr. Stillman.”
“Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Logan and Reston, isn’t it—the Claremont twins?”
“Actually, sir,” said Dan, “we hardly knew each other there.”
“Don’t mind me, I play little tricks to remember names—something I picked up from a book on memory retention.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I try to make an effort to know each of the junior associates personally. Tell me, do you have some time right now?”
The two young doctors exchanged a quick glance. Logan knew full well that Shein would take it as a betrayal; he also suspected that this might be precisely what Stillman had in mind.
Reston quickly made the decision for him. “Sure, we were just going to grab a bite in the cafeteria.”
Ten minutes later they were in Stillman’s office, listening to the story of his own rapid rise within the ACF hierarchy. A mere fifteen years before, he blithely noted, he had been just a first-year fellow himself; today, “I’ve got eighteen people working for me.” He smiled. “Going on thirty. We’ve been fortunate lately in attracting quite a bit of funding to our work on breast cancer.”
Stillman’s brilliant career, as the younger men well knew, was built on his pioneering work in the molecular origins of the horrific disease. While most earlier researchers had focused on surgical attacks on breast malignancy, or new versions of chemotherapy, Stillman aimed to attack it at its root. In his studies, he investigated possible derangement in DNA molecules; which proteins seemed to be overproduced in breast tumors and which were absent; the chemical agents within cancer cells that enabled them to replicate themselves with such deadly efficiency.
“Would you like to hear what I’ll be working on next?” he asked. “This is going to be the next great breakthrough.”
His visitors’ faces lit up: this was like being invited to the unveiling of a Da Vinci masterpiece.
Stillman slowly rose to his feet. “Do you like opera?”
“I do,” said Logan, confused.
“Any particular favorite?”
“Mozart. Especially
The Marriage of Figaro
.”
Stillman chuckled with what seemed to be condescension. “Dr. Reston?”
He hesitated, then smiled. “Especially
Tommy
. By the Who.”
Stillman turned to Logan, unsmiling. “Evidently, Dr. Reston does not share our reverence for the past. Too bad. That’s where we’re going to find many of the answers to today’s problems.”
Stillman had taken a CD from the corner of the bookshelf and placed it in a nearby machine. “This is
Nerone
, by Boito. It’s probably more …
sophisticated
than what you’re used to, but I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
As the opening chords of the piece filled the room, he returned to his seat behind the desk. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a manila folder.
“This began over a year ago,” he said. “A patient came in and asked me to examine her tits.”
The word had been intended to shock, and he was pleased to note a reaction from Logan.
“That’s my job,” he explained evenly. “I’m one of the top tit men around this place.” Catching Reston’s grin, he grinned back. “By the way, I’m no prude, like Larsen. I like ’em when they’re healthy
Logan shook his head. “Not me. I’m steering clear of that stuff. I want to stay on good terms with all of them.”
“Not possible. Trust me, they’re sizing us up, same as we are them. Every one of them’s looking to put together the best team.”
“Fine,” said Logan, exasperated. “Who do you want?”
His friend grinned. “Me? Markell—why not shoot for the top?”
They both laughed; they hadn’t so much as laid eyes on the august director of the ACF.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
They wheeled. There, to their intense discomfort, his motorcycle helmet under his arm, stood Gregory Stillman. How much had he heard? His small, hard smile gave away nothing.
“Hello, Dr. Stillman.”
“Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Logan and Reston, isn’t it—the Claremont twins?”
“Actually, sir,” said Dan, “we hardly knew each other there.”
“Don’t mind me, I play little tricks to remember names—something I picked up from a book on memory retention.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I try to make an effort to know each of the junior associates personally. Tell me, do you have some time right now?”
The two young doctors exchanged a quick glance. Logan knew full well that Shein would take it as a betrayal; he also suspected that this might be precisely what Stillman had in mind.
Reston quickly made the decision for him. “Sure, we were just going to grab a bite in the cafeteria.”
Ten minutes later they were in Stillman’s office, listening to the story of his own rapid rise within the ACF hierarchy. A mere fifteen years before, he blithely noted, he had been just a first-year fellow himself; today, “I’ve got eighteen people working for me.” He smiled. “Going on thirty. We’ve been fortunate lately in attracting quite a bit of funding to our work on breast cancer.”
Stillman’s brilliant career, as the younger men well knew, was built on his pioneering work in the molecular origins of the horrific disease. While most earlier researchers had focused on surgical attacks on breast malignancy, or new versions of chemotherapy, Stillman aimed to attack it at its root. In his studies, he investigated possible derangement in DNA molecules; which proteins seemed to be overproduced in breast tumors and which were absent; the chemical agents within cancer cells that enabled them to replicate themselves with such deadly efficiency.
“Would you like to hear what I’ll be working on next?” he asked. “This is going to be the next great breakthrough.”
His visitors’ faces lit up: this was like being invited to the unveiling of a Da Vinci masterpiece.
Stillman slowly rose to his feet. “Do you like opera?”
“I do,” said Logan, confused.
“Any particular favorite?”
“Mozart. Especially
The Marriage of Figaro
.”
Stillman chuckled with what seemed to be condescension. “Dr. Reston?”
He hesitated, then smiled. “Especially
Tommy
. By the Who.”
Stillman turned to Logan, unsmiling. “Evidently, Dr. Reston does not share our reverence for the past. Too bad. That’s where we’re going to find many of the answers to today’s problems.”
Stillman had taken a CD from the corner of the bookshelf and placed it in a nearby machine. “This is
Nerone
, by Boito. It’s probably more …
sophisticated
than what you’re used to, but I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
As the opening chords of the piece filled the room, he returned to his seat behind the desk. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a manila folder.
“This began over a year ago,” he said. “A patient came in and asked me to examine her tits.”
The word had been intended to shock, and he was pleased to note a reaction from Logan.
“That’s my job,” he explained evenly. “I’m one of the top tit men around this place.” Catching Reston’s grin, he grinned back. “By the way, I’m no prude, like Larsen. I like ’em when they’re healthy
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