suppose that introduction was as
good as any. I turned, as did everyone, just as N a t h a n
Marshall entered the room. I doubt I was the only one
surprised to see a man sitting comfortably in a blue
metal wheelchair with shiny chrome wheels, his legs
concealed beneath a thin yellow wool blanket. Taking a
quick glance at Bill, Red Beard, and W h e e l s , it was ob¬
vious none of us had known the good doctor was dis¬
abled. N o t that it really mattered—it just wasn't how I'd
pictured him in my mind.
He was just as handsome as Drake had alluded, with
thick wavy black hair crowning his thin, regal-looking
face. He had to be at least sixty years of age, but looked
remarkably younger if you didn't study him too close. It
was his eyes, I think—powerful, piercing blue eyes that
glimmered with just a hint of green. His skin was quite
pale but not from sickness; it was probably because he
spent so much time indoors.
He was casually dressed in a dark blue pullover
sweater with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows.
The yellow blanket hid his legs, but below that he was
wearing brand-new white Adidas runners. His legs ap¬
peared to be thin and somewhat wasted away, but his
upper body was very well developed. Dr. Marshall obvi¬
ously spent countless hours in the gym despite his dis¬
abilities. All eyes were on him as he slowly made his way
down to the podium.
"Good m o r n i n g , gentlemen " Dr. Marshall said when
he finally positioned himself on the raised platform. He
ignored the microphone and just spoke to us in a strong
clear voice. "I'm so glad we can finally meet."
He had a slight accent when he spoke—European for
sure, maybe German. It was slight but detectable, espe¬
cially when he said finally, pronouncing the word with
a V sound, rather than an F. His tone was friendly and
he seemed genuinely happy to be meeting us. Right off
the bat, just as Drake had predicted, I liked him. I couldn't
help but feel a little in awe. I'd never accomplished any¬
thing in my whole worthless life and here was this
courageous man who'd earned worldwide recognition
and countless achievements all from the seat of that
chair. He'd been dealt a bad hand in this world and had
probably never complained half as much as I had. Made
me feel like a first-class loser. I didn't deserve to sit in
the same room as this guy.
Drake took care of the introductions for everyone.
"You'll have to excuse me if I don't get up to shake
everyone's hand," Dr. Marshall said, and everyone
chuckled, especially Red Beard and W h e e l s , who could
appreciate the humor far more than Bill or I.
"First of all, I want to thank you for agreeing to come
here today. I know how great your sacrifices will be and
I want you to know I don't fake them lightly. W h a t you
are about to do is a very special thing, not only for m e ,
but also for medical science and all the future people
who will surely benefit from our successes. I have a
much more personal reason to be grateful to the four of
you, but I'll get to that later."
Dr. Marshall paused to whisper something in Drake's
ear. Drake, in return, nodded, stood up, and exited the
room through a metal door off to our left. The door
swung shut, cutting off my view of him, so I turned my
attention back to the man on the podium.
"Okay," Dr. Marshall said." We've got a lot to cover, so
let's get started. As Mr. Drake has surely informed you,
I'm a surgeon who left behind years of public service to
concentrate my efforts on private research. My work here
is basically no different than any average research scien¬
tist, except I fund all the projects myself without the need
to grovel at the feet of the various bankers, government
agencies, and private sector financial backers. You'd be
amazed how much time is wasted by wonderfully tal¬
ented people who have to delay their research to beg for
further grants and loans. Trust me, delays and
good as any. I turned, as did everyone, just as N a t h a n
Marshall entered the room. I doubt I was the only one
surprised to see a man sitting comfortably in a blue
metal wheelchair with shiny chrome wheels, his legs
concealed beneath a thin yellow wool blanket. Taking a
quick glance at Bill, Red Beard, and W h e e l s , it was ob¬
vious none of us had known the good doctor was dis¬
abled. N o t that it really mattered—it just wasn't how I'd
pictured him in my mind.
He was just as handsome as Drake had alluded, with
thick wavy black hair crowning his thin, regal-looking
face. He had to be at least sixty years of age, but looked
remarkably younger if you didn't study him too close. It
was his eyes, I think—powerful, piercing blue eyes that
glimmered with just a hint of green. His skin was quite
pale but not from sickness; it was probably because he
spent so much time indoors.
He was casually dressed in a dark blue pullover
sweater with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows.
The yellow blanket hid his legs, but below that he was
wearing brand-new white Adidas runners. His legs ap¬
peared to be thin and somewhat wasted away, but his
upper body was very well developed. Dr. Marshall obvi¬
ously spent countless hours in the gym despite his dis¬
abilities. All eyes were on him as he slowly made his way
down to the podium.
"Good m o r n i n g , gentlemen " Dr. Marshall said when
he finally positioned himself on the raised platform. He
ignored the microphone and just spoke to us in a strong
clear voice. "I'm so glad we can finally meet."
He had a slight accent when he spoke—European for
sure, maybe German. It was slight but detectable, espe¬
cially when he said finally, pronouncing the word with
a V sound, rather than an F. His tone was friendly and
he seemed genuinely happy to be meeting us. Right off
the bat, just as Drake had predicted, I liked him. I couldn't
help but feel a little in awe. I'd never accomplished any¬
thing in my whole worthless life and here was this
courageous man who'd earned worldwide recognition
and countless achievements all from the seat of that
chair. He'd been dealt a bad hand in this world and had
probably never complained half as much as I had. Made
me feel like a first-class loser. I didn't deserve to sit in
the same room as this guy.
Drake took care of the introductions for everyone.
"You'll have to excuse me if I don't get up to shake
everyone's hand," Dr. Marshall said, and everyone
chuckled, especially Red Beard and W h e e l s , who could
appreciate the humor far more than Bill or I.
"First of all, I want to thank you for agreeing to come
here today. I know how great your sacrifices will be and
I want you to know I don't fake them lightly. W h a t you
are about to do is a very special thing, not only for m e ,
but also for medical science and all the future people
who will surely benefit from our successes. I have a
much more personal reason to be grateful to the four of
you, but I'll get to that later."
Dr. Marshall paused to whisper something in Drake's
ear. Drake, in return, nodded, stood up, and exited the
room through a metal door off to our left. The door
swung shut, cutting off my view of him, so I turned my
attention back to the man on the podium.
"Okay," Dr. Marshall said." We've got a lot to cover, so
let's get started. As Mr. Drake has surely informed you,
I'm a surgeon who left behind years of public service to
concentrate my efforts on private research. My work here
is basically no different than any average research scien¬
tist, except I fund all the projects myself without the need
to grovel at the feet of the various bankers, government
agencies, and private sector financial backers. You'd be
amazed how much time is wasted by wonderfully tal¬
ented people who have to delay their research to beg for
further grants and loans. Trust me, delays and
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