Michael Palmer - Extreme Measures

Her response had been a predictable negative.

His size-thirteen sneakers propped on his desk, Dave Subarsky was sipping coffee as he pecked with one finger at his computer keyboard.

"Greetings, Doctor," Eric said. "I've been sent here by the Nobel Prize Committee to check on what you're up to."

"I've been expecting you," Subarsky said, hitting the return key.

"Convey my thanks to your committee, and tell them that I and my trusty IBM are on the verge of proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that someone with no income, eighteen hundred dollars in monthly expenses, and three thousand dollars in the bank, cannot stay out of the poorhouse for more than two months."

"That bad, huh?"

"It's starting to look that way."

"Something will Turn up."

"Maybe. But it ain't gonna be a grant from the Sackett Foundation."

"You heard?"

"Uh-huh. This morning. The cupboard is bare. I tried telling them that a mind was a terrible thing to waste, but they didn't buy it.

They said my work was too theoretical."

"They're nuts. That stuff you've been doing with.progressive DNA mutation has tremendous clinical potential.

"Maybe," Dave said, his voice drifting off. "Maybe SO.

"You'll find a way."

Subarsky flipped off his computer.

"That I will, my friend," he said. "So, today's the big day, yes?"

Eric shrugged.

"I think so."

"I thought the committee was meeting this afternoon."

"As far as I know, they are, but… David, there's something I want to tell you about, but it's got to stay between us."

"No problem."

Eric hesitated, then recounted the eerie call.

"Does any of that mean anything to you?" he asked.

"Aside from suggesting that there's someone running around White Memorial with a screw loose?"

"David, I tell you, the guy who called may be crazy, but he-or she; I really couldn't tell-sounded like he knew exactly what he was doing. Any thoughts at all?"

Subarsky drummed his fingers on his ample gut.

"Only one. That stunt we pulled with the laser hardly went unnoticed."

"Tell me about it. Joe Silver was thinking about reporting us to the Human Experimentation Committee."

"Why didn't he?"

"Well, for one thing, we saved the guy's life,"

"Minor detail."

"And for another, I convinced my esteemed boss that the only danger of the 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."

The 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 attire had 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."

"um… exactly how many of us candidates are there?"

"Oh, just two. Dr. Marshall's already there."

"What?"

"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 shared many 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 hospital.

Initially, Eric had been put off by Marshall's patrician roots and Harvard education, and by an aloofness that Eric interpreted as snobbishness. But one night, as they sat sipping coffee after working side by side on the casualties of a multivehicle catastrophe, Reed confessed that he was envious of Eric's coolness under fire.

"That's crazy," Eric had replied. "You're the iceman Everyone in the E.

R. knows it."

"What I am," Reed said, with deadly seriousness, "is scared to death of freezing up or of doing the wrong thing, and even more terrified of having anyone know how I'm feeling. In fact, I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"Hey, don't worry. Nothing you say win ever leave this room.

You're just exhausted right now, that's all.

Believe me. I'm frightened at crunch time too. How could anyone who's human not be?"

"I didn't say frightened; I said terrified. I want to laugh when someone says I'm as good at this as you are."

"Listen, Reed," Eric had said, "this isn't a contest.

We didn't select ourselves for this residency-all those professors did.

Our job is just to do our best. And believe me, your best is damn good."

Beginning with that night, a mutual respect, almost a tacit friendship had grown between them.

And over the years that followed, not once had either of them mentioned the exchange again. As far as Eric knew, Reed had come to grips with his dragons. Eric believed that in terms of knowledge, dedication, and rapid response to life-threatening emergencies, he held a definite edge on Marshall. But there were other intangibles-Marshall's dry wit, poise, and eclectic intellect-that made any choice between the two of them difficult.