Erich Segal - The Class

He explained that it was something really serious and had to be kept confidential. Of course, I said that I would try to help him but I’d need some details, like exactly what kind of doctor he was looking for.

At first he gave a very strange answer. He needed someone “very trustworthy.”

This made me think that George might be having some kind of nervous breakdown. I mean, I know those high-security guys are under tremendous pressure.

But, no. What he wanted was the name of the best oncologist within driving distance of Washington.

This really upset me. Why did he need a cancer specialist? I didn’t feel I had the right to ask.

I just told him I’d make some discreet inquiries among my medical friends and call him back. Then he quickly insisted that he ’d call me .

At this point the operator interrupted to say that his three minutes were up. He shoved in some more coins just to say he’d call the next day at exactly the same time.

Naturally, I immediately contacted the alumni office and asked one of my old buddies who works there to have the computer try to find what George needed (without using any names, of course). I soon found out that a classmate, Peter Ryder, was now a professor of oncology at Johns Hopkins, in nearby Baltimore.

Though I was worried about his health, something else also disturbed me.

Why did he call from a pay phone?

Peter Ryder, Professor of Oncology at Johns Hopkins Medical School, startled George by his greeting.

“ Kak pozhivias ?” he said.

“I don’t understand. Why are you speaking Russian to me?”

“Gosh,” said the tall, balding physician, unable to conceal his disappointment, “don’t you remember me? I sat right next to you in Slavic 168. But I guess in those days you were too busy listening to the lecture to notice anything else, huh?”

“Uh, I suppose so,” George said distractedly. “Do you think we could go somewhere private and talk?”

“Yes, of course. You said you had some X-rays. We can look at them in my office.”

George clutched the manila envelope as he followed the white-coated specialist down the corridor. Even when the door to Ryder’s office was closed, he would not relinquish the photographs.

“Doctor,” he said in confidential tones, “there’s something I must explain to you first.”

“Please call me Pete,” he insisted.

“Well, Pete, you know that I work for the State Department. These X-rays are of a security nature.”

“I don’t follow you, George.”

“They are of a high-ranking Communist leader and were smuggled out under great secrecy. I need to be sure that there will be no written report of this conversation. And I won’t be able to explain why I need the information.”

“That’s okay,” Ryder replied. “I’m savvy enough to guess it’s important for you guys to know how healthy the big shots on the other side are. Anyway, you can count on my discretion.”

He pinned the X-rays to his lighted cabinet. And immediately said, “I don’t understand why you had to come to an oncologist.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean any med student could see what’s wrong. See that black mark on the apex — that’s the upper lobe — on the left lung? That’s a very large malignancy. This patient has very little time to live — several months at most.” He then turned to George and asked, “Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”

George hesitated and then asked, “Is it possible for you to tell me if the patient is in any… distress?”

“I can make a pretty accurate conjecture,” Ryder answered and turned back to the photograph. “The carcinoma seems to be impinging on the brachial plexus of nerves. This would cause severe pain in the upper chest at that point and radiate down the arm as well.”

George was momentarily at a loss for further questions.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?” the physician asked.

“Uh — yes. Just some theoretical information, if you would, please — uh — Pete. If this person were your patient, how would you go about treating him?”

“Well, there’s zero chance of actually reversing the disease, but we could perhaps prolong life with X-ray treatment and some of the new drugs like Adriamycine, cisplatin, and Cytoxan. These could be used singly or in combination.”

“Would they ease the pain?” George asked.

“In many cases. If not, we have a whole pharmacopoeia of narcotics and sedatives.”

“So it’s possible that even a person as sick as this could… die in peace?” George asked.

“I’d like to think that’s a very important part of my job,” Ryder said gently.

“Thank you very much, Pete,” George mumbled, and tried to keep his wits about him to make a nonchalant exit.

“Not at all,” his classmate replied. “But could I ask you a question? I mean, you can count on my complete discretion.”

“What?”

“Is it Brezhnev?”

“I’m sorry,” George replied softly. “I can’t tell you.”

George asked his secretary to get Stephen Webster of the Commerce Department on the phone. He was a technology expert fresh out of MIT who had recently introduced himself to George at a party. And who, like all ambitious young men arriving in Washington, was eager to curry favor with his superiors.

“Gee, Dr. Keller,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a pleasant surprise hearing your voice. How can I help you?”

“Steve,” he began casually, “this is really a very small matter. Are you familiar with this RX-80 business?”

“You mean the Taylor photographic filter?” the scientist inquired, anxious to show he was on top of things.

“Yes. Could you explain to a layman like me just what the thing does?”

“Sure. We’re using it on weather satellites to sharpen our pictures and prevent guys like you from getting caught in the rain without an umbrella.”

“Sounds pretty innocuous to me,” George replied. “That’s the reason some of us at State were wondering why you guys are sitting on it. Could it possibly serve any military purpose?”

“Well,” Webster replied, “almost anything could. It depends how you use it. I mean, theoretically, a clearer satellite image might help you aim a missile better.”

“So which way are you guys going to go on this?”

“Listen, Dr. Keller, I’m practically one step above the office boy. If you want my opinion, it probably depends on what State decides.”

“Do you mean Kissinger?”

“Could I possibly mean anyone else?”

“Thanks, Steve. By the way, do you play tennis?”

“A little,” he replied eagerly.

“Then I’ll call you sometime next week and maybe we could hit a few balls.”

This time it was George’s turn to invite Yakushkin to dinner. He chose Cantina d’Italia, another elegant Washington restaurant favored by the Russians for détente dinners. As soon as they ordered, he got right to the point.

“Dmitri, I’ve done some preliminary explorations with Commerce and it does appear we could possibly speed along your government’s request for that little filter.”

“That’s wonderful news,” said the young diplomat, smiling broadly. “I’m extremely grateful to you. And if there’s any way I can ever reciprocate.…”

George tried to glance around in a nonfurtive way to see if they were within earshot of the other guests.

But Yakushkin knew what was on his mind and immediately remarked, “You know, you wouldn’t recognize your native city, George. Budapest has modern skyscrapers now, modern hospitals with the best facilities and advanced medications.…”

“The very best?”