The Final Diagnosis

Pearson nodded slowly. Suddenly he looked very old. “Yes,” he said. “I was thinking of that.”

Eleven

The prop-jet Viscount turned evenly into wind and began to lose height. Landing gear and flaps down, it was lined up with number one runway of Burlington’s municipal airport, dead ahead. Watching the airplane’s approach from the public mezzanine, just below the control tower, Dr. Kent O’Donnell reflected idly that aviation and medicine had a good deal in common. Both were products of science; both were changing the world’s life and destroying old concepts; both were moving toward unknown horizons and a future only dimly seen. There was another parallel too. Aviation nowadays was having trouble keeping pace with its own discoveries; an aircraft designer he knew had told him recently, “If an airplane’s flying it’s already out of date.”

The practice of medicine, O’Donnell thought, shading his eyes from the bright afternoon sun of mid-August, was very much the same. Hospitals, clinics, physicians themselves, were never able to be entirely up to date. No matter how they tried, experimentation, development, new techniques were always ahead—sometimes by years. A man might die today when the drug that could save him was already invented and even, perhaps, in limited use. But it took time for new developments to become known and to gain acceptance. The same was true of surgery. One surgeon, or a group of surgeons, might develop a new life-saving technique. But before it could be used generally others must master it and pass their skill along. Sometimes it was a long process. Heart surgery, for example, was fairly general now and within reach of most who needed it badly. But for a long time only a handful of surgeons were qualified or willing to attempt it.

There was always the question, too, with new things: is this good; is it a wise development? Not all change meant progress. Plenty of times in medicine there were false scents, theories running contrary to fact, individuals with enthusiasms and obsessions who would go off half cocked, misleading others when they did. Sometimes it was hard to steer a mid-course between open-mindedness and reasonable caution. At Three Counties, with its quota of diehards and progressives—and with good men in both camps—it was a continuing problem for someone like O’Donnell to know, at any given moment, exactly where and with whom his allegiance lay.

His thoughts were broken by the Viscount taxiing in, the shrill whine of its motors drowning out the voices of others around him. O’Donnell waited until the motors stopped and passengers began to disembark. Then, seeing Dr. Coleman among them, he went down the stairs to greet the hospital’s new assistant director of pathology in the arrival lobby.

David Coleman was surprised to see the chief of surgery—tall, bronzed, standing out from the crowd—waiting for him with outstretched hand. O’Donnell said, “It’s good to see you. Joe Pearson couldn’t make it, but we thought that someone should be around to say ‘welcome.’ ” What O’Donnell failed to add was that Joe Pearson had flatly refused to go and, Harry Tomaselli being out of town, O’Donnell had taken the time to drive out himself.

As they moved through the hot, crowded lobby O’Donnell saw Coleman glance around him. He got the impression that the younger man was making a quick assessment of his surroundings. Perhaps it was a habit—if so, a good one. Certainly David Coleman would stand up to scrutiny himself. Though he had had a three-hour air journey, his gabardine suit was uncreased, his well-trimmed hair carefully parted and brushed, his shave recent. He wore no hat, which made him look younger than his thirty-one years. Though slighter than O’Donnell in build, his features were clear-cut and well defined; he had a longish face and an incisive jaw. The brief case under his arm added a professional touch; picture of a young scientist, O’Donnell thought. He steered Coleman toward the baggage counter. A trailerload of bags was being unloaded, and they joined the scrimmage with other passengers who had disembarked.

O’Donnell said, “This is the part of air travel I dislike.”

Coleman nodded and smiled faintly. It was almost as if he had said, Let’s not waste our talents on small talk, shall we?

This is a cool customer, O’Donnell thought. He noticed, as he had at their previous meeting, the steel-gray eyes and wondered what it took to penetrate behind them. Now Coleman was standing, unmoving among the crowd, glancing around. Almost as if by command, ignoring others, a redcap gravitated toward him.

Ten minutes later, as O’Donnell threaded his Buick through the airport traffic and headed toward town, he said, “We’ve put you up in the Roosevelt Hotel. It’s as comfortable as any and quiet. I believe our administrator wrote you about the apartment situation.”

“Yes, he did,” Coleman said. “I’d like to do something about that quite quickly.”

“You won’t have any problem,” O’Donnell said, then added, “Perhaps you’d like to take a day or two to fix up an apartment before you report at the hospital.”

“I don’t think so, thank you. I plan to start work tomorrow morning.”

Coleman was polite but definite. O’Donnell thought: This is a man who makes up his mind, then states his opinion plainly. He sounded, too, as if he were not dissuaded easily. O’Donnell found himself speculating on how Joe Pearson and David Coleman were going to get along. Superficially it looked as if they might clash. But you could never tell. Sometimes in a hospital the most unlikely people hit it off like lifetime friends.

Looking around him as they drove through the approaches to the city, David Coleman found himself close to a sense of excitement at the prospect ahead. This was unusual because mostly he took whatever came with a matter-of-fact acceptance. But it was, after all, his first staff appointment to a hospital. He told himself: a touch of down-to-earth humanity is nothing to be ashamed of, my friend, then smiled inwardly at the silent self-criticism. Old habits of thought, he reflected, were hard to break.

He wondered about O’Donnell, sitting beside him. Everything he had heard about the chief of surgery at Three Counties had been good. How was it, he wondered, that a man with O’Donnell’s background and qualifications would choose a place like Burlington? Did he, too, have a mixed-up motivation, or was there some other reason? Maybe he just liked it here. There were some people, Coleman supposed, whose preferences were straightforward and uncomplicated.

O’Donnell pulled out to pass a tractor-trailer. Then he said, “I’d like to tell you a couple of things, if I may.”

Coleman said politely, “Please do.”

“We’ve had a number of changes at Three Counties these past few years.” O’Donnell was going slowly, choosing his words. “Harry Tomaselli told me you’d heard of some of them—as well as our plans.”

Coleman smiled. “Yes, I had.”

O’Donnell sounded his horn and a car ahead of them moved over. He said, “The fact of your being here represents a major change, and I imagine that, once installed, there will be other changes you’ll want to make yourself.”

Coleman thought of the hospital’s pathology department as he had seen it during his brief visit. “Yes,” he responded, “I’m sure there will.”

O’Donnell was silent. Then, more slowly, he said, “Whenever we could, we’ve tried to make our changes peaceably. Sometimes that hasn’t been possible; I’m not one who believes in sacrificing a principle just to keep the peace.” He looked sideways at Coleman. “Let’s be clear about that.”

Coleman nodded but made no answer. O’Donnell went on, “All the same, wherever you can, I’d suggest you move discreetly.” He smiled. “Do what you can by persuasion, and save the big guns for things that really matter.”

Noncommittally Coleman said, “I see.” He was not sure just what he was being told; he would need to know O’Donnell better before deciding that. Had he been wrong in his impression of O’Donnell? Was the chief of surgery, after all, just a pussyfooter? Was Coleman being told here and now, as a newcomer, not to rock the boat? If that were so, they would quickly find they had obtained the wrong man. David Coleman made a mental note not to take a long lease on any apartment he might find in Burlington.

O’Donnell was wondering now if he had been wise in saying what he had. They had been fortunate to get this man Coleman, and he had no wish to put him off, not right at the beginning. But all the time at the back of O’Donnell’s mind had been the problem of Joe Pearson and Pearson’s admitted influence with Eustace Swayne. As far as he could O’Donnell wanted to be loyal to Orden Brown; in the past the board chairman had done a good deal to support the chief of surgery. O’Donnell knew that Brown wanted Swayne’s quarter million dollars and, indeed, the hospital needed it badly. And if that meant placating Joe Pearson a little, O’Donnell was prepared to go along—within reason.

But where did hospital politics end and O’Donnell’s responsibility as a medical practitioner begin? It was a question that troubled him; someday he might have to decide just where the line of demarcation lay. Was he himself playing politics now? O’Donnell supposed he was. If he were not, he would not have just said what he had to Dr. Coleman. Power corrupts, he thought; you can’t escape it, no matter who you are. He considered expanding the subject a little more with Coleman, perhaps taking the younger man into his confidence, then decided against it. Coleman was, after all, a newcomer; and O’Donnell was acutely aware that he had not penetrated yet behind those cool gray eyes.

Now they were coming into the city center, the streets of Burlington hot and dusty, sidewalks shimmering and the black-top roadways sticky in the heat. He turned the Buick into the forecourt of the Roosevelt Hotel. A porter opened the car doors and began to remove Coleman’s bags from the rear seat.

O’Donnell said, “Would you like me to come in? Make sure everything’s in order?”

From outside the car Coleman answered, “There’s really no need.” Once more the quiet but definite statement.

O’Donnell leaned across the seat. “All right. We’ll expect you tomorrow then. Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

The porter slammed the doors, and O’Donnell eased the car into the city traffic. He glanced at his watch. It was 2 p.m. He decided he would go to his own office first, the hospital later.

Seated on the leather-covered bench outside the outpatients’ laboratory of Three Counties, Elizabeth Alexander wondered why it was that the corridor walls had been painted two shades of brown instead of something lighter and brighter. It was a dark part of the hospital anyway; a little yellow, or even a light green, would have made the place so much more cheerful.

From as far back as her memory went Elizabeth had liked bright colors. She remembered, as a little girl, the first pair of draperies she had made for her own room at home; they had been powder-blue chintz with shapes of stars and moons woven into them. She suspected now that they had been very badly made, but at the time they had seemed quite wonderful. To hang them she had gone downstairs into her father’s store and indulgently he had sought out the things she needed—a rod cut to the right length, metal brackets, screws, a screw driver. She remembered his groping to find what he wanted among the other hardware—always piled high and untidily so that more often than not he had to search for whatever a customer asked for.