He put his carousel on the projector and mounted the podium. The students quickly settled into their chairs, giving him their attention. Philips dimmed the lights and flipped on the first slide.
The lecture was polished. Philips had given it many times. It began with the origin of the concept of the CAT scanner by Mr. Godfrey Hornsfield of England, followed by a chronological recounting of its development. Philips very carefully emphasized that although an X-ray tube was used, the picture that resulted was really a mathematical reconstruction after a computer had analyzed the information. Once the students understood that basic concept, he felt the major point of the lecture had been accomplished.
As he talked, Martin’s mind began to wander. He was so familiar with the material that it made no difference. His admiration of the people who had developed the CAT scanner included a touch of jealousy. But then he realized that if his own research proved out, he was going to be catapulted into the scientific limelight. His work might have even a more revolutionary impact on diagnostic radiology. It would certainly put him in contention for a Nobel prize.
In the middle of a sentence describing the CAT scanner’s ability to pick up tumors, Philips’ beeper went off. Turning up the lights, he excused himself and ran to the phone. Philips knew Helen would not page him except in an emergency. But the operator told him it was an outside call, and before he could protest, he was connected to Dr. Donald Travis.
“Donald,” said Martin, putting his hand around the receiver. “I’m in the middle of a lecture, can I call you back?”
“Hell no!” yelled Travis. “I’ve wasted a good portion of my morning looking for your mythical middle-of-the-night transfer.”
“You can’t find Lynn Anne Lucas?”
“No. In fact, there hasn’t been any God-damn transfer from the Med Center for the last week.”
“That’s strange. I was distinctly told New York Medical Center. Look, I’ll speak to Admitting, but please check once more, it’s important.”
Philips hung up the phone, but let his hand remain on the receiver for a moment. Dealing with bureaucracy was almost as bad as dealing with the likes of Mannerheim. Heading back to the podium, he tried to pick up the pieces of the lecture, but his concentration was completely broken. For the first time since he began teaching, he claimed a false emergency and wound up the lecture.
Back at his office, Helen apologized for the interruption, saying that Dr. Travis was insistent. Philips told her it was all right and she followed him into his office reeling off his messages. She said that the Director of the hospital, Stanley Drake, had called twice and wanted a call back as soon as possible. She said that Dr. Robert McNeally had called from Houston, asking if Dr. Philips would chair the Neuroradiology section at the annual radiology convention in New Orleans. She said he needed an answer within the week. She started to go on to the next topic when Philips abruptly raised his hand.
“That’s enough for now!” said Philips.
“But there’s more.”
“I know there’s more. There’s always more.”
Helen was taken aback. “Are you going to call Mr. Drake?”
“No. You call him and tell him I’m too busy to call him today and I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”
Helen had the sense enough to know when to leave her boss alone.
Standing on the threshold of his office. Philips looked around the room. The mess made by the stacks of skull films had been removed and in their place were the morning’s angiograms. At least his head technician, Kenneth Robbins, had things under control.
Work was Philips’ stability. So he sat down, picked up the microphone and began to dictate. He had come to the last angiogram when he realized someone had entered the office and was standing behind him. Expecting Denise, Philips was surprised to look up into the smiling face of Stanley Drake, the Director of the hospital.
To Philips’ way of thinking, Drake resembled a smooth, styled politician. He was always very natty in his dark blue pinstriped three-piece suit and gold watch chain. He wore his silk ties with a stud so they stood out horizontally from his starched white shirt. He was the only person Philips knew who still wore large French cufflinks. Somehow he always managed to look tan, even during a rainy April in New York.