For a moment he thought he had gone too far. This was a sensitive area. He saw the other man brace up and waited for the storm to break. But again it did not. Instead, more strongly than before, but reasonably, Pearson said, “Sure, a few things need straightening out. I’ll admit that to you. But there’s nothing I can’t handle myself—if I can just get the time to do it.”

He has accepted it, Dornberger thought. He’s sounding off now. But he has accepted it just the same. He said casually, “Well, maybe you’ll get the time—with another pathologist.” With equal casualness he pulled from his inside pocket the paper which the administrator had given him.

Pearson asked, “What’s that?”

“There’s nothing definite about this, Joe. It’s a name that Harry Tomaselli had—apparently some young fellow who might be interested in coming here.”

Pearson took the single sheet. He said, “They sure didn’t waste any time.”

Dornberger said lightly, “Our administrator is a man of action.”

Pearson was scanning the paper. He read aloud, “Dr. David Coleman.” There was a pause. Then with bitterness, frustration, and envy the old man added, “Age thirty-one.”

It was twenty minutes after midday, and the hospital cafeteria was at its busiest. Most of the doctors, nurses, and hospital employees usually took their lunch about this time, and a line-up was beginning to form at the point where newcomers collected trays before passing counters and steam tables where the food was served.

Mrs. Straughan, as usual at this period, had her eye on proceedings, ensuring that as fast as one batch of food was used up another was brought from the kitchens to keep the line out front moving briskly. Today there was a choice of Irish stew, lamb chops, and broiled halibut. The chief dietitian noticed that the lamb chops were moving slowly. She decided to try some herself in a few minutes to see if there were any reason. Perhaps the meat was not as succulent as it might be; word of something like that was often passed to those arriving in the cafeteria by others who were leaving. Mrs. Straughan noticed a dish at the top of a pile on the servery that appeared to have a mark on it. She stepped forward and removed it quickly; sure enough, it still bore traces of an earlier meal. The dishwashing machines again! she thought. Their inadequacy was a recurring problem, and she decided to broach the subject with the administrator again very soon.

Over at the tables reserved for the medical staff there was the sound of noisy laughter. It came from a group of which Dr. Ralph Bell, the radiologist, was the center.

Gil Bartlett, who had come from the serving counter with a tray, put it down and went over with extended hand. “Congratulations, Ding Dong,” he said. “I just heard.”

“Heard what?” It was Lewis Toynbee, the internist, also with a tray, behind him. Then as Bell, beaming, passed a cigar to Bartlett, Toynbee exclaimed, “My God! Not again?”

“Certainly again. Why not?” The radiologist held out another cigar. “Join us, Lewis. It’s exactly eight Bells.”

“Eight! When was this?”

Bell said calmly, “This morning. Another boy for the ball team.”

Bill Rufus put in, “Don’t sound critical, Lewis. He’s doing his best. After all, he’s only been married eight years.”

Lewis Toynbee offered his hand. “Don’t squeeze it too tight, Ding Dong. I’m afraid some of that fertility might rub off.”

“I’m impervious to jealousy,” Bell said good-naturedly. He had been through all this before.

Lucy Grainger asked, “How is your wife?”

Bell answered, “She’s fine, thanks.”

“How does it feel to be a sex fiend?” The question was from Harvey Chandler, the chief of medicine, lower down the table.

Bell said, “I’m not a sex fiend. At our house we have intercourse once a year. I’m just a dead shot.”

Lucy Grainger joined in the ensuing laughter, then she said, “Ralph, I’m sending you a patient this afternoon. It’s one of our student nurses—Vivian Loburton.”

The laughter had simmered down. “What is it you’re looking for?” Bell asked.

“I want you to take some films of the left knee,” Lucy answered. Then she added, “There’s some sort of growth there. I don’t like the look of it.”

Back in his own office, Dr. Charles Dornberger had telephoned Kent O’Donnell to report the outcome of the talk with Pearson. At the end he had told the chief of surgery, “I’ve let Joe know about the man you people have been corresponding with.”

O’Donnell had asked, “How did he take it?”

“I wouldn’t say he was enthusiastic,” Dornberger said. “But I think if you want to have this fellow . . . what’s his name—Coleman? . . . if you want to have him come here for a talk, Joe won’t be difficult. But I’d suggest you keep Joe posted on everything you do from here on in.”

“You can be sure of that,” O’Donnell had said. Then, “Thanks, Charlie. Thank you very much.”

Afterward Dornberger had made another telephone call. It was to Mrs. John Alexander, who had phoned earlier that morning and left a message. Before calling he had looked up his record card and was reminded that this was the wife of the pathology technologist, referred to him by Joe Pearson. Talking with Mrs. Alexander, he learned that she had just arrived in town to join her husband. They made an appointment for her to come to Dornberger’s downtown office the following week.

About the same time that Mrs. Alexander was talking with Dornberger her husband was receiving his first tongue-lashing from Dr. Joseph Pearson. It happened this way.

After Pearson’s outburst that morning about the poor-quality surgical slides, Bannister had come back to the serology lab where John Alexander was working and had told him the whole story. By this time Bannister was seething, and later he had taken out some of his own bad humor on the two girl technicians and their male helper who worked in the histology lab next door. Alexander had heard what was said through the doorway which Bannister had left open behind him.

Alexander, though, knew that not all the blame for the bad slides lay with the histology technicians. Even in the short time he had been at the hospital he had sensed the real problem, and afterward he had told Bannister, “You know, Carl, I don’t believe it’s all their fault. I think they have too much to do.”

Bannister had answered sourly, “We’ve all got too much to do.” Then with clumsy sarcasm he had added, “Maybe if you know so much about it you can do your own work and part of theirs as well.”

Alexander had declined to be provoked. “I don’t think so. But I do think they’d be a lot better off with a tissue-processing machine instead of having to do everything by hand—the old-fashioned way.”

“Forget it, kid. It isn’t your problem.” Bannister had been loftily condescending. “And, besides, anything that means spending money around here is a dead duck before it starts.”

Alexander had not argued. But he resolved to raise the subject, the first chance he got, with Dr. Pearson.

He had had to go into Pearson’s office that afternoon to leave some lab reports for signature, and he had found the pathologist going through a pile of mail with obvious impatience. Glancing up at Alexander, Pearson had motioned him to put the papers on the desk and had gone on with his reading. Alexander had hesitated, and the old man had barked, “What is it? What is it?”

“Dr. Pearson, I was wondering if I could make a suggestion.”

“Now?”

A more experienced hand would have known the tone of voice meant: Leave me alone. Alexander answered, “Yes, sir.”

Resignedly Pearson said, “Well?”

A little nervously Alexander began, “It’s about speeding up the surgical reports, Doctor.” As he mentioned surgical reports, Pearson had put down his letter and looked up sharply. Alexander went on, “I was wondering if you’d ever thought of getting a tissue-processing machine.”