can’t just walk—”
“Kelly will take over for you.”
Kelly was one of the staff surgeons.
“Kelly?”
“He’s scrubbing now,” Leavitt said. “It’s all arranged. I’ll expect to meet you in the surgeon’s change room. In about thirty seconds.”
And then he was gone.
Hall glared at everyone in the room. No one moved, or spoke. After a moment, he stripped off his gloves and stomped out of the room, swearing once, very loudly.
Hall viewed his own association with Wildfire as tenuous at best. In 1966 he had been approached by Leavitt, the chief of bacteriology of the hospital, who had explained in a sketchy way the purpose of the project. Hall found it all rather amusing and had agreed to join the team, if his services ever became necessary; privately, he was confident that nothing would ever come of Wildfire.
Leavitt had offered to give Hall the files on Wildfire and to keep him up to date on the project. At first, Hall politely took the files, but it soon became clear that he was not bothering to read them, and so Leavitt stopped giving them to him. If anything, this pleased Hall, who preferred not to have his desk cluttered.
A year before, Leavitt had asked him whether he wasn’t curious about something that he had agreed to join and that might at some future time prove dangerous.
Hall had said, “No.”
Now, in the doctors’ room, Hall regretted those words. The doctors’ room was a small place, lined on all four walls with lockers; there were no windows. A large coffeemaker sat in the center of the room, with a stack of paper cups alongside. Leavitt was pouring himself a cup, his solemn, basset-hound face looking mournful.
“This is going to be awful coffee,” he said. “You can’t get a decent cup anywhere in a hospital. Hurry and change.”
Hall said, “Do you mind telling me first why—”
“I mind, I mind,” Leavitt said. “Change: there’s a car waiting outside and we’re already late. Perhaps too late.”
He had a gruffly melodramatic way of speaking that had always annoyed Hall.
There was a loud slurp as Leavitt sipped the coffee. “Just as I suspected,” he said. “How can you tolerate it? Hurry, please.”
Hall unlocked his locker and kicked it open. He leaned against the door and stripped away the black plastic shoe covers that were worn in the operating room to prevent buildup of static charges. “Next, I suppose you’re going to tell me this has to do with that damned project.”
“Exactly,” Leavitt said. “Now try to hurry. The car is waiting to take us to the airport, and the morning traffic is bad.”
Hall changed quickly, not thinking, his mind momentarily stunned. Somehow he had never thought it possible. He dressed and walked out with Leavitt toward the hospital entrance. Outside, in the sunshine, he could see the olive U.S. Army sedan pulled up to the curb, its light flashing. And he had a sudden, horrible realization that Leavitt was not kidding, that nobody was kidding, and that some kind of awful nightmare was coming true.
For his own part, Peter Leavitt was irritated with Hall. In general, Leavitt had little patience with practicing physicians. Though he had an M.D. degree, Leavitt had never practiced, preferring to devote his time to research. His field was clinical microbiology and epidemiology, and his specialty was parasitology. He had done parasitic research all over the world; his work had led to the discovery of the Brazilian tapeworm, Taenia renzi , which he had characterized in a paper in 1953.
As he grew older, however, Leavitt had stopped traveling. Public health, he was fond of saying, was a young man’s game; when you got your fifth case of intestinal amebiasis, it was time to quit. Leavitt got his fifth case in Rhodesia in 1955. He was dreadfully sick for three months and lost forty pounds. Afterward, he resigned his job in the public health service. He was offered the post of chief of microbiology at the hospital, and he had
“Kelly will take over for you.”
Kelly was one of the staff surgeons.
“Kelly?”
“He’s scrubbing now,” Leavitt said. “It’s all arranged. I’ll expect to meet you in the surgeon’s change room. In about thirty seconds.”
And then he was gone.
Hall glared at everyone in the room. No one moved, or spoke. After a moment, he stripped off his gloves and stomped out of the room, swearing once, very loudly.
Hall viewed his own association with Wildfire as tenuous at best. In 1966 he had been approached by Leavitt, the chief of bacteriology of the hospital, who had explained in a sketchy way the purpose of the project. Hall found it all rather amusing and had agreed to join the team, if his services ever became necessary; privately, he was confident that nothing would ever come of Wildfire.
Leavitt had offered to give Hall the files on Wildfire and to keep him up to date on the project. At first, Hall politely took the files, but it soon became clear that he was not bothering to read them, and so Leavitt stopped giving them to him. If anything, this pleased Hall, who preferred not to have his desk cluttered.
A year before, Leavitt had asked him whether he wasn’t curious about something that he had agreed to join and that might at some future time prove dangerous.
Hall had said, “No.”
Now, in the doctors’ room, Hall regretted those words. The doctors’ room was a small place, lined on all four walls with lockers; there were no windows. A large coffeemaker sat in the center of the room, with a stack of paper cups alongside. Leavitt was pouring himself a cup, his solemn, basset-hound face looking mournful.
“This is going to be awful coffee,” he said. “You can’t get a decent cup anywhere in a hospital. Hurry and change.”
Hall said, “Do you mind telling me first why—”
“I mind, I mind,” Leavitt said. “Change: there’s a car waiting outside and we’re already late. Perhaps too late.”
He had a gruffly melodramatic way of speaking that had always annoyed Hall.
There was a loud slurp as Leavitt sipped the coffee. “Just as I suspected,” he said. “How can you tolerate it? Hurry, please.”
Hall unlocked his locker and kicked it open. He leaned against the door and stripped away the black plastic shoe covers that were worn in the operating room to prevent buildup of static charges. “Next, I suppose you’re going to tell me this has to do with that damned project.”
“Exactly,” Leavitt said. “Now try to hurry. The car is waiting to take us to the airport, and the morning traffic is bad.”
Hall changed quickly, not thinking, his mind momentarily stunned. Somehow he had never thought it possible. He dressed and walked out with Leavitt toward the hospital entrance. Outside, in the sunshine, he could see the olive U.S. Army sedan pulled up to the curb, its light flashing. And he had a sudden, horrible realization that Leavitt was not kidding, that nobody was kidding, and that some kind of awful nightmare was coming true.
For his own part, Peter Leavitt was irritated with Hall. In general, Leavitt had little patience with practicing physicians. Though he had an M.D. degree, Leavitt had never practiced, preferring to devote his time to research. His field was clinical microbiology and epidemiology, and his specialty was parasitology. He had done parasitic research all over the world; his work had led to the discovery of the Brazilian tapeworm, Taenia renzi , which he had characterized in a paper in 1953.
As he grew older, however, Leavitt had stopped traveling. Public health, he was fond of saying, was a young man’s game; when you got your fifth case of intestinal amebiasis, it was time to quit. Leavitt got his fifth case in Rhodesia in 1955. He was dreadfully sick for three months and lost forty pounds. Afterward, he resigned his job in the public health service. He was offered the post of chief of microbiology at the hospital, and he had
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