Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

“Okay.” Kendall did not seem impressed. “We’re going for common ground here, I assume.”

“Of course.”

“I did once engage him in a conversation about the Giants. He has a pennant on the wall.” Kendall sighed. “But it didn’t hold his attention long. We were right back to biting my head off within a few minutes.”

Susan stated matter-of-factly, “That might work better during football season.”

“Assuming he survives the summer.”

Susan gave Kendall a weary look. “You’ll do better treating him like an intelligent young adult rather than a dying kid.”

“He is a dying kid. That’s why he’s here.”

“He’s a dying young adult, and he’s irritated that everyone’s acting like he’s a pathetic fragment of shattered porcelain.”

Kendall closed the palm-pross. “I didn’t think I was doing that. I tried joking around with him.”

“Did you tell him any jokes about . . . death?”

Kendall’s expression crumpled, as though he believed Susan had gone stark raving mad. “Of course not. I’m not an insensitive boob.”

“Look,” Susan said, “Connor doesn’t have time for pussyfooting. He wants a doctor who’ll give it to him straight. Someone he can trust to always tell the truth, even if the news is bad.”

“For example . . . ?”

“What would you say if he asked why he’s stuck on the PIPU?”

“Well . . . um . . .”

“Wrong!”

Kendall screwed up his freckled face. “Wrong? I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You said, ‘Well . . . um . . . ,’ which means you’re thinking of a delicate answer. Connor doesn’t want a thought-mangled fantasy world; he wants the straight truth.”

“All right.” Kendall turned his focus fully on Susan. “What would you say to him?”

Susan did not hesitate. “You’re stuck here because you’re acting like an ass.”

Kendall stared. “Susan, I might be wrong about this; you are the child psychiatry messiah and all. But I was under the impression that insulting and swearing at dying children is frowned upon in polite society.”

“This isn’t polite society,” Susan insisted. “It’s the hospital. Life and death aren’t polite topics.”

“But swearing at a child?”

“He’s not a child. He’s a teenager. Most teens go through a stage when they feel the need to swear as much as possible, at least among themselves. It’s like they have to roll the words around their mouths a few thousand times before they pack them away in preparation for responsible adulthood.”

Kendall studied Susan with a look of dubious hope. “So, I should be direct, even to the point of swearing.”

“Yup.”

“Research Ganuto Hiro in the hope of a conversation, or even a game.”

“Yup.”

“What else?”

“The kid —”

“Young man,” Kendall reminded her.

Susan smiled. “The young man’s a virgin with about two months to live, right?”

Kendall’s expression grew downright uncomfortable. “Ye-eah.”

“So, he has cancer, not plague. He’s not contagious. He should be out there finding a sympathetic girl and humping her till his liver dissolves to a toxic puddle of goo.”

“Susan!” Dr. Bainbridge’s voice cut over the conversation.

Startled silent, Susan clutched her chest, worried her heart might have stopped. She whirled, expecting to find him right behind her.

Bainbridge waved at her from a row of tables away. Apparently, he had not overheard the conversation; he had merely shouted her name to get her attention.

A shiver of relief traversed Susan, and she could hear Kendall chuckling at her back. She hurried toward the attending, meeting him halfway. “Yes, sir?” she asked timidly, still worried he might have heard something untoward.

Bainbridge spoke in a booming voice the other occupants of the staffing area could not help overhearing, including the nurses, desk clerks, and the other residents. “I’ve been approached by Goldman and Peters.”

Susan had heard of them. Lead researchers at Manhattan Hasbro, Ari Goldman and Cody Peters authored an enormous number of articles in the American Journal of Psychiatry , Psychiatry , and Psychiatric Annals . She knew they had discovered two forms of schizophrenia, helped uncover a genetic defect in a common familial form of bipolar illness, and paved the way for a new class of antipsychotics, now in common use.

Bainbridge lowered his voice a bit. “They’re working on a fresh project and need the help of a psychiatry resident.”

Although she knew any resident would serve as the low man on the totem pole, the doer of all “scut” work, at least the name of said resident would appear on any research paper that came out of the experiment. Listed last, of course, but still an amazing feat for any R-1. Susan’s heart rate quickened again. If Bainbridge had recommended her, he had granted her a remarkable opportunity; but she also realized the older residents might consider it a grave insult. Stony and Clayton deserved it far more than she did.

“They asked specifically for you, Susan.”

The objections died in her throat. Susan could hardly suggest others if the researchers had requested her by name. “Me, sir?” Surprise sent her voice an octave higher. She cleared her throat. “They asked for me?”

“They asked for you,” Bainbridge confirmed. “Apparently, word of your competence has spread.” He seemed personally proud, as if his invaluable training had created her and the choice was a personal compliment.

“That’s a great honor,” Susan said.

“Yes,” Bainbridge agreed proudly. “I told them they could have you, as long as it doesn’t affect your work here. I figured with only two patients, and no impending admissions, you could accomplish both. Assuming you want to work with them, of course.” He looked so hopeful, Susan could not imagine saying no.

“I . . . ,” Susan started. She looked around to find all her colleagues staring, awaiting her words. “Do you know what their project entails?”

“No idea,” Bainbridge admitted. “But they’re the leading researchers here. Working with Goldman and Peters is a rare honor. It’s sure to be something brilliant.”

Susan had already figured that. She tried to find the words that would leave the way open without insulting the researchers or Bainbridge, or further inciting her fellow residents. “I’m very pleased, of course. But I want to be absolutely sure it won’t interfere with my responsibilities on the unit. Would you mind if I visited with them sometime and held the decision until afterward?”

“Room 713. Seventh floor, Hassenfeld Research Tower. You’re excused from rounds to head up there now.”

Susan accepted the invitation, from curiosity and from the need to escape the scrutiny. She had no intention of deliberately failing, or refusing an invaluable opportunity, just to appease people jealous of her good fortune. She had always followed the responsible course in the past, and she intended to do so the remainder of her life. “Thank you, sir. My patients are stable, with nothing new to report.” With that, she headed off the unit, accompanied by a key-carrying nurse who wished her well at the outer door.

Susan had never been to the research towers. Few residents ever got the opportunity to participate, and those who did were nearly always chief residents, who dedicated an extra year to learning and teaching. The elevator doors opened to the mingled odors of cleaners, cedar chips, and the distinctive musk of rats. Through the years, researchers had genetically modified the rodents to approximate nearly every human disease state. Also, few protestors worried about the humane treatment of rats the way they did for primates, dogs, cats, and other cuter critters.