A Case of Need: A Novel by Michael Crichton, Jeffery Hudson Page A

their first names. It was no good reminding her that you’d never heard of Herbie and Su-su and Allie before.” He laughed. “I do remember she once did an imitation of a girl who blew bubbles.”
    “But you can’t remember any names?”
    He shook his head. “Sorry.”
    I stood to go. “Well,” I said, “you must be very tired. What are you on these days?”
    “Surgery. We just finished OB-GYN.”
    “Like it?”
    “It’s O.K.,” he said blandly.
    As I was leaving, I said, “Where did you do your OB?”
    “At the BLI.” He looked at me for a moment and frowned. “And to answer your question, I assisted on several. I know how to do one. But I was on duty at the hospital Sunday night. All night long. So there it is.”
    “Thanks for your time,” I said.
    “Sure,” he said.
    A S I LEFT THE DORMITORY , I saw a tall, lean, silver-haired man walking toward me. Of course I recognized him, even from a distance. J. D. Randall was, if nothing else, distinctive.
    1 The English court physician who, in 1628, discovered that blood circulated in a closed loop.
    2 A doctor cannot change his name after receiving his M.D. degree without invalidating that degree. This means that there is a great rush in the final weeks of med school among doctors flocking into court to change their names before they receive their diplomas.

TWELVE
    T HE SUN WAS SETTING , and the light on the quadrangle was turning yellow-gold. I lit a cigarette and walked up to Randall. His eyes widened slightly as he saw me, and then he smiled.
    “Dr. Berry.”
    Very friendly. He held out his hand. I shook it: dry, clean, scrubbed to two inches above the elbow for ten minutes. A surgeon’s hand.
    “How do you do, Dr. Randall.”
    He said, “You wanted to see me?”
    I frowned.
    “My secretary,” he said, “told me you had stopped by my office. About the chart.”
    “Oh, yes,” I said, “the chart.”
    He smiled benignly. He was half a head taller than I. “I think we had better clear up a few things.”
    “All right.”
    “Come with me.”
    He didn’t intend it as a command, but it came out that way. I was reminded that surgeons were the last autocrats in society, the last class of men who were given total control over a situation. Surgeons assumed the responsibility for the welfare of the patient, the staff, everything.
    We walked back toward the parking lot. I had the feeling that he had come especially to see me. I had no idea how he knew I was there, but the feeling was very strong. As he walked, he swung his arms loosely at his sides. For some reason, I watched them; I remembered the neurologist’s law of swinging arms. 1 I saw his hands, which were huge, all out of proportion to the rest of his body, huge hands, thick and hairy and red. His nails were trimmed to the required one-millimeter surgical length. His hair was cut short and his eyes were cold, gray, and businesslike.
    “Several people have mentioned your name to me lately,” he said.
    “Oh?”
    “Yes.”
    We came into the parking lot. His car was a silver Porsche; he stopped beside it and leaned casually against the polished fender. Something about his manner told me I was not invited to do the same. He looked at me for a moment in silence, his eyes flicking over my face, and then he said, “They speak highly of you.”
    “I’m glad to hear that.”
    “A man of good judgment and good sense.”
    I shrugged. He smiled at me again, then said, “Busy day?”
    “Busier than some days.”
    “You’re at the Lincoln, is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re well thought of there.”
    “I try to do a good job.”
    “I’m told your work is excellent.”
    “Thank you.” His approach was throwing me off; I didn’t see where he was going. I didn’t have to wait long.
    “Did you ever think of changing hospitals?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There may be other … possibilities. Openings.”
    “Oh?”
    “Indeed.”
    “I’m quite happy where I am.”
    “For the