Робин Кук - Brain

“Maybe I should ask someone else,” said Philips, pretending to leave.

“Oh, no,” said the blond nurse.

“We can go back in the linen closet to discuss it,” suggested the brunette. The OR was the one place in the hospital where inhibitions were relaxed. The atmosphere was totally different from any other service. Philips thought that perhaps it had something to do with everyone wearing the same pajama-like clothing, plus the potential for crisis, where sexual innuendos provided a relief valve. Whatever it was, Philips remembered it very well. He’d been a surgical resident for one year before deciding to go into radiology.

“Which one of Mannerheim’s cases are you interested in?” asked the blond nurse. “Marino?”

“That’s right,” said Philips.

“She’s right behind you,” said the blond nurse.

Philips turned. About twenty feet away was a gurney supporting the covered figure of a twenty-one-year-old woman. She must have heard her name through the fog of her preoperative medication because her head slowly rolled in Philips’ direction. Her skull was totally shaved in anticipation of her surgery, and the image reminded Philips of a small songbird without its feathers. He’d seen her briefly twice before when she was having her preoperative X rays, and Philips was shocked how different she looked now. He had not realized how small and delicate she was. Her eyes had a pleading quality like an abandoned child, and Philips had all he could do to turn away, directing his attention back to the nurses. One of the reasons he’d switched from surgery to radiology had been a realization he couldn’t control his empathy for certain patients.

“Why haven’t they started her?” he asked the nurse, angry the patient was being left to her fears.

“Mannerheim’s been waiting for special electrodes from Gibson Memorial Hospital,” said the blond nurse. “He wants to make some recordings from the part of the brain he’s going to remove.”

“I see...” said Philips, trying to plan his morning. Mannerheim had a way of upsetting everyone’s schedules.

“Mannerheim’s got two visitors from Japan,” added the blond nurse, “and he’s been putting on a big show all week. But they’ll be starting in just a couple of minutes. They’ve called for the patient. We just haven’t had anybody to send with her.”

“Okay,” said Philips, already starting back across the patient-holding area. “When Mannerheim wants his localization X rays, call my office directly. That should save a few minutes.”

As he retraced his steps, Martin remembered he still had to shave and headed for the surgical lounge. At eight-ten it was almost deserted since the seven-thirty cases were all under way and the “to follow” cases could not hope to begin for some time. Only one surgeon was there talking on the telephone to his stockbroker while absentmindedly scratching himself. Philip passed into the changing area and twirled the combination to his foot-square locker, which Tony, the old man who took care of the surgical area, had allowed him to keep.

As soon as he had his face completely lathered, Philips’ beeper went off making him jump. He hadn’t realized how taut his nerves were. He used the wall phone to answer, trying to keep the shaving cream from the receiver. It was Helen Walker, his secretary, informing him that William Michaels had arrived and was waiting for him in his office.

Philips went back to his shaving with renewed enthusiasm. All his excitement about William’s surprise came roaring back. He splashed himself with cologne and struggled back into his long white coat. Passing back through the surgical lounge, he noticed the surgeon was still on the phone with his broker.

When Martin reached his office he was at a half run. Helen Walker looked up from her typing with a start as the blurred image of her boss passed by her. She began to get up, reaching for a pile of correspondence and phone messages, but stopped when the door to Philips’ office slammed shut. She shrugged and went back to her typing.

Philips leaned against the closed door, breathing heavily. Michaels was casually leafing through one of Philips’ radiology journals.

“Well?” said Philips excitedly. Michaels was dressed as usual in his ill-fitting, slightly worn tweed jacket, which had been purchased during his third year at M.I.T. He was thirty but looked twenty, with hair so blond that it made Philips’ look brown by comparison. He smiled, his small impish mouth expressing satisfaction, his pale blue eyes twinkling.

“What’s up?” he said, pretending to go back to the magazine.

“Come on,” said Philips, “I know you’re just trying to rile me. The trouble is that you’re being too successful.”

“I don’t know what...” began Michaels, but he didn’t get any further. In one swift motion, Philips stepped across the room and tore the magazine from his hands.

“Let’s not play dumb,” said Philips. “You knew that telling Helen you had a ‘surprise’ would drive me crazy. I almost called you last night at four A.M. Now I wish I had. I think you deserved it.”

“Oh, yeah, the surprise,” teased Michaels. “I almost forgot.” He leaned over and rummaged in his briefcase. A minute later he had pulled out a small package wrapped with dark green paper and tied with a thick yellow ribbon.

Martin’s face fell. “What’s that?” He’d expected some papers, most likely computer print-out paper, showing some breakthrough in their research. He never expected a present.

“It’s your surprise,” said Michaels, reaching toward Philips with the package.

Philips’ eyes moved back to the gift. His disappointment was so acute it was almost anger. “Why the hell did you buy me a present?”

“Because you’ve been such a wonderful research partner,” said Michaels, still holding the package toward Philips. “Here, take it.”

Philips reached out. He had recovered from the shock enough to be embarrassed about his reaction. No matter how he felt he didn’t want to hurt Michaels’ feelings. After all, it was a nice gesture.

Philips thanked him while feeling the weight of the package. It was light and about four inches long and an inch high.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Michaels.

“Sure,” said Philips, studying Michaels’ face for an instant. Buying a present seemed so out of character for this boy genius from the Department of Computer Science. It wasn’t that he wasn’t friendly or generous. It was just that he was so completely involved with his research that he usually overlooked amenities. In fact, during the four years they’d been working together, Philips had never seen Michaels socially. Philips had decided that Michaels’ incredible mind never turned off. After all, he had been singled out to head the newly created Division of Artificial Intelligence for the university at twenty-six. He’d completed his Ph.D. at M.I.T. when he was only nineteen.

“Come on,” said Michaels impatiently.

Philips pulled off the bow and dropped it ceremoniously among the debris on his desk. The dark green paper followed. Beneath was a black box.

“There’s a little symbolism there,” said Michaels.

“Oh?” said Philips.

“Yeah,” said Michaels. “You know how psychology treats the brain: like a black box. Well, you get to look inside.”

Philips smiled weakly. He didn’t know what Michaels was talking about. He pulled off the top of the box and separated some tissue. To his surprise he extracted a cassette case labeled Rumors by Fleetwood Mac.

“What the hell,” smiled Philips. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why Michaels would buy him a recording by Fleetwood Mac.

“More symbolism,” explained Michaels. “What’s inside is going to be more than music to your ears!”