“Interesting possibilities?” said Harris with some force. “Is that all?”

Eric sighed and took a defensive forkful of baklava. He was still puzzled about what Harris actually wanted from him, but his mind was buzzing with the implications of the Talmidge research. He’d wondered how to play this meeting. Showing excitement over spurious research could cost him the spot he was hoping for next year, an invitation to join the staff at New York General. Conservative, he’d decided. That was the way. He’d even worn a tie. But it seemed “conservative” wasn’t what Harris wanted.

Harris too had debated in his mind how to approach Eric, how to draw him out without overwhelming him. Harris was aware that even his contemporaries considered him rather formidable. And many of the residents who rotated onto his service were so terrified, he often had trouble eliciting simple answers and diagnoses from them.

For this reason, though he was well-known at several excellent restaurants near the hospital, he had decided against inviting Eric to dinner, choosing instead the Greek coffee shop in which they now sat, as being less intimidating for him. But still Eric was nervous.

He studied the young man across the Formica table, his face haggard from lack of sleep, yet his eyes bright and intelligent. His black hair was slightly tousled, and his face pale in the harsh fluorescents. Good-looking, he thought, but not overly conscious of it. A lot of natural charm. A bright, maybe brilliant mind, but too self-deprecating. Well, he was young. He would grow into his looks, his mind, his life.

What he liked about Eric, Harris thought to himself, was not just that he’d graduated at the top of his class from Columbia P&S. Or that he was a diligent and caring doctor and an extremely talented surgeon. What really intrigued John Harris was the way Eric was able to take intellectual chances, to leap in oblique, untraditional directions, not just plod down the respectable by-the-book mental pathways. It was just such a leap that he sought now.

Eric sipped his coffee, which was hot and fragrant, and wondered what to say next. The silence was deadly. Eric decided to try again.

“Dr. Harris,” he began.

“John,” said Harris. “Call me John.”

John?

“Well, uh, John,” said Eric, feeling a thrill that was part elation, part panic, “the second article kind of negates the first, doesn’t it? Of course, if it didn’t . . . but it does, although . . .” He trailed off into silence again.

“Look, Rose,” Harris said finally, “If we’re going to work together on this thing, you’re going to have to be brave enough to tell me what you really think. I promise you I’m not grading you, and you’ve already been assured a surgical position working with me in the transplant unit next year. That’s confidential, of course. So why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re thinking.”

Eric stared at Harris across his cup, then slowly lowered it, slopping coffee into the saucer. He smiled. It was a very nice smile.

“Well, uh, John . . . I’ve gotta tell you it’s going to be hard to call you John, but I’ll try. . . . I’m in for next year, huh?” The smile had become a large grin. The fatigue was less noticeable.

“Yes,” said Harris. “You’re in. So talk.”

“Okay.” Eric took a deep breath, then plunged.

“The first article was very, very exciting. I mean, if he really did what he claimed to do, the possibilities are endless. I’d be jumping up and down if I hadn’t read the second article, where he said he didn’t do it after all. And yet . . .”

“Go on,” Harris said.

“Well, I was intrigued. I mean, something about it just bothered me, So I went to the New York Academy of Medicine yesterday. They tossed him out in 1973, but they still had his file, at least part of it. And that was funny too.”

“In what way?” Harris said.

“Well, someone weeded out all the scientific papers and articles Talmidge had written, even the copy of the lecture he delivered to the academy membership about his research before he went public with it. Now, why would someone do that? I mean, why not dump the whole file?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t think someone from the academy did it. I think Talmidge did.”

“Why?”

“So that no one would be able to review it all, years later. No one would have any second thoughts.”

I was right about the boy, Harris thought. “Go on,” he said.

“Well, I’ve thought about it all a lot,” Eric told him. “At first I didn’t see the connection. And then when I did, it seemed so . . . unlikely. But once you accept it as possible, it’s incredibly exciting. If the man could actually reproduce a mouse, with the identical genetic structure, maybe he could figure out how to reproduce a specific organ using cells from a donor. It would match perfectly, so he wouldn’t need to use antirejection drugs. Maybe that’s what he’s doing with Abbott.”

“But he said he didn’t do it,” said Harris softly. “He renounced all his data, admitted that the research results he had published were fraudulent.”

“That’s what he said, yes.”

Harris studied him. “You don’t believe him,” he said.

“Why would he lie?” said Eric. “That’s what’s been bothering me. I mean, if we assume he didn’t clone the mouse, then he perpetrated a scientific fraud and destroyed his career just for a laugh. But look at it the other way. Let’s say he did clone that mouse. Why did he withdraw his research, repudiate his results, call it fraud? Because the connection with the Abbott thing is so strong, it fits so well . . .”

Harris’s eyes gleamed. “Let me tell you a little about Ben Talmidge,” he said. “Maybe it’ll help you, us, decide what he may or may not have done.”

He sipped his coffee, marshaling his thoughts, his memories.

“Talmidge was always a rebel, not that that’s bad. But he seemed to enjoy antagonizing people. He’d go out of his way to get them mad at him, even if they agreed with him. He’d create animosity for its own sake, then bask in it.

“He was a genius, no question. But he hated the establishment, just because it was there, even when it supported him, nurtured him. In fact, the more it lauded him, the more he resented it. It was actually pathological. And he was selfish too. Not about sharing credit, that never came up. He rarely worked with anyone except his ‘menials’ - his word, not mine - undergraduate students who did his scut work. No, he was selfish with his results. It wasn’t just a matter of not wanting to help a colleague, it went deeper.”

Harris paused. “Does any of this help?”

Outside, the late spring rain had begun painting streaks on the blue evening air. People were hurrying along the sidewalk, holding newspapers over their heads. Unlike yesterday’s, this rain had not been forecast.

“I think he did it,” said Eric quietly. “I think he got so excited, he announced it and then was sorry. Or maybe he did it once and then couldn’t repeat it. But I think he’s been working on it all these years. And I’ll bet you he can repeat it now.”

“And he’s cloning organs,” said Harris.

“Seems likely,” said Eric.

“But how does he do it?” Harris asked, more to himself than to Eric. “How does he control the cellular determination, turn a cell into a kidney or a liver or. . . . And what about the growth rate? I’d love to know, I’d love us all to know.”

“Uh, of course there is another possibility,” said Eric diffidently.

“Yes?” said Harris. “Tell me.”

Eric told him.

The lights are bright, so bright. They spin dizzyingly above his head, yellow-white, then sway, then settle. He doesn’t remember opening his eyes, but they are open, watching the lights. He doesn’t want to look at the lights, so he closes his eyes and watches the echo-image dance on his retinas. Slowly, experimentally, he opens his eyes again and turns his head to the side. The wall is softly green. A cabinet with medicine hangs on the wall. A nurse walks to the cabinet, unlocks it, takes something out, relocks it. Suddenly he remembers where he is, and a rush of pure elation tingles in his chest. He’s in the hospital. Now he feels the beginnings of the pain. But he expected pain, he can deal with pain. He knows his back will be bandaged. It is the source of his pain and his joy. The pain will pass. And then everything will be better, much better.

A voice speaks, and he turns a little to refocus on the man who now stands next to the hospital trolley on which he lies. He recognizes the doctor. Such a kind man.

“How do you feel, Jim?” the doctor asks.

“Good!” he says, “Better than when I came here.”

The doctor nods, smiles. “You will have pain,” the doctor tells him, “But then the pain will stop.”

“I know that,” he says.

“You will eat differently,” says the doctor. “For a while, anyway. You must be careful at first. I will write down what you should not eat.”

The doctor smiles down at him. “Well done!”

Jim smiles too. “I have been waiting for this day,” he says.