“Then you want a friggin’ passport,” said the man. “When do you need it?”

“Right now,” said Adam.

“I trust you got cash.”

“Some,” said Adam. He’d been careful to lock most of his money, plus his own identification cards, into the glove compartment of the car.

“It will cost you twenty-five for the driver’s license and fifty for the passport,” said the thin man.

“Wow,” said Adam. “I only have fifty on me.”

“Too bad,” said the man. He turned and started toward Eighth Avenue.

Adam watched him for a moment, then continued walking toward Broadway. After a few steps he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sixty bucks for both,” said the thin man.

Adam nodded.

Without another word the man led Adam back toward Eighth Avenue and into one of the many stores that were plastered with hand-lettered signs reading “Going Out of Business! Last Three Days! Everything Reduced!” Adam noticed that the “Last Three Days!” sign was brittle with age.

The store sold the usual assortment of cameras, calculators, and videotapes and a handful of “authentic Chinese ivories.” A center table supported a line of miniature Empire State Buildings and Statues of Liberty, plus coffee mugs with “I Love New York ” on the sides.

None of the salesmen even looked up as the thin man led Adam through the length of the store and out the rear door. In the back of the building was a hall with doors on either side. Adam hoped he wasn’t getting himself into something he couldn’t handle. The thin man knocked on the first door, then opened it and motioned Adam into a small, dark room.

In one corner was a Polaroid camera on a tripod. In another was a drafting table, set under a bright fluorescent light. A man with a shiny bald head sat at the table. He was wearing one of those green visors Adam remembered seeing on cardplayers in old westerns.

The thin man spoke. “This kid wants a driver’s license and a passport for sixty bucks.”

“What name?” asked the man with the green visor.

Adam quickly gave Smyth’s name, address, birth date, and social security number.

There was no more talk. Adam was positioned behind the Polaroid camera and several pictures were taken. Next, the man with the green visor went over to the drafting table and began to work. The thin man leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

Ten minutes later Adam walked back through the store, clutching his phony IDs. He didn’t open them until he reached the car, but when he did he found they looked entirely authentic. Pleased, he turned the car toward the Village. He had only an hour or so to pack.

When he reached the apartment, he was surprised to find the police lock unengaged. He pushed open the door and saw Jennifer and her mother.

“Hi,” he said, quite amazed. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I was hoping to catch you before you went to Puerto Rico,” said Jennifer.

“I’m not going to Puerto Rico,” said Adam.

“I don’t think you should be going anyplace,” said Mrs. Carson. “Jennifer has had a shock and she needs your support.”

Adam put his things on the desk and turned to Jennifer. She did look pale.

“What’s the matter?” asked Adam.

“Dr. Vandermer gave her some bad news,” replied Mrs. Carson.

Adam did not take his eyes from Jennifer’s face. He wanted to tell Mrs. Carson to shut up, but instead he stood directly in front of his wife. “What did Dr. Vandermer say?” he asked gently.

“The amniocentesis was positive. He said our baby is severely deformed. I’m so sorry, Adam. I think I’ll have to have an abortion.”

“That’s impossible,” said Adam, slamming his fist into his palm. “It takes weeks to do the tissue cultures after an amniocentesis. What the hell is wrong with this Vandermer?”

Adam strode to the phone.

Jennifer burst into tears. “It’s not Dr. Vandermer’s fault,” she sobbed, explaining that the abnormality was so severe that tissue cultures weren’t needed.

Adam hesitated, trying to remember what he’d read. He couldn’t recall any cases where tissue culture wasn’t needed.

“That’s not good enough for me,” he said, putting through a call to the Julian Clinic. When he asked for Dr. Vandermer, he was put on hold.

Mrs. Carson cleared her throat. “Adam, I think that you should be more concerned about Jennifer’s feelings than about Dr. Vandermer.”

Adam ignored her. The Julian Clinic operator came back on the line and told Adam that Dr. Vandermer was doing a procedure but would call back. Adam gave his name and number and then dropped the receiver into its cradle.

“This is crazy,” he mumbled. “I had a strange feeling about the Julian Clinic. And Vandermer…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“I think the Julian Clinic is one of the finest hospitals I’ve ever been in,” said Mrs. Carson. “And except for my own doctor, I’ve never met a more caring man than Dr. Vandermer.”

“I’m going over there,” said Adam, ignoring his mother-in-law. “I want to talk to him in person.” Picking up his keys, Adam strode toward the door.

“What about your wife?” demanded Mrs. Carson.

“I’ll be back.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs. Carson was furious. She couldn’t believe that she had originally favored the marriage. Hearing Jennifer weep, she decided it was better not to say anything. She went over to her daughter, murmuring, “We’ll go home. Daddy will take care of everything.”

Jennifer didn’t object, but when she got to the door, she said, “I want to leave Adam a note.”

Mrs. Carson nodded and watched Jennifer write a short note at Adam’s desk, then put it on the floor by the door. It said simply: “Gone home. Jennifer.”

Adam drove uptown like an aggressive New York City cabbie, pulled directly in front of the Julian Clinic, and jumped out of the car. A uniformed security guard tried to stop him, but Adam merely called over his shoulder that he was Dr. Schonberg and it was an emergency.

When he reached Gynecology, the receptionist acted as if he were expected.

“Adam Schonberg,” she said. “Dr. Vandermer said for you to wait in his office.” She pointed down another corridor. “It’s the third door on the left.”

Adam thanked the girl and went to the office she’d indicated. The room was impressive, the shelves filled with books and medical journals. Adam glanced at a row of model fetuses, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to vandalize the place. He wandered over to the desk. It was a large, inlaid affair with claw feet. On top was a pile of typed operative notes awaiting signatures.

Dr. Vandermer came in almost immediately. He was carrying a manila folder under his arm.

“Won’t you sit down?” he suggested.

“No, thank you,” said Adam. “This won’t take long. I just wanted to confirm my wife’s diagnosis. I understand you believe she’s carrying a chromosomally defective child.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Dr. Vandermer.

“I thought it took weeks to do tissue cultures,” said Adam.

Dr. Vandermer looked Adam directly in the eye. “Normally, that is true,” he said. “But in your wife’s case there were plenty of cells for us to examine directly in the amniotic fluid. Adam, as a medical student, I’m sure you understand these things happen. But as I told your wife, you’re both young. You can have other babies.”

“I want to see the slides,” said Adam, preparing himself for an argument. But Vandermer just nodded and said, “Why don’t you follow me?”

Adam began to wonder if he’d been too hasty in his judgment. The man seemed genuinely sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.

On the fourth floor Vandermer led Adam to the cytology lab. Adam blinked as they went through the door. Everything was white: walls, floor, ceiling, and countertops. At the back of the room was a lab bench with four microscopes. Only one was in use, and a middle-aged brunette woman looked up as Dr. Vandermer approached.