free vacation?”
Tilley smiled. “Thanks, Doctor.”
“I’ll have someone make a reservation for you at the Madison Arms. Be here tomorrow at eight-thirty and we’ll get started.”
“How long am I gonna have to stay?”
It was part of Logan’s job to allay apprehension, but he would never intentionally mislead a patient. “I really can’t tell you, Larry. Probably no more than a few days. In the meantime, I’m going to give you a couple of liters of intravenous fluids and see if that helps.”
Briefly, it looked like a miracle cure. By the following day, Tilley reported he was feeling better than he had in months.
But the day after that, the dizziness was as bad as ever.
As test after test came up dry, the patient’s few days in Washington became almost two weeks. Disappointed as he was on Tilley’s behalf, Logan’s curiosity continued to mount. Every second day Tilley arrived at the ACF clinic to be examined and pumped full of salt water. Sure enough, he would feel better; yet, just as surely, within two days he was dizzy again, his blood pressure dropping sharply.
Finally, at long last, the tests yielded up the reason for Tilley’s persistent dehydration. His adrenal cortex had ceased to produce the hormones that enable the kidneys to retain salt and water. To Logan, the reason seemed apparent: the protocol drug was somehow blocking the normal function of the organ.
And yet, going over the lengthy proposal that had led to the Compound J test, he found nothing to indicate that the drug might have so alarming a side effect. Nor, as far as he knew, had it so affected even one other patient on the protocol.
The afternoon the test data came in, Logan could focus on nothing else. It simply didn’t make any sense: what was it in the makeup of this patient—or in the specifics of hiscondition, or in some heretofore unrecognized aspect of the drug itself—that could have produced such a result?
Yet already he had begun to formulate an even more pertinent question: Could such a discovery have some meaningful practical application?
The day’s events crystallized in Logan’s mind an intention that had earlier been only a vague thought: he saw Shein’s secretary and picked up a ticket in the ACF box for that evening’s ball game. His favorite team, the California Angels, was in town, and since boyhood he had done some of his best thinking at the ballpark.
Arriving at Baltimore’s Camden Yards early for batting practice, he was not surprised to find himself alone in the box—he’d heard it was seldom used.
The box was on the mezzanine level, slightly to the first-base side of home plate, and Logan had a commanding view of the stunning new stadium. He bought himself a hot dog and beer and settled in, reveling in the feel of the place.
It wasn’t until the fourth inning, with the Angels already enjoying a three-run lead, that he reached into his briefcase and withdrew Larry Tilley’s case history. His plan was to review it from the beginning, prior even to the diagnosis of the disease; looking for some clue in Tilley’s past, anything that might—
“Dan?”
He looked up and there, to his astonishment, a cardboard food tray in her hands, stood Sabrina Como.
She smiled uncertainly. “I hope you do not mind to be bothered.”
Hurriedly, he replaced the papers in his briefcase. “No, of course not. I’m just … surprised.”
“Most times no one else is here.” She took a seat beside him.
“Aha …” He stared at her wonderingly. “You like baseball?”
She nodded. “It is a game of numbers. I like numbers,my mother teaches statistics.” She pointed at the scoreboard in right field. “The Orioles, they are not doing so very well. Only three hits and two errors already.”
He nodded. “Tim Salmon hit a home run for the Angels.” This was
crazy;
no way she could know who Tim Salmon was.
“And Bo Jackson? That is a big reason I came—to see a man with a hip replacement run
Tilley smiled. “Thanks, Doctor.”
“I’ll have someone make a reservation for you at the Madison Arms. Be here tomorrow at eight-thirty and we’ll get started.”
“How long am I gonna have to stay?”
It was part of Logan’s job to allay apprehension, but he would never intentionally mislead a patient. “I really can’t tell you, Larry. Probably no more than a few days. In the meantime, I’m going to give you a couple of liters of intravenous fluids and see if that helps.”
Briefly, it looked like a miracle cure. By the following day, Tilley reported he was feeling better than he had in months.
But the day after that, the dizziness was as bad as ever.
As test after test came up dry, the patient’s few days in Washington became almost two weeks. Disappointed as he was on Tilley’s behalf, Logan’s curiosity continued to mount. Every second day Tilley arrived at the ACF clinic to be examined and pumped full of salt water. Sure enough, he would feel better; yet, just as surely, within two days he was dizzy again, his blood pressure dropping sharply.
Finally, at long last, the tests yielded up the reason for Tilley’s persistent dehydration. His adrenal cortex had ceased to produce the hormones that enable the kidneys to retain salt and water. To Logan, the reason seemed apparent: the protocol drug was somehow blocking the normal function of the organ.
And yet, going over the lengthy proposal that had led to the Compound J test, he found nothing to indicate that the drug might have so alarming a side effect. Nor, as far as he knew, had it so affected even one other patient on the protocol.
The afternoon the test data came in, Logan could focus on nothing else. It simply didn’t make any sense: what was it in the makeup of this patient—or in the specifics of hiscondition, or in some heretofore unrecognized aspect of the drug itself—that could have produced such a result?
Yet already he had begun to formulate an even more pertinent question: Could such a discovery have some meaningful practical application?
The day’s events crystallized in Logan’s mind an intention that had earlier been only a vague thought: he saw Shein’s secretary and picked up a ticket in the ACF box for that evening’s ball game. His favorite team, the California Angels, was in town, and since boyhood he had done some of his best thinking at the ballpark.
Arriving at Baltimore’s Camden Yards early for batting practice, he was not surprised to find himself alone in the box—he’d heard it was seldom used.
The box was on the mezzanine level, slightly to the first-base side of home plate, and Logan had a commanding view of the stunning new stadium. He bought himself a hot dog and beer and settled in, reveling in the feel of the place.
It wasn’t until the fourth inning, with the Angels already enjoying a three-run lead, that he reached into his briefcase and withdrew Larry Tilley’s case history. His plan was to review it from the beginning, prior even to the diagnosis of the disease; looking for some clue in Tilley’s past, anything that might—
“Dan?”
He looked up and there, to his astonishment, a cardboard food tray in her hands, stood Sabrina Como.
She smiled uncertainly. “I hope you do not mind to be bothered.”
Hurriedly, he replaced the papers in his briefcase. “No, of course not. I’m just … surprised.”
“Most times no one else is here.” She took a seat beside him.
“Aha …” He stared at her wonderingly. “You like baseball?”
She nodded. “It is a game of numbers. I like numbers,my mother teaches statistics.” She pointed at the scoreboard in right field. “The Orioles, they are not doing so very well. Only three hits and two errors already.”
He nodded. “Tim Salmon hit a home run for the Angels.” This was
crazy;
no way she could know who Tim Salmon was.
“And Bo Jackson? That is a big reason I came—to see a man with a hip replacement run
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