Charles was bored.

It had taken him most of the evening to realize it, but he was excruciatingly, stupefyingly bored.

Janine was having a wonderful time. Dressed to kill, and flashing her brilliant smile at waiters and celebrities alike, she was making sure everyone noticed that she was dining with Charles Spencer-Moore. Janine was violently jealous of Vivienne, which was why Charles had called her. That’s what I get for acting out of pique, he thought ruefully as Janine chattered away, holding his hand and scanning the crowd for anyone important she might have missed.

He and Janine had dated off and on for six or seven months before he’d met Vivienne. He’d been impressed by her four-hundred-year-old family name and dazzled by her beauty: the raven hair, the delicate face, the tiny waist, and the huge bust. But even then, he recalled, she’d had a talent for being immensely irritating.

Still holding tightly to his hand, she winked sexily at the waiter as he placed their expensive dinners in front of them. The good-looking Italian youth colored slightly. The tabletop was at the same level as the plunging neckline of her dress, making her appear pneumatically naked.

Charles attempted to loosen her grip; she resisted. “You used to love holding hands with me,” she pouted in that soft baby whisper he had once loved and later come to loathe. “Don’t you like me anymore, Chartie?”

She sighed deeply and leaned forward; her breasts rolled above the tablecloth like some mountain chain rising from the sea.

“Of course I like you, Janine,” said Charles tiredly.

“Then why won’t you let me hold your hand, Charlie?”

“Because I’m trying to eat my dinner, Janine,” said Charles reasonably. He gave his hand a firm jerk, and it came free. He picked up his fork.

Some celebration, he thought grimly. All she wants from me is a chance to put Viv’s nose out of joint. She couldn’t care less about me, or the success I’ve had today. He ordered the raspberry-and-chocolate roll, richest dessert on the menu, but when it came, he couldn’t eat it. He felt lonely.

“Let’s go dancing!” Janine suggested brightly. “You were always a divine dancer, Charlie! There’s a new spot just opened in SoHo. Everything’s made of foam rubber, even the tables!”

The thought of Janine, herself resembling nothing so much as foam rubber, bouncing around on foam-rubber furniture made him feel slightly seasick.

“You go, Janine,” said Charles. “I’ve had it.” He signed the oversize check without looking at it - something he rarely did - and stood up. Disappointed, Janine stood too, and took possession of his arm, pressing herself against him and gazing soulfully into his eyes.

People will think I’m sleeping with her, Charles thought in alarm, attempting to disengage himself.

People will think he’s sleeping with me, Janine thought, and hung on grimly.

Somehow, they made their way through the flurry of waiters and out into the street, where Charles managed to push her into a taxi just as a group of people emerged from the restaurant behind them. It was too dark to be sure if she knew them, but Janine played for the crowd, giving Charles a big wet smooch and nearly pulling him down on top of her. When the taxi drove off at last, Charles walked toward Lexington Avenue, wiping saliva from his mouth, chin, and the side of his nose.

It was just after ten; he wandered aimlessly down Lexington feeling sorry for himself. It was only when he noticed the boutiques had given way to Indian groceries that he realized where he was.

She sounded surprised but not angry when he buzzed up from the vestibule, and she was slightly out of breath when she opened the door to him. She smiled, tying the belt of a brightly flowered robe, and it was a nice, genuine smile with no hidden agendas.

“I go to bed early these days,” she said without apology.

“Sorry,” he said, but he came in anyway and sat down on the sofa. She closed the door and leaned against it, looking over at him. He wondered if she knew she was still smiling.

“It was great,” he told her.

“Huh?”

“Ask me how my Merrill Lynch presentation went on Tuesday.”

“How did your Merrill Lynch presentation go on Tuesday?”

“It was great. I was brilliant.”

“They like the idea of the buy-back after ten years?”

“How did you know about the buy-back?”

“You told me, Chas! Jeez, for a genius, you’ve got a lousy memory.” Angela perched on the edge of the coffee table and grinned at him.

“Oh. Right. Well, yes, they loved the buy-back. Now ask me what incredibly fabulous thing happened today.”

“What incredibly . . .”

“Ingersoll Bank! It took me over a year, but they finally signed!”

“Fantastic. Let’s celebrate!”

“I’ve been celebrating.”

She studied him critically. “Could have fooled me,” she said. “How about a cup of tea? Irish Breakfast, right?”

“You make it this time.”

“Going macho on me already, huh, Chuck?” She went to fill the kettle.

Charles sprawled out on the sofa. It was the ugliest piece of furniture he had ever seen; no, the second-ugliest. The end table was the ugliest. Yet he felt comfortable here.

Angela brought him his tea and sat down next to him. “Ingersoll’s a big deal, huh?” she asked.

“The biggest.”

“I’m really glad for you. Uh, if you want to talk about it, I’d love to listen.”

“Actually,” Charles told her, “I’m all talked out. I just want to sit here and gloat.”

“Okay.”

He reached for the newspaper, which lay in confusion on the red umbrella chair.

“It’s yesterday’s,” she warned him.

“Oh. Well, d’you have a television?”

“Yeah. And we even have electricity and running water too.” She went to a bleached pine cabinet - repro, not antique, he noticed, and disliked himself for it - and opened its doors. A television set was revealed.

“Channel?” she asked.

“Got a TV Guide?”

She tossed it over, and he studied it. “You like Arsenio?”

“Not much.”

“Me neither,” he lied. “How about a Cheers rerun?”

“Sure,” she said and pushed some buttons.

After Cheers they watched Taxi, and then an old black-and-white movie. Angela fell asleep partway through it, her head lolling against the sofa cushions.

Around one in the morning, Charles yawned and turned off the set. Angela, awakened by the sudden silence, peeped at him from behind almost-closed eyes as he shrugged on his jacket and left, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

“You look tired, Eric,” Talmidge told him as he entered the OR after his night of near-discovery.

“I’m OK,” Eric replied, looking down at the instrument tray. He was finding it extremely difficult to deal with the fierce reality of what had been until last night only an academic suspicion.

“You better be,” said Talmidge. “We’re working in tandem today.” He waved a hand in the direction of the windowed double doors between the OR and the “holding bay,” where a draped figure lay on a gurney, “Reynolds there is getting a new lung. I’ll be replacing the cancerous one in here. Look at me, Eric!”

Eric turned toward Talmidge. He tried to relax his face muscles, to keep the expression in his eyes neutral, but his stomach was churning.

“And now he’s cloning organs,” Harris had said months ago as they sat over their Greek pastries.

“There is another possibility,” Eric had replied coolly. Well, he’d guessed right.

“You came here because of a theory you had,” said Talmidge. “An idea which obsessed you. Today I will make that theory come alive for you. I hope you are worthy of my trust.”

Talmidge went to the screen that masked the little door and shoved it aside with his foot. It rattled off on its castors and banged into the far wall. Reaching over to the instrument tray, he picked up a sterile probe and used it to punch out a code on the digital panel. He tossed the now-unsterile probe at the screen as the door swung open. Beyond was a high white room lit by brilliant arc lights. An operating room. “Go in,” Talmidge ordered.

This second OR was long and narrow, without doors or windows. A scrub nurse Eric hadn’t seen before stood next to an instrument tray.

“In this room, Eric, you will remove the lung. A scrub nurse will bring it to me for immediate transplant. Do you understand?”

“Where is my patient?”

“He’ll be here. But first we have some unfinished business, you and I.” He motioned Eric back from the door. “I spoke of trust, of faith. I do not speak of secrecy, because surely you know how vital secrecy is to our work.”

Feeling some response was required, Eric nodded as Talmidge continued.

“You are not the first. The best, but not the first. I’m proud to show you what I’ve built here, and I hope you are proud to become a part of it. But first, one thing is required.”

Talmidge picked up a scalpel. “I require this of all who work for me. It binds them close to me, you see. And it gives them an interest in maintaining secrecy. And trust.”

Holding the scalpel ready, he took a step toward Eric, who recoiled. Talmidge smiled grimly. “If you’re as thrilled about my work as you profess to be, you’ll consider this an honor.”

The scalpel glittered in the harsh light. Eric scoured his memory for a slip, any mistake he might have made last night which would cause Talmidge to suspect what he’d done. He hadn’t moved anything, and surely Talmidge hadn’t seen him crouching beneath the table. He’d hidden the disk between the pages of his medical book, which he’d returned to the unsupervised library early that morning; even if Talmidge had missed the disk, he’d hardly suspect Eric. Would he?

Talmidge came closer. “Marta!” he called out. The dour scrub nurse appeared at Eric’s side. She carried a small three-sided tray; in it were slides, tubing, and other equipment. She put it down on the operating table in front of Talmidge, who nodded approval.

“Our friend is a little nervous,” he told her. “Un poco nervosa. Por favor, ayudarle.”

The nurse made a grab for Eric’s arm, but he jerked it back. Help me, my ass!

“Relax, Eric,” Talmidge told him. “We take the sample from your arm. Blood from the vein. And a scrape of tissue. It hurts less if you keep your arm still.”

Eric took a deep breath, somewhat reassured by the presence of the equipment tray. Besides, he thought, if they were going to kill me, they would have done it by now. He put his left arm down on the table. “Okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Get him a chair, Marta,” Talmidge ordered. “That’s a damn uncomfortable position.”

Eric sat and watched the procedure. Aside from the tissue scrape, he’d done it himself, many times. When they were finished, Marta left the room with the box - she’ll have to scrub all over again, Eric thought - and Talmidge clapped him on the back and smiled. “That was a culture kit,” he explained. “You’ll be seeing a lot of those.”

Eric stood and kicked the chair out of the way. It rolled toward the screen. Getting ourselves a nice little collection over there, he thought inconsequentially.

“You’re one of us now, Eric,” said Talmidge. “Ready to meet your patient?” And he nodded to the second scrub nurse, who went to the far wall and, using a sterile instrument as Talmidge had done, flipped an unobtrusive metal switch.

Slowly the wall dividing the two operating rooms rose straight up and disappeared into the ceiling.

As Eric watched in fascination, the nurse took several steps to her right. There, set into the floor and protruding slightly above its surface, were two large round buttons, one red, one blue. She stepped on the red button, and immediately a whirring sound echoed from below the floor. Rose started forward, but Talmidge grabbed his bandaged arm; Eric gritted his teeth with pain.

A rectangular section of floor slid away, leaving an opening about eight feet by four. Now Talmidge allowed Eric to go forward. The whirring sound continued as slowly a draped form rose up through the hole. The figure lay on an operating table supported by a long hydraulic steel cylinder which lifted table and patient up into the room. When the table reached a preset height, its upward motion stopped. The mechanics below gave a final whir and a click and then fell silent.

“Your patient,” said Talmidge.