“Merde!”

He examined the woman with growing displeasure. Another botch job, he thought. We’re going to lose her.

He specified medicines, schedules; he ordered the incisions checked, and the bandages changed every two hours. The woman was delirious, the infection spreading throughout her body.

No excuse for this, he thought angrily. Years of hard work down the drain. And how do I tell the countess?

I won’t, he decided.

“Bring me a culture kit!” he barked to the hovering nurse. “And send Dr. Haddad to my office! Now!”

Haddad was waiting for him when he finished. Smarmy and self-confident, he lounged in the heavy oak visitor’s chair, one leg looped over its upholstered arm.

“I’ve just seen Nadia,” he told Haddad harshly. “And sit up when I talk to you.”

Dr. Haddad continued to lounge. He stared back arrogantly. “A little mistake,” he said. “They happen.”

“They happen too damn often!” Talmidge rubbed his eyes with his hands; he was tired, so tired. Now he had to get rid of Haddad, which meant a double shift until Haddad could be replaced. Look at the bastard, Talmidge thought. Calls himself a doctor. No, he corrected himself, I called him a doctor. He called himself a medical student when I first met him.

“I will try to improve,” said Dr. Haddad languidly. He uncoiled himself and turned toward the door, but Talmidge’s voice stopped him.

“I don’t want you here any longer,” he said. “You will leave now.”

Haddad turned around in surprise. “But you need me.”

“I’ll manage,” said Talmidge.

“But I don’t want to leave,” Haddad said. “It would be wrong to make me leave.”

“I’ll have your things packed up and sent to you,” Talmidge told him, “I want you off the grounds now.”

“It would be wrong,” Haddad repeated. “I would feel angry. I might say things you would not like.”

Talmidge sighed tiredly. “That would be very unwise, Haddad,” he said.

“An angry man is often unwise,” Haddad said sorrowfully. “And his lack of wisdom can hurt many people.”

It always comes down to this, thought Talmidge. Such a pity. So unnecessary. With what Haddad has learned - or should have learned - from me, he can practice medicine in some backwater, false diplomas on his walls, no problem. But he won’t let go. Just like the others. So stupid.

“OK, Haddad,” he said. “You can stay. But no more mistakes like the one I saw today. You understand?”

Of course I can stay, you old bastard, Haddad thought to himself. You can’t risk my talking about what I’ve seen here. And you can’t afford to lose my pair of hands, even if they’re not as clever or as clean as yours.

He smiled wolfishly, and his gold molar glowed malevolently. “I understand,” he said. “But I think a little bonus would help me to improve my work.”

Stupid, so stupid, Talmidge thought. “Of course,” he said, and unlocked the lower drawer in which he kept the checkbook for the account at the local bank.

Haddad’s greedy eyes tried to read the upside-down figures as Talmidge wrote the check. Lots of zeros, he thought. Good.

When Haddad had gone, Talmidge dialed a three-digit number and spoke briefly. Replacing the receiver, he rubbed his eyes again. He considered for the thousandth time his unique staffing problems; he’d recruited Haddad eight months ago in a Madrid bar frequented by medical students. Five assistants in as many years; it was no good. Vassily - now, he’d been great, the best. But like the others, he’d gotten too curious, and then too greedy.

He wasn’t looking forward to double shifts again, but Haddad had given him no choice. Well, it would certainly cut the mortality rate. And he could always use the parts.

“Viv, I’m so scared!”

It was Sunday morning. The two women sat around the scrubbed oak breakfast table in Vivienne’s kitchen, drinking tea. An old-fashioned blue-and-white serving plate held the three carrot muffins Angela had brought in self-defense; Vivienne never had anything in the house worth eating. Now she crumbled one between her fingers, unable to swallow.

“You said that on the phone,” said Vivienne. “You said that when you got here. You said that when you set the table. What you haven’t said yet is why. By the way, if you’ll excuse an old friend saying so, you look lousy.”

Angela picked at her muffin nervously. She hadn’t slept since her meeting with Dr. Cole. We have some options, Cole had said. None of the options sounded good.

“I have to tell someone,” she said softly. “I wasn’t going to, but I have to. I can’t handle it alone.” Her eyes began to fill.

“Now I’m scared. What is it?”

“They keep saying they can’t be sure,” Angela said, “but they know, all right.” She paused. “Viv, I think I have breast cancer.”

“Christ!”

Neither of them said anything for a moment; then Vivienne reached across the table and took her friend’s hands in hers. She held them firmly.

Finally, she spoke. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” she said. Then, “What’s going to happen?”

“I go for a biopsy tomorrow,” said Angela. “Lenox Hill. Depending on what they find, they’ll . . . cut.”

Vivienne winced. “I’ll go with you,” she said.

“No, no!”

“Yes, of course, I will. No, don’t even talk about it. Have you told Marcella yet?” Marcella Strong was president of the Lens Model Agency.

“No, and don’t you tell her either,” Angela begged. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Vivienne said.

“It’s not that. Well, it is that, but it’s more than that too. I don’t want any of that pity stuff, where everybody looks at you like you’re dying and says how sorry they feel for you, and meanwhile they’re figuring out how they can steal your accounts. I can’t handle all that right now.”

“You’ll have to put in for medical reimbursement. Accounting will see your claim form . . . God, why are we talking about medical forms? Listen, Angie, the cure rate is high, it’s very high these days. You’re gonna be fine!”

“That’s what they all keep telling me. But what I’m afraid of, what I’m really afraid of is . . . what I’ll look like, after. I mean, what if they have to . . .? I don’t want to lose my breast!”

Tears were running down her cheeks; she dabbed at her face with a paper napkin. “I know I never cared much about how I looked. I never cared that I was fat . . .”

“You’re not fat, Angie!”

“I am, I’m fat, but I never cared. So it’s kind of funny, isn’t it, that the thing that scares me most is being . . . disfigured.”

“But you won’t be! They do wonderful reconstructive surgery these days.”

“They told me. With implants and things. But it’s still not the same. It isn’t. And then there’s the chemotherapy afterward. Your hair falls out, and you throw up . . . I’ll have to wear a wig as well as falsies!”

Angela was crying in great gasping gulps. Vivienne went and put her arms around her and rocked her; she too was crying.

Suddenly Angela felt her friend stiffen.

“Angie, it’s gonna be OK,” she said. “No, really OK. You remember when I had that weird blood test? When they put that big bandage on my arm?”

Angela looked up, bleary-eyed, and nodded.

“Well, Charles made me promise not to tell, but it’ll solve everything!”

Vivienne pulled a chair around so she could sit next to her friend; Angela looked up at her hopefully.

“He said a lot of people already know about it,” she said excitedly. “Rich, powerful people, people who can afford it. But it’s a secret. See, Charles says that if you have one, it’s in your own best interest not to talk about it. I mean, if the lab got closed down, you’d lose it. Then, if you needed a liver or something, they couldn’t grow one for you.”

“What? Slow down, Viv!”

Vivienne took a deep breath and began again.

“Charles gave me a gift, a secret gift. It’s a kind of genetic blueprint, he said. That’s what they needed the sample for. They keep it in some lab in Spain because they’re not allowed to do it here, he says.”

“Why not?”

“Who cares? It doesn’t matter. The point is, with the genetic blueprint, they can sort of grow parts of you if you need them, you see? If your liver packs up, they can grow you a new one to replace it. Because they use your own genetics or something, it’s just like your old one. So that’s our answer!”

“You’re saying that if I had a genetic blueprint they could grow me a new breast?”

“Exactly! What time is it? Damn, he’s still in the air. But he’s going to that political thing at the Ritz Carlton straight from the airport. Trying to make points for some corporate merger he’s working on. I’ll call him there!”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” said Angela cautiously.

“They’re operating tomorrow, right? We don’t have much time.”

“Viv, I don’t think I can afford all this. I mean, can you see me putting in for it on my medical insurance?” Angela was laughing through her tears.

“I can afford it,” said Vivienne. “How much can it cost? They just take a tissue sample and probably do some kind of computer analysis. Charles said his father was an early investor in this thing, a big one, too. He can probably get me a discount!”

“I can’t let you pay . . .”

“Shut up,” said Vivienne firmly. “Eat your muffin. We’ll get you covered!”

“Covered?”

“That’s what they call it, having a blueprint. If anything happens to you, you’re covered.”

“You really think it will work?”

“Piece of cake!” said Vivienne excitedly.

Angela snuffled and smiled and reached for a muffin.

“Do you have any butter?” she asked.

In the hour it took to get from La Guardia to Logan, Vivienne’s mood went from worry to worse. By the time the taxi reached the Ritz Carlton, she was nervous and upset. Charles had been furious she’d had him pulled off the dais to take her call. And when he’d heard why she’d phoned, he’d nearly hung up on her.

His voice had been tight and angry.

“Grab the next shuttle to Boston,” he’d said. “Meet me in the hotel bar at three and we’ll talk. And if you get here early, for God’s sake don’t come up to the ballroom, just go to the bar and wait. Got that? And Vivienne, if you ever pull me off a dais that way again . . . !” Bang went the receiver on Charles’s end, the unspoken threat reverberating in her head.

Now she sat hunched in a wing chair in a corner of the elegant wood-paneled hotel bar, dressed in the same blue slacks, pink striped shirt, and white Top-Siders she’d worn at breakfast. A club soda with a twist of lemon stood alongside a dish of mixed nuts on the small zinc-topped table in front of her. She’d been waiting half an hour, and her mood had not improved.

At last Charles appeared, looking substantial and confident in a dark blue three-piece custom-made suit and a subtly striped Harvey and Hudson shirt. A New York Yacht Club tie completed his power outfit. In her current mood, even Charles’s clothes seemed slightly threatening.

But when he saw her looking up at him like a forlorn and repentant child, his face softened and his eyes smiled. Going to her, he kissed her forehead in forgiveness.

“I’m so sorry, Charles,” said Vivienne. “I know I shouldn’t have called you the way I did, but . . .”

“Actually, you did me a favor.” Charles smiled. “They were just about to ask for donations.”

Pulling his chair close to hers, he ordered a brandy and soda from the hovering waiter, then turned back to Vivienne. “Start from the beginning,” he said.

But as she told him about the events of the morning, and how she planned to help Angela, his face darkened.

“It’s not that easy,” he said.

“But, darling, why not? You told me it was a blueprint. Well, why can’t we get one for Angela? If it’s money, I’ll pay for it . . .”

“Of course it’s not the money, Viv. It’s . . . well, it takes time to, uh . . .”

“To what?”

“Well, to activate the blueprint.”

“How much time?”

“Well, er . . . years. Two years.”

“Two years?” Vivienne was astounded. “But you told me . . .”

“I said what I was allowed to say.”

“Allowed? Charles, what is all this?”

“I told you it was a secret. Well, it is. And it’s important that it remain a secret. You told Angela - yes, I know, for a good reason - but still, if she talks, it could hurt us all. Listen to me.”

He marshaled his thoughts as he took a long pull at his drink.

“My father was one of the investors in the lab, the Reproduction Institute it’s called. I told you that already. It could have saved his life if they’d been up and running sooner. But by the time they were ready to start . . . activation, he’d already had his heart attack. And the, uh, activation time was nearly three years then.

“We can take a culture on Angela, start her blueprint, but it’ll be two years before she can use any parts. Still, if you want to . . .”

“Wait a sec,” Vivienne interrupted. “What parts?”

Charles looked away. He studied the drapes, the upholstery.

“Charles?”

“It’s not just a blueprint, exactly,” he said finally. “It’s . . . cells. They cultivate your cells.”

“If it’s cells, why did you say ‘parts’?”

“The cells . . . they’re biologically organized.”

“Tell me what that means.”

“It means that they’re alive.”

Vivienne stared at him. “Alive?”

“It starts with a few cells. It grows. As long as I keep paying the maintenance fees, they’ll keep it for you.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Don’t worry about that . . .”

“I want to know!”

“Ownership reverts to the Institute.”

“And?”

“They’d probably destroy it. Or sell the parts. It’s just some cells, after all. But,” he reassured her, “that almost never happens, darling. And I’ve set up a trust fund, irrevocable. The fees will always be paid. Don’t even think about it.”

“It seems so . . . so creepy!”

“Someday it might save your life, Viv. It would have saved my father’s. Every day, people go on living who would have been dead without it. Think of it that way.”

“Yes,” Vivienne said. “Yes, I see . . . The thing is, it’s a little more . . . substantial than I realized. But if it’s not actually . . . I mean, if it’s just a bunch of cells . . .”

Slowly Charles unbunched the muscles in his shoulders; it was going to be all right.

“How about an early dinner before you go back? Or can you stay over?”

“I’ll stay. I’d really like to. I don’t have anything urgent to do tomorrow . . .” Then it hit her, Angela.

“My God, I forgot. I actually forgot about her! I have to go back to Angela. Jesus, I have to call her. What’11 I tell her? Damn! She was so happy when I left her, when I promised she could grow a new breast . . . but she still can, can’t she, Charles? It’ll take a while, but if she has the reconstruction now, she can wait . . .”

Vivienne was excited again. “It’s not a complete no, is it?” She looked at Charles beseechingly. “I can give her hope.”

“Yes, you can give her that. You can also tell her to keep her mouth shut.”

“Okay, but why? I mean, all cells are alive, aren’t they? Who would care what I do with a few of mine?”

“I would, darling.” He leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose. Then the hardness came back into his face, and he looked at her steadily for a very long second. “Tell her,” he said firmly. “And that goes for you too.”

Then, putting some bills on the table, he stood up.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”

She called Angela as soon as she got home, worried sick over how she would take this new disappointment. But as it turned out, Angie had talked again with the plastic surgeon and decided on immediate reconstruction.

“They’ll put in this sort of little balloon thing,” she explained. “It’s called a tissue expander. It’ll sort of puff me up there, you know?”

Vivienne said nothing. She also was suffering from too much reality.

“The other choice is an implant,” Angela continued, “but there are some real problems with those. Anyhow, it won’t be like a real breast, but at least I won’t be lopsided.” She attempted a laugh, unsuccessfully.

“Well, I have good news too,” Vivienne told her. “I think I can convince Charles to culture you for a blueprint as soon as you’re out of the hospital. For futures.”

“That’s great, Viv. But, well, let’s see how I feel about it . . . afterward.”

Vivienne looked surprised. This was quite an attitude change.

“Dr. Cole called me today,” said Angela. “We talked a lot, and I feel much better about everything. She thinks it’s contained, and they’ll probably be able to get all of it. Don’t get me wrong - it’s still scary as hell, but . . . all that stuff of Charles’s about living cells and don’t tell anybody, that’s kind of scary too.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do. But that’s just my mood at the moment. Don’t mind me.”

Early the next morning Vivienne picked up Angela at her apartment, and they taxied to Lenox Hill Hospital. No one should do this alone, she thought.

The morning was hurts-your-eyes-sunny, and still cool. It was one of those mornings when for about fifteen minutes the city looks fresh and clean.

“I love this city,” said Angela.

They passed a young woman who was encouraging a large black dog to defecate at the base of a newly planted tree. Nearby, a janitor poked ineffectually at a smelly pile of debris spilling from several ripped black plastic garbage bags.

“I hate this city,” said the taxi driver.

At a red light, a well-dressed man approached the cab. Looking inside, he yelled, “Fuck Bloomingdale’s!”

“I live in Queens,” the cabdriver said. “I wouldn’t live here if you paid me.”

“Actually, I agree with him,” said Angela.

“You said it!” said the cabdriver.

“Not you. Him.” Angela indicated the man with the grudge against Bloomingdale’s, who was now delivering his message to no one in particular.

The light began to change, and the driver stamped hard on the accelerator. Swinging across several traffic lanes, he beat out a fast-moving bus by six inches.

“The whole city is nuts,” said the driver. “You gotta be crazy to live here.”

After Angela had registered, they went up to the small, neat semiprivate hospital room. Its other patient, an older woman who spoke only Spanish, was post-op and due for release later in the day.

They talked about unimportant things until Dr. Cole came in for a pre-op check. Viv liked Dr. Cole right away. She was concerned and caring, and obviously highly respected by the hospital staff.

When Vivienne kissed her friend good-bye, there were tears in her eyes, but Angela’s were dry and determined. I never knew she was so strong, thought Vivienne. God, I hope everything goes OK for her.

* * *

Exhaustion hit her when she got home, and kicking off her shoes, she lay down on the unmade bed. I’ll just rest a moment, she thought, and closed her eyes.

She imagined Angela on a hospital gurney, being wheeled into the operating room. The anesthesiologist spoke to her and started an IV in her left arm. Suddenly it was Vivienne’s arm, and they weren’t putting things in, they were taking things out.

A voice behind a screen said, “We need more cells!” and she felt something leave her body in a great stream.

Then she was lying on a flat, iron bed in a darkish room, looking up at a murky gray blob which floated in the air above her. It rolled like a storm cloud, and like a cloud, its shape was changing.

It came lower, and she could make out eyes, hot red eyes glowing like fires. The thing came closer as the face took shape: a nose, a forehead . . . strands of cloudlike material began to stream off the head like hair. It was almost upon her now, and the face resolved itself into a recognizable visage. My God, she thought, it’s me!

Without warning, arms shot out from the body of the apparition and reached for her and grabbed her and held her, and she screamed and woke up, tangled in the bedsheets and covered with sweat.