Harris leaned forward and slowly placed his arms on his desk.
“So the Medical Department has had some trouble too,” he murmured. “Jerry Nelson didn’t mention that.”
Looking up at Susan, he spoke louder.
“Miss Wheeler, you are dabbling in troubled waters. It’s refreshing to hear someone, fresh from the basic science years of medical school, interested in clinical research. But this is not the proper subject for you. There are many reasons for my saying this. First of all, the problem of coma is far more complex than might-be apparent to you. It is a wastepaper-basket term, a mere description. And for someone to immediately assume all cases of coma are related simply because the causative agent is not precisely known is intellectually absurd. Miss Wheeler, I advise you to stick to something more specific, less speculative, for your so-called third year paper. As far as helping you is concerned, I must admit I do not have the time. And let me admit something else that might be rather apparent to you. I don’t try to hide it. I’m not keen on women in medicine.”
Harris pointed his finger at Susan and aimed across it almost as if were a gun.
“They treat it like a game, something to do for now … something chic … later, who knows. It’s a fad. And on top of that, they are invariably, impossibly emotional and …”
“Dr. Harris, cut the bullshit,” interrupted Susan, lifting up the back of the chair and letting it fall a few inches. She was furious. “I didn’t come here to listen to this type of nonsense. In fact it’s people like you who keep medicine in the old rut, unable to respond to the challenge of relevancy and change.”
Harris pounded the top of the desk with his open hand causing a few papers and pencils to flee for safety. Almost in one step he came from behind his desk with a speed that caught Susan off guard. His movement brought his face only inches from Susan’s. She froze before the unexpected fury she had unleashed.
“Miss Wheeler, you do not know your place here,” hissed Harris, holding himself in check with great difficulty. “You are not to be the Messiah who is going to miraculously deliver us from a problem which has already been under the scrutiny of the best minds in this hospital. In fact, I see you as a very destructive influence and I can promise you this: you’ll be out of this hospital in twenty-four hours. Now get out of my office.”
Susan backed up, afraid to expose her unguarded back to this man who seemed about to explode with hatred. She opened the door and ran down the corridor, feeling the tears well up from her mixture of fear and anger.
Behind her, Harris kicked the door shut and snatched the phone off the hook. He told his secretary to get him the director of the hospital without delay.
Tuesday, February 24, 11:00 A.M.
Susan slowed to a deliberate walk, avoiding the questioning expressions of the people using the corridor. Her emotions, she was afraid, could be read from her face like an open book. Usually when she cried or was about to cry, her cheeks and eyelids turned bright crimson. Although she knew she wasn’t going to cry now, the proper neural connections had been made. If someone she knew stopped her and said something innocuous, like “What’s the matter, Susan?” she probably would have cried. So Susan wanted to be alone for a few moments. As it was, she was more angry and frustrated than anything else as the fear generated by her encounter with Harris evaporated. Fear seemed so out of place in the context of a meeting with a professional superior that she wondered if she was becoming delusional. Had she really crossed Harris to the extent that he had had to keep himself in check to avoid some sort of physical encounter? Was he just about to strike her, as she had feared, when he came bounding out from behind his desk? The idea seemed ludicrous and it was difficult for her to believe that the situation had been so precipitous. She knew that she could never make someone else believe what she had felt. It reminded her of the situation with Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny.