The Magic Bullet

by Harry Stein

This brought an uncomfortable laugh. Dan began to suspect that perhaps the Scotch was getting to Shein.

  A moment later, the thought was confirmed. Smiling at Sabrina Como, Shein announced, “Appearances to the contrary, we recruit our foreign associates only for their scientific potential.”

  Sabrina looked at him evenly, showing nothing, but Dan noticed Barbara shoot Shein a vicious look. Still, she was wise enough to remain silent—as they all were. He, Reston, and Bernstein, supposedly sensitive, postfeminist types all, simply stood there, grinning awkwardly.

  It was Reston’s petite blond friend Amy who broke the silence. “And I’m sure women are treated very well at the ACF,” she offered breezily. “Appearances to the contrary.”

  Logan and the other associates turned to her, horrified. But they were stopped short by Shein’s hearty laugh. “That’s great!” He laughed some more. “I really mean it, I wish you were in the program.”

  This was so unexpected that Amy didn’t know quite how to respond. “You know,” she said after a long pause, “I’m not really sure I have much to contribute here. Why don’t I leave you people alone to get acquainted?”

  As she moved off in the direction of the buffet table, Reston offered a helpless shrug. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, Reston,” interjected Shein, “she’s a riot. Believe me, hang around here long enough, you forget what someone with guts sounds like.” And, chuckling to himself, he left them.

  Among the four associates, there was a long silence. “You should know,” offered Sabrina, “I really am not bothered by such things.”

  “Well, you should be,” snapped Barbara Lukas. “A superior makes a lascivious remark like that in this country, it’s called sexual harassment.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, with a barely perceptible smile. “Well, then, perhaps it is because I am not from this country.”

  “You were meant to be insulted. As a woman. We all were.”

  “Because he says I am a good scientist and also pretty?”

  “Exactly. Because he has no damn business commenting on your looks one way or the other.”

  “Ah,” she said again, and paused thoughtfully. “I must study to learn to recognize such insults.”

  Logan, suppressing a smile, looked at her with even greater interest; but Lukas, unsure whether she was being heeded or gently mocked, quickly turned to Reston. “She your wife?” she said, nodding after Amy.

  “My girlfriend,” replied Reston. “She’s a lawyer, she got a job with the FCC.”

  “He’s right—she’s got guts. I should’ve said something myself.”

  “I strongly suspect you’ll get other chances,” he said dryly.

  “Well,” noted Bernstein, “I hate to be a realist, but saying what you think isn’t exactly the best policy around here. Not everyone’s as tolerant as Shein. I had a long talk last night with one of the senior associates. There are a few people we’re really going to have to watch out for.”

  Barbara Lukas focused on him intently. “Name names.”

  With a tilt of the head, Bernstein indicated a balding young man in horn-rimmed glasses standing near the buffet table. “See him?”

  The others turned to look.

  “Peter Kratsas. He’s Larsen’s number two.”

  “Larsen interviewed me,” spoke up Logan. “If that’s what you can call it. I was in and out of there in ten minutes.”

  “I also.” They all turned to Sabrina. “I came all the way here for this interview, and he was just cold like anything.”

  “Tell me about it,” agreed Bernstein. “But I hear Kratsas is even worse. For starters, he doesn’t have Larsen’s talent. But what you’ve really gotta watch out for is that he’s nice. Always ready to chat about sports or old movies like he’s your best pal.”

  Barbara Lukas rolled her eyes. “So you think he’s on your side—and he’s a pipeline right back to Larsen?”

  “You got it,” nodded Bernstein.

  “Who else should we know about?” asked Dan.

  “Who shouldn’t we know about?”

  Seeing how much Bernstein was enjoying this performance, Logan had a strong feeling he was purposely being overdramatic.

  “Who else?” pressed Barbara Lukas.

  “Greg Stillman.”

  There was a surprised silence. The name needed no explanation. Dr. Gregory Stillman, world-renowned specialist in breast cancer, was one of those chiefly responsible for the ACF’s reputation.

  “C’mon,” said Logan finally, “someone’s doing a lot of exaggerating here.”

  Bernstein snorted. “I’m talking personality, not medical acumen. Talk to the senior associates—this is a guy who describes himself as ‘a vicious SOB.’ He thinks other people respect him for it.” He paused for effect. “And they do.”

  A few minutes later, Logan moved alongside Reston at the buffet table. “You buy any of that?”

  Reston shrugged. “Hard to tell. Maybe we were just watching a guy working real hard to impress a good-looking woman.” He smiled. “Who can blame him?”

  “Well,” said Logan, “we survived Claremont.…”

  The remark called for no elaboration. The institution they’d just left was a political minefield, famous even in the cutthroat world of high-powered medicine for the willingness of young doctors to curry favor with their superiors and, when it came to that, to cut one another up; and, maybe even more so, for the readiness of senior personnel to shaft their subordinates in self-protection.

  “Damn right,” agreed Reston, “no way this could be as bad as that. At Claremont, you had the greed factor, everyone after the same big pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Here—”

  “It’s for science,” Logan finished the thought.

  Reston laughed. “I was gonna say the only pot’s the one we piss in.”

  “So what brought you into research? You don’t really seem like the type.”

  “Me? I hate the sight of blood.”

  Logan smiled.

  “You think I’m kidding? The first time I saw an autopsy—the way they folded that poor guy’s scalp and used an electric saw to pop his top—I knew there had to be a better angle.”

  “Really? I always found autopsies pretty interesting.”

  “Another thing,” said Reston, ignoring this, “—I think over the long run clinical work can have a disastrous effect on your libido. I mean, I love women. But you can take the most beautiful one in the world—someone you’d normally fantasize about—and stick her in one of those damn hospital gowns, with that harsh light showing every zit and blemish, and, sorry, the romance is gone. Especially if you catch her later in the autopsy room. You’re not gonna think about sex for a week.”

  “Well …” If Logan didn’t know quite how to respond, he at least had to admire the guy’s candor, a trait he’d encountered all too rarely at their prior place of employment. “I’m pretty sure you won’t have to suffer through too many autopsies here. That doesn’t seem to be part of the drill.”

  “I hope not. Let’s face it, the only reason they did so many at Claremont was so those weenies in the administration could keep their asses covered.”

  “Wasn’t that everyone’s main job at Claremont, keeping his ass covered? All you wanted to do was get out of that place unscathed.”

  Reston nodded. “So? How’d you manage it?”

  “I don’t know.” He thought about it a moment. “Look, you have to be good. They don’t screw people with real promise. That’d be screwing themselves, the whole basis of their reputation—”

  “I get it, no one gave you a hard time cause you were so talented.”

  Logan smiled; no offense was meant, none taken. “I mean, sure, you don’t go looking for trouble. You find out early who the key players are and make a point of staying on their good side. You make yourself helpful to attending physicians. You don’t go around telling dirty jokes to senior administrators.”

  “Not unless you’ve seen someo
ne else get ahead doing it first. See, now we’re getting into my territory. It’s called being obsequious.”

  “Being careful. There’s a difference.”

  “Don’t forget the patients. You never—even momentarily—leave John Eldridge Grump III in a room with a comatose ex-Pullman porter.” He paused. “Actually, one of the nicest things about Claremont Hospital is that it’s the socially acceptable place to check out—I could keep track of my patients through the Times obituaries. God forbid any of those people should be caught dead at Brooklyn Jewish!”

  “Fine,” acknowledged Logan, “very careful. I don’t pretend to be selfless—in this business that’s self-destructive. But,” he added, meaning it, “I also don’t think I ever violated my sense of integrity.”

  “All right, strategically obsequious. Honorably obsequious.” He nodded, grinning. “Neither did I.”

  Logan laughed; this guy seemed to be a soulmate. “Well, then, who’s to say that training won’t be as valuable at this place as anything else?”

  But abruptly they were cut off by the roar of a motorcycle zooming up the adjacent driveway. Skidding to a stop, the driver—in black leather, his face obscured by the black-tinted Plexiglas of his helmet—dismounted and strode into the midst of the gathering.

  “Who the hell is that?” whispered Reston. “Talk about making an impression!”

  “Stillman!” called out Seth Shein from across the patio, as if in response. “Get that goddamn thing off my lawn!”

  Stillman removed the helmet, revealing a beet-red face, topped by thick black hair matted with perspiration. He looked to be in his late thirties. His surprisingly unimpressive features—a doughy face and droopy eyelids—lent him a sense of sleepy disengagement.

  Almost instantly, a half dozen senior associates surrounded the eminent oncologist. “You guys I already know,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let’s see if we’ve got any scientists in this new bunch.”

  From then on, it was Stillman’s show. Purposefully, he began making the rounds of the newcomers, introducing himself and exchanging a few words. Given Bernstein’s earlier warning, Logan found himself surprised that the man seemed quite the opposite of an ogre.

  “I read your recommendations,” he told the young doctor. “We’re looking for good things from you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Logan, immensely pleased. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

  “Good. Don’t.” Unexpectedly, he flashed a smile. “Anything you need, I’m the guy—”

  “Chicken, Greg?” offered Seth Shein, suddenly at their side, thrusting a plate of barbecued chicken Stillman’s way. He smiled, but there was utterly no warmth in it.

  Stillman speared a leg—“Why not?”—and started munching it. Suddenly he was a different man, his eyes alive, looking distinctly younger, energized.

  “Why not a breast, Greg? Isn’t that your specialty?”

  “Not after you’ve been handling it, Seth. At that point the patient is usually beyond hope.”

  The other glared at him. “At least I don’t run experiments that risk lives!”

  “That’s true,” said Stillman. “Your experiments don’t do anything at all.”

  Looking on, Logan was aghast. It wasn’t merely that Shein had had far too much to drink, or even that these two so clearly loathed each other. What was remarkable, what even the wars at Claremont had not prepared him for, was how little effort either made to hide the fact.

  Abruptly, Stillman turned back his way with an ingratiating smile. “Aren’t you hot in those clothes, Doctor?”

  “Leave him alone,” snapped Shein.

  “Well?” said Stillman, ignoring this.

  Not knowing what to do, Logan nodded tentatively.

  “I know I am,” said Stillman, suddenly unzipping his leather jacket and tossing it at Shein’s feet; quickly followed by his boots and leather pants. Underneath, he wore a pair of trunks.

  “First rule of medical research,” he announced, with a raised eyebrow “—one a lot of people around here have yet to learn: Never shy away from the unorthodox because you’re worried what people will say.” He shot Shein a look. “You’ll find that most people—including your colleagues—are idiots.” He dived into the pool and with strong, even strokes began making his way to the other end.

  “You,” hissed Shein, in Logan’s direction, “are going to have to choose sides.” And, though still dressed, dived into the pool after the other man, racing frantically to overtake him.

  Two days later, his first day of work, Logan reached the ACF grounds before seven. Though the initiation session for incoming associates was not scheduled to begin till eight-thirty, he didn’t want to take the slightest chance of arriving late; or, for that matter, of drawing any undue attention to himself.

  The encounter between the two senior scientists had thrown him badly. Sure, it was easy to rationalize, and he did, that the occasion had provided an unusually combustible set of circumstances: brutal heat, lots of alcohol, an audience of novice junior associates calling forth the basest competitive instincts of each. Logan had often seen gifted men under stress act like spoiled five-year-olds, and knew he would many times again; ego and insecurity almost always come as a matched set. Still, as he replayed the scene over and over in his mind, the question grew ever more insistent: What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  Besides, heavy rain was predicted; and, though he’d studied a map of the campus, Logan’s sense of direction was notoriously unreliable. He would surely need time to get his bearings.

  It proved a wise precaution. The employee pass he’d received in the mail got him through the main gate, but he found himself turned away from the underground garage of the administration building by a uniformed guard. In the interest of sabotage prevention, it seemed one needed a special parking credential available only through ACF security. Then, just as he drew his newly purchased used Ford into the visitors’ lot several hundred yards beyond, the heavens opened.

  Cursing himself for forgetting his umbrella, he made a dash for the building, The Washington Post his only shield. By the time he got there, he was soaked.

  “Christ,” he muttered, staring at his matted hair in the men’s room mirror. To his further annoyance, the paper-towel dispensers were empty—in fact, the bathroom seemed surprisingly poorly serviced in general, more like the one in his old high school than what he’d expected to find in the nation’s top medical research facility. Doing the best he could with wadded toilet paper, he headed for the nearby cafeteria, got a cup of tea, and took a spot at a corner table to dry out.

  He had just unfolded his soggy paper when he saw John Reston, moving his way with a full tray.

  “Look at you,” noted Reston, grinning. “No security pass, right?”

  Logan shook his head. “Do you have one?”

  He set down the tray and withdrew an official-looking laminated card from his jacket pocket. “Just have to know the right people. Talk to Shein’s assistant, she’ll take care of it.” He smiled. “Or talk to Shein—if you dare.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “Hey, some of us got here a few days early and asked around.” Sitting down, he indicated his plate, piled high with scrambled eggs and overdone bacon. “Hope you don’t mind me making a pig of myself.”

  “Go ahead, it’s your body.”

  “And I looove abusing it.” Reston crammed a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “You feeling all right? You seem down.”

  “Aren’t you? After the other day?”

  “Naaah. Look, guys like this, we’re hardly even in their field of vision. Anyway, they’ve already wrecked our personal and financial lives, what more can they do?”

  Despite himself, Logan smiled. “So who’s running this orientation meeting?”

  “Larsen.”

  “Really?” Logan shuddered. “The guy hates me.”

  “Welcome to the club.” He ran a napkin across his mouth. “But list
en, I’m telling you, you can’t take these things personally. Junior associates aren’t important enough for a guy like Larsen to hate.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat anything? That tea’ll go right through you on an empty stomach.”

  “So?”

  He shrugged. “Just a suggestion. My guess is Larsen won’t much like it if you keep jumping up from the meeting.”

  Larsen was precisely as Logan remembered him. Sitting at the head of a large conference table, flanked on one side by his lieutenant Kratsas and on the other by his grim-faced secretary, the chief of the Department of Medicine ran the meeting with dry, humorless efficiency.

  He opened by indicating the two thick spiral-bound notebooks that had been set down before each of the new associates. “For your first assignment, you will be expected to master the material in these books. All of it. No excuses or exceptions.”

  That was it. No word of welcome. No banter. Not even the pretense of collegiality.

  “Now,” continued Larsen, “you all know who I am and why we’re here. You have been accepted into this program because somebody thinks you’ve got what it takes to eventually make a contribution toward curing cancer. But it is my job to inform you that, at least for the first year, your role is to provide support for senior physicians. You are to do what you’re told, period. We are not looking to you for creativity.”

  This did not come as anything like news to Logan or the others, of course. They’d always known that the ACF was a rigid hierarchy; and that as first-year fellows their chief concern would be not research but basic patient care.

  Still, Logan wondered if any of the others were as put off by Larsen’s condescending manner as he was. He quickly glanced up from the legal pad where he was scribbling notes. All of the others, writing dutifully, kept their heads down.

  “Each of you will be responsible for charting the progress of between one hundred twenty-five and one hundred and fifty patients,” Larsen continued, “of whom about twenty will be on site at any given moment. As you know, our job here is to develop and test new cancer therapies. Every patient at the ACF has agreed to take part in a carefully controlled course of treatment. A large part of your job is to see to it your patients in no way deviate from the instructions they have been issued. That they understand that if they fail to follow through in any way, they will be dropped from the program.” He paused. “Some lay people might see this as callous. As scientists, we know better. We understand that in a program of rigorous scientific inquiry, rules can never be bent.”