Robin Cook - Shock

Almost simultaneous with the group taking seats, the closed office door opened and banged against its stop. Paul Saunders's short frame filled the doorway, but his attention was directed back into Spencer's office. His face was flushed and his hands were balled into tight fists.

"I can't sit in here the entire day and argue about all this," Paul spat. "I've got patients to see and work to do even if you don't."

Spencer's form materialized behind Paul and crowded him out of the doorway, forcing him to take a step back into the anteroom. Spencer was almost a foot taller and his tanned skin made Paul look paler than usual. His eyes blazed with an intensity equivalent with Paul's. "I'll excuse that kind of impertinence as a product of the heat of the moment," he snapped.

"That's very big of you considering it's true."

"I have a fiduciary responsibility to this clinic and its stockholders," Spencer hissed. "And I want you to understand that I intend to carry out that duty. The Wingate is primarily a clinical organization, and we've been that way from day one. Our research is to support our clinical efforts and not vice versa."

"That's a Luddite attitude if I've ever heard one," Paul shot back. "Research is an investment in the future: short-term sacrifice for long-term benefit. We're positioned to be at the cutting edge of stem-cell research which has the potential of being the basis of twenty-first-century medicine, but we have to be willing to forfeit some profit and take some risks in the short run."

"We'll revisit this discussion when you have more time," Spencer stated flatly. "See me after your last patient!" Abruptly he stepped back into his office, grabbed the edge of his door, and slammed it shut with a resounding bang.

Paul took another step backward as if blown by wind from the slamming door. Furious at being dismissed when it had been his intent to walk out, he spun around. He took a single step toward his office when his eyes caught sight of the unexpected audience. Like the turret on a battleship, his head pivoted in a staccato fashion as his gun-barrel eyes took in each individual in turn. They stopped on Deborah. His expression softened.

"Ms. Masterson has some recruits for you to interview," the secretary announced.

"So I see," Paul said. His tightly fisted hands relaxed, and he gestured toward his open door as his eyes took in Deborah's high-heeled shoes, short skirt, and plunging neckline. "Come in, come in!" he said. "Gladys, did you offer our guests something to drink?"

"It didn't occur to me," Gladys admitted. She furrowed her brow.

"We'll have to rectify that," Paul said. "How about some coffee or a soft drink?"

"Not for me, thank you," Deborah said, struggling to get to her feet. It was an effort in the high heels since the couch was inordinately deep. Paul responded by bounding around Gladys's desk to offer a hand, but Deborah made it upright without assistance. She pulled her miniskirt down, which had the effect of lowering her already low neckline.

Paul glanced at Joanna.

"Nothing for me either," Joanna said. She felt like the poor relation when Paul immediately switched his attention back to Deborah and then made a point of graciously guiding her into his office. Joanna and Helen followed.

Paul added a third chair to the two facing his desk and gestured for everyone to sit. He went around behind his desk and sat himself. Helen proceeded to introduce the two women with their aliases and mentioned their respective Harvard undergraduate degrees along with which departments they hoped to work for.

"Excellent," Paul said with a broad smile, revealing his small, square, widely spaced front teeth, which were in concert with his wide, squat nose. "Bloody excellent, as they say in Merry Old England." He laughed. Without taking his eyes off Deborah he added: "It appears, Miss Masterson, you've found us several more fine prospective employees. You're to be congratulated."

"So we should continue with the employment process?" Helen questioned.

"Certainly. By all means."

"They have expressed an interest in starting as early as tomorrow," Helen said.

"That's even better," Paul said. "Their zeal should be rewarded since we're in dire need of help, particularly in the lab. You'll be very welcome, Miss Marks!"

"Thank you," Deborah said, mildly self-conscious about the attention she was getting at the expense of Joanna. "I'm looking forward to using some of that superb equipment you have." No sooner had the statement left her mouth than Deborah felt her pulse quicken and her face redden. It had belatedly occurred to her that she had yet to see the lab on this trip. Luckily the only person who seemed to realize the blunder was Joanna. Paul continued the conversation without so much as a beat.

"Let me ask you something about your lab experience, Miss Marks," Paul said. "Have you ever done any nuclear transfer?"

"I haven't," Deborah stammered. "But I can certainly learn."

"We do a lot of nuclear transfer," Paul said. "It's an integral part of our research efforts. Since I spend a lot of time in the lab, I'll be happy to show you the technique personally."

"You'll find me a willing and hopefully apt pupil," Deborah said, having regained her composure. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Joanna briefly rolling her eyes.

"Well, then," Helen said after a brief silence gripped the room. She stood. "I think we'd better get to it if we're going to have Miss Heatherly and Miss Marks working tomorrow."

The women stood, as did Paul.

"I'm sorry about the verbal exchange you people inadvertently witnessed earlier," Paul said. "The founder of the clinic and I have an occasional minor disagreement, but it's more about style than substance. I hope the little episode doesn't adversely color your impression of the institution."

Five minutes later Helen was leading the women back through the fire door into the south wing of the building.

"I gather that Dr. Wingate doesn't come into the clinic often," Joanna said to Helen.

"Not over the last year and a half," Helen said. "We all thought he was permanently retired and living in Florida."

"Is there some problem about him and Dr. Saunders getting along?" Deborah asked.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Helen said vaguely. As she'd done previously, once in the football-field-length south-wing corridor, she bustled ahead. Mostly due to Deborah's high-heeled shoes, the younger women lagged behind.

"That was a strange interview," Joanna said in a hushed voice. "That man is weird which, of course, we already knew."

"At least he didn't recognize us," Deborah said.

"True, but no thanks to you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Deborah demanded in a forced whisper between breaths.

"I don't think you should be coming on to these men like you are."

"Get out of here! I'm not coming on to anyone. They're coming on to me!"

"Well, you're not helping. This is supposed to be a quick, clandestine operation, not a drawn-out parody."

"You're just jealous."

"That'll be the day. I don't want men staring at me like that."

"I'll tell you what I think all this proves," Deborah said, but then didn't finish her thought.

"Tell me," Joanna mockingly pleaded after a brief silence.

"We blondes certainly have more fun!"

Joanna swiped at Deborah playfully, but Deborah avoided the blow. Both laughed briefly. Ahead they could see Helen standing at a doorway and looking back at them impatiently.

"What did you think of that little verbal set-to between the two chiefs?" Deborah asked while they were still out of earshot of Helen.

"There're obviously some interesting management issues here," Joanna said. "I couldn't help but notice how Helen referred to Dr. Saunders as 'Napoleon' when she was on the phone and how she called him 'our fearless leader' when talking with us. That doesn't imply a lot of respect."