In the adjoining auxiliary room, Dr. Foley directed his attention to the stainless-steel pan neatly covered by a white towel. To be certain that the specimen was unharmed, he lifted a corner of the towel. Satisfied, he picked up the pan, walked down the corridor, and descended the stairs to the pathology department.

Ignoring the residents and technicians, though several of them spoke to him by name, he walked through the main surgical area and entered a long corridor. At the end he stopped in front of an unmarked door. Balancing the specimen pan in one hand, he got out his keys and opened the door. The room beyond was a small and windowless laboratory. Dr. Foley moved slowly but deliberately as he stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and put down the pan.

For a few moments he stood paralyzed until a sharp pain in his temples made him stagger backward. He bumped the countertop and steadied himself. Glancing at the large institutional clock on the wall, he was surprised to notice that the minute hand seemed to have jumped five minutes.

Swiftly and silently Dr. Foley performed several tasks. Then he stepped over to a large wooden crate in the center of the room and opened it. Within was a second, insulated container. Releasing the latch, Dr. Foley raised its lid and looked in. Resting on a bed of dry ice were a number of other specimens. Dr. Foley carefully placed the newest addition on the ice and closed the lid.

Twenty minutes later, an orderly dressed in a white shirt and blue pants pushed a dolly into the small unmarked laboratory and picked up the ice chest and packed it in a wooden crate. Using the freight elevator, he took it down to the loading dock and put it into a van.

Forty minutes after that, the wooden crate was taken off the van and placed in the luggage section of a Gulf Stream jet at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.

Adam Schonberg’s eyes blinked open and in the darkness of his bedroom he heard the undulating scream of a siren announcing yet another catastrophe. Gradually, the noise diminished as the police car or ambulance or fire truck or whatever it was receded into the distance. It was morning in New York City.

Snaking a hand out from beneath the warm blankets, Adam groped for his glasses and then turned the face of the clock radio toward him: 4:47 A.M. Relieved, he flipped off the alarm, which was scheduled to go off at 5:00, then pulled his hand back under the covers. He had fifteen more minutes before he had to haul himself out of bed and into the icy bathroom. Normally, he’d never take the chance of turning off the alarm for fear he’d oversleep. But as charged up as he was this morning that was not a possibility.

Rolling onto his left side, he pressed against the sleeping form of Jennifer, his twenty-three-year-old wife of one and a half years, feeling the rhythmical rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Reaching down, Adam ran his hand lightly up her thigh, which was slim and firm from her daily dance workouts. Her skin was soft and remarkably smooth with hardly a freckle to mar its surface. It had a delicate olive tone that suggested southern European descent, but that was not the case. Jennifer insisted that her genealogy was English and Irish on her father’s side of the family, German and Polish on her mother’s side.

Jennifer straightened out her legs, sighed, and rolled over onto her back, forcing Adam to move out of her way. He smiled; even in her sleep she had a forceful personality. Although her strong character could at times present itself to Adam as frustrating stubbornness, it was also one of the reasons Adam loved her so much.

Glancing at the clock, which now said 4:58, Adam forced himself out of bed. As he crossed the room to shower he stubbed his toe on an old Pullman trunk Jennifer had covered with a throw to serve as a table. Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, he hobbled to the edge of the tub where he sat down to survey the damage. He had a remarkably low tolerance for pain.

The first time Adam had realized this was during his disastrously short high school football career. Because he was one of the larger boys, everyone including Adam himself had expected him to be on the team, especially since David, Adam’s deceased older brother, had been one of the town stars. But such was not to be the case. Everything had gone well until Adam had been given the ball and told to run a play he had dutifully memorized. The instant he was tackled he had felt pain, and by the time everybody had gotten back on his feet, Adam had decided this was just another area where he could not compete with his brother’s reputation.

Shaking off the memory, Adam quickly showered, shaved his heavy beard which would shadow his chin by five that afternoon, and brushed his thick black hair. He whipped on his clothes, barely glancing in the mirror, oblivious to his dark good looks.

Less than ten minutes after getting out of bed he was in the two-by-four kitchen, heating up his coffee. He glanced about the cramped, badly furnished apartment, vowing again that the minute he finished medical school he would find Jennifer a decent place to live. Then he went over to the desk in the living room and glanced at the material he’d been working on the night before.

A wave of anxiety passed through his body. In less than four hours he was going to be standing in front of the imposing Dr. Thayer Norton, chief of Internal Medicine. Grouped around would be the rest of the third-year medical students who were currently rotating on Internal Medicine with Adam. A few of the students, like Charles Hanson, might be rooting for him. But the rest would be more or less hoping that he’d make a fool of himself, which was a distinct possibility. Adam had never functioned well in front of a group, another disappointment for his father, who was a recognized and much-sought-after speaker. At the beginning of the rotation Adam had drawn a blank in the middle of presenting a case, and Dr. Norton had never let him forget it. Consequently, Adam had postponed his major case presentation until the end of this rotation, hoping that he’d grow more confident with time. He did, but not a lot. It was going to be tough and that was why he’d gotten up before the sun. He wanted to go over the material yet again.

Clearing his throat and trying to shut out the bustling noise of a New York morning, Adam began his presentation once again. He spoke out loud, pretending he was standing in front of Dr. Norton.

Jennifer would have slept until ten if it hadn’t been for two things: one, she had a doctor’s appointment at nine, and two, by seven-fifteen the temperature in the bedroom had climbed to a tropical level. Perspiring she kicked off the covers and lay still for a moment until the shock of yesterday’s discovery had again settled in. Yesterday-after a month of trying to deny the possibility-Jennifer had finally gone out and bought a home pregnancy test. Not only had she missed two periods, she had developed morning sickness. It was the nausea more than anything else that had driven her to buy the test. She did not want to upset Adam, who had been irritable and tense for the last few months, until she was absolutely sure. The home pregnancy test had been positive, and today she was seeing her gynecologist.

Carefully she got out of bed, wondering if anyone realized that dancers, despite their limber grace on stage, were always stiff and sore in the morning. Stretching out her leg muscles, she felt the panic wash over her, obliterating the nausea.

“Oh, God,” she moaned to herself. If she really was pregnant, how would they manage? The money she earned from the Jason Conrad Dancers was their only income, except for the money her mother sneaked to her behind her dad’s and Adam’s backs. How would they ever support a baby? Well, maybe the test was wrong. She was using an IUD, which was supposed to be the most effective contraceptive device next to the pill. At least Dr. Vandermer would end the suspense. Jennifer knew that it was only because Adam was a medical student that the doctor had agreed to fit her into his crowded schedule.