For a moment no one moved in the room. The doctor and the nurses exchanged glances.

“I’m not going through with this unless Dr. Foley is here,” said Cheryl, her voice cracking.

“I’m Dr. Stephenson,” said the man. “Dr. Foley cannot be here, but the Julian Clinic has authorized me to take his place. The procedure is very easy.”

“I don’t care,” pouted Cheryl. “I won’t have the abortion unless he does it.”

“Dr. Stephenson is one of our best surgeons,” said a nurse. “Please lie back and let us get on with this.” She put her hand on Cheryl’s shoulder and started to push her down.

“Just a minute,” said Jennifer, surprised at her own assertiveness. “It is obvious that Cheryl wants Dr. Foley. I don’t think you should try to force her to accept someone else.”

Everyone in the room turned to Jennifer as if they’d just realized she was standing there. Dr. Stephenson came over and started to lead her out of the room.

“Just a minute,” said Jennifer. “I’m not going to leave. Cheryl says she doesn’t want the procedure unless Dr. Foley does it.”

“We understand,” said Dr. Stephenson. “If that is the way Miss Tedesco feels, then of course we will respect her wishes. At the Julian Clinic the patient always comes first. If you’ll just go back to Miss Tedesco’s room, she will be right along.”

Jennifer glanced at Cheryl, who was now sitting on the edge of the examination table. “Don’t worry,” she said to Jennifer. “I won’t let them do anything until Dr. Foley comes.”

Bewildered, Jennifer let herself be led out of the treatment room. The gurney that had brought Cheryl was being rolled back inside, which made Jennifer feel more comfortable. Removing the hood and gown, she deposited them in a hamper in the corridor.

Almost immediately Marlene Polaski appeared. “I just heard what happened,” she said to Jennifer. “I’m terribly sorry. No matter how hard you try in a large institution, sometimes things go wrong. It’s been chaotic here for twenty-four hours. We thought that you knew about poor Dr. Foley.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Jennifer.

“Dr. Foley committed suicide the night before last,” said Marlene. “He shot his wife and then himself. It was in all the papers. We thought you knew.”

Jennifer stepped into the corridor. Cheryl rolled past her. Jennifer sighed, glad she was with Dr. Vandermer after all.

As Adam got off the bus in Montclair, New Jersey, he thanked the driver who looked at him as if he were crazy. Adam was in fact in an oddly jazzed-up mood, a combination of anxiety about the upcoming job interview and guilt about his behavior the previous evening. He’d attempted to apologize to Jennifer, but the best he’d been able to do was say he was sorry that he’d broken the door. He hadn’t changed his mind about her standing up all day throughout her pregnancy selling shoes.

Adam spotted the Arolen car right where the secretary had said it would be: in front of the Montclair National Bank. Adam crossed the busy commercial street and tapped on the driver’s window. The man was reading the New York Daily News. He reached over his shoulder and unlocked the rear door.

It was a short ride from the town to the newly constructed Arolen headquarters. Adam sat with his hands pressed between his knees, taking everything in. They stopped at a security gate, and a uniformed guard with a clipboard bent down and stared at Adam through the window. The driver said, “Schonberg,” and the guard, apparently satisfied, lifted the white-and-black-striped gate.

As they went up the sloping drive, Adam was amazed by the opulence. There was a reflecting pool in the center of the well-tended grounds surrounded by trees. The main building was a huge bronzed structure whose surface acted like a mirror. The sides of the building tapered as they soared up into the sky. There were two smaller buildings on either side, connected to the main building by transparent bridges.

The driver skirted the reflecting pool and stopped directly in front of the main entrance. Adam thanked the man and walked up toward the door. As he drew closer, he checked his appearance in the mirrorlike surface. He had on his best clothes, a blue blazer, white shirt, striped tie, and gray slacks. The only problem was that there were two buttons missing from the left sleeve of the jacket.

Inside the front door he was issued a special badge and told to take the elevator to the twelfth floor. Riding up in solitary splendor, he noticed a TV camera that slowly moved back and forth, and he wondered if he were being observed. When the doors opened, he was greeted by a man about his own age.

“Mr. McGuire?” asked Adam.

“No, I’m Tad, Mr. McGuire’s secretary. Would you follow me, please.”

He led Adam to an outer office, told him to wait, and disappeared through a door that said “District Sales Manager, Northeast.”

Adam glanced around. The furniture was reproduction Chippendale, the wall-to-wall carpet a luxurious beige. Adam couldn’t help but compare the environment to the decaying medical center he’d recently left, and recalled the dean’s warning. He didn’t have time for second thoughts before Clarence McGuire opened the door and motioned Adam inside. He walked over to a couch and sat down as McGuire gave Tad a few final orders before dismissing him.

McGuire was a youthful, stocky man an inch or so shorter than Adam. His face had a satisfied air about it, and his eyes almost closed when he smiled.

“Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.

Adam shook his head.

“Then I think we should begin,” said Mr. McGuire. “What made you interested in Arolen?”

Adam nervously cleared his throat. “I decided to leave medical school, and I thought that the pharmaceutical industry would find use for my training. Arolen gave my class their black bags and the name stuck in my mind.”

Mr. McGuire smiled. “I appreciate your candor. OK, tell me why you are interested in pharmaceuticals.”

Adam fidgeted a little. He was reluctant to give the real, humbling reasons for his interest: Jennifer’s pregnancy and his desperate need for cash. Instead, he tried out the line he had practiced on the bus. “I was influenced to a large degree by my gradual disillusionment with the practice of medicine. It seems to me that doctors no longer consider the patient their prime responsibility. Technology and research have become more rewarding intellectually and financially, and medicine has become more of a trade than a profession.” Adam wasn’t sure what he meant by that phrase, but it had a nice ring to it so he let it stand. Besides, Mr. McGuire seemed to buy it.

“Over the last two and a half years I’ve come to believe the pharmaceutical companies have more to offer the patient than the individual doctor has. I think I can do more for people if I work for Arolen than if I stay in medicine.”

Adam leaned back on the sofa. He thought what he had said sounded pretty good.

“Interesting,” said McGuire. “It sounds as if you have given this a lot of thought. However, I must tell you that our usual method of starting people like yourself is in our sales force. What the medical professional likes to call ‘detail men.’ But I don’t know if that would give you the sense of service you are seeking.”

Adam leaned forward. “I assumed that I would start in sales, and I know it would be a number of years before I could really make a contribution.” He watched McGuire for signs of skepticism, but the man continued to smile.

“One thing that I particularly wanted to ask…” said McGuire. “Is your father with the Food and Drug Administration?”

Adam felt the muscles of his neck tighten. “My father is David Schonberg of the FDA,” he said, “but that has no bearing on my interest in Arolen. In fact, I am barely on speaking terms with my father, so I certainly couldn’t influence his decisions in any way.”