“Do you think you’ll like it here?” Pearson looked down at the lungs he was holding, continuing the examination while he talked.

“I’m sure I will, Doctor.”

Nice kid, this, McNeil thought. He sounds as if he means it.

“Well, John,” Pearson was saying, “you’ll discover we have certain ways of doing things. They may not always be the ways you’ve been used to, but we find they work pretty well for us.”

“I understand, Doctor.”

Do you? McNeil thought Do you understand what the old man is really telling you?—that he doesn’t want any changes around the place, that there’s to be no nonsense with ideas you may have picked up in school, that nothing in the department—no matter how trifling—is to be amended without his blessing.

“Some people might say we’re old-fashioned,” Pearson continued. He was being friendly enough in his way. “But we believe in tried and tested methods. Eh, Carl?”

Called on for endorsement, Bannister was quick to answer. “That’s right, Doctor.”

Pearson had finished with the lungs now and, dipping into the pail, somewhat like drawing a lottery, had come up with a stomach. He grunted, then held out an open section to McNeil. “See that?”

The resident nodded. “I saw it before. We have it listed.”

“All right.” Pearson motioned to the clip board, then he dictated, “There is a peptic ulcer lying just below the pyloric ring in the duodenum.”

Alexander had shifted slightly to get a better look. Pearson saw his movement and slid the organ across. “Are you interested in dissection, John?”

Alexander answered respectfully, “I’ve always been interested in anatomy, Doctor.”

“As well as lab work, eh?” McNeil sensed that Pearson was pleased. Pathological anatomy was the old man’s first love.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, these are the organs of a fifty-five-year-old woman.” Pearson turned over the case-history pages in front of him. Alexander was raptly attentive. “Interesting history, this case. The patient was a widow, and the immediate cause of death was cancer of the breast. For two years before she died her children knew she had trouble but they couldn’t persuade her to see a physician. It seems she had a prejudice against them.”

“Some people do.” It was Bannister. He gave a high-pitched giggle which dried up as he caught Pearson’s eye.

“Just cut out the snide remarks. I’m giving John here some information. Might not do you any harm either.” Anyone but Bannister would have been crushed by Pearson’s rejoinder. As it was, the technician merely grinned.

“What happened, Doctor?” Alexander asked.

“It says here: ‘Daughter states that for the past two years the family has been noticing drainage from the mother’s left breast area. Fourteen months before admission bleeding was noticed from the same area. Otherwise she appeared in normal health.’ ”

Pearson turned a page. “It seems this woman went to a faith healer.” He chuckled grimly. “Guess she didn’t have enough faith, though, because she finally collapsed and they brought her to this hospital.”

“By then, I suppose, it was too late.”

This isn’t politeness, McNeil thought. This guy Alexander is really interested.

“Yeah,” Pearson answered. “But if she had gone to a doctor at the beginning she could have had a radical mastectomy—that’s removal of the breast.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“If she’d had that she might still be alive.” Pearson tossed the stomach neatly through the hole.

Something was troubling Alexander. He asked, “Didn’t you just say, though, she had a peptic ulcer?”

Good for you, McNeil thought. Pearson, it seemed, had the same reaction, for he turned to Bannister. “There you are, Carl. Here’s a boy who keeps his ears open. You watch out or he’ll be showing you up.”

Bannister was grinning, but McNeil suspected a little sourness. What had been said might prove uncomfortably true. “Well, John”—Pearson was really expansive now—“she might have had trouble with that. Then again she might not.”

“You mean she’d never have known about it?”

McNeil thought it was time he said something himself. “It’s surprising,” he told Alexander, “what people have wrong with them besides the things they die of. Things they never know about. You see a lot of that here.”

“That’s right.” Pearson nodded agreement. “You know, John, the remarkable thing about the human body is not what kills us but what we can have wrong inside and still go on living.” He paused, then abruptly changed the subject. “Are you married?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“Your wife here with you?”

“Not yet. She’s coming next week. I thought I’d find us a place to live first.”

McNeil remembered that Alexander had been one of the out-of-town applicants for the job at Three Counties. He seemed to recall that Chicago had been mentioned.

Alexander hesitated, then he added, “There was something I wanted to ask you, Dr. Pearson.”

“What’s that?” The old man sounded wary.

“My wife is pregnant, Doctor, and coming into a new town, we don’t know anyone.” Alexander paused. “This baby is pretty important to us. You see, we lost our first child. A month after she was born.”

“I see.” Pearson had stopped work now and was listening carefully.

“I was wondering, Doctor, if you could recommend an obstetrician my wife could go to.”

“That’s easy.” Pearson sounded relieved. Plainly he had wondered what was coming. “Dr. Dornberger’s a good man. He has an office right here in the hospital. Would you like me to call him?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Pearson motioned to Bannister. “See if he’s in.”

Bannister picked up the telephone behind them and asked for an extension. After a pause he said, “He’s in,” and offered the instrument to Pearson.

With both hands gloved and wet, the old man motioned his head irritably. “Hold it! Hold it!”

Bannister moved in closer and held the receiver against Pearson’s ear.

“That you, Charlie?” The pathologist boomed into the mouthpiece. “I’ve got a patient for you.”

In his office three floors above Dr. Charles Dornberger smiled and moved the telephone slightly away from his ear. He asked, “What can obstetrics do for your kind of patients?” At the same time he reflected that this call was convenient. Since the meeting which O’Donnell had called yesterday, Charles Dornberger had speculated on the best method of approach to Joe Pearson. Now, it seemed, an opportunity was presenting itself.

Down in Pathology Pearson maneuvered the cigar to a corner of his mouth. He always enjoyed exchanges with Dornberger.

“This isn’t a dead patient, you old fool. It’s a live one. Wife of one of my lab boys here—Mrs. John Alexander. They’re new in town. Don’t know anybody.”

As Pearson mentioned the name Dornberger opened a file drawer and selected a blank card.

“Just a minute.” He cradled the phone in his shoulder and, using his left hand to hold the card, wrote in a fine script with the right, “Alexander, Mrs. John.” It was typical of Dornberger’s organized approach to his practice that this was the first thing he did. Now he said, “Be glad to oblige, Joe. Will you have them call me for an appointment?”

“All right. Be some time next week. Mrs. Alexander won’t be in town till then.” He grinned at Alexander, then added, still almost shouting, “And if they want twins, Charlie, it’s up to you to see they get them.”

Pearson listened to Dornberger’s answer and chuckled. A thought struck him. “And hey! Another thing! None of your fancy fees for this job. I don’t want the boy coming to me for a raise so he can pay his doctor’s bill.”

Dornberger smiled. He said, “Don’t worry.” On the card he made a notation, “Hospital employee.” It was a signal to himself that this was a patient he would charge no fee. Into the phone he said, “Joe, there’s something I want to talk to you about. When would be a convenient time to come and see you?”