Longwood really had begun to look very ill, he thought pityingly. He looked away, out over the crowded restaurant. “I’ve made no arrangements yet, although I suppose it’s time for me to start. Boston is top-heavy with surgeons, and if I were to open an office here I’d have to compete with some of the best men in the world. I might try to join one of them as an associate. Do you know of anyone with a busy practice who is looking for help?”

“There are one or two men.” He took a cigar case from an inside pocket, opened it, offered one to Rafe, who refused. Dr. Longwood clipped the cigar and leaned over as Rafe snapped the lighter, then nodded his thanks as he puffed to start the ash. “You have some independent income. You don’t need a large initial salary. Correct?”

Rafe nodded.

“Have you thought of a career with a medical school?”

“No.”

“We’ll be adding an instructor of surgery in September.”

“Are you offering me the appointment?”

“No, I’m not,” Dr. Longwood said carefully. “We’ll be talking with several other people. I think your only competition might be from Adam Silverstone.”

“He’s a good man,” Meomartino said reluctantly.

“He’s well thought of, but so are you. If you were to go after the job I’d be careful not to influence the selection, of course. Still, I believe you’d stand an excellent chance on your merits.”

Rafe saw with wry inner amusement that the old man offered praise to him with the same lack of enthusiasm he displayed himself when talking of Adam’s merits.

“A university job means research,” he said. “Silverstone has been working with Kender’s dogs. I have learned to my great edification that I’m not a researcher.”

“It doesn’t have to mean research. In the scramble for grant money and laboratory buildings, medical schools have lost sight of their reason for existence—the students—and we’ve started to realize this. Good teachers are going to be increasingly important, because teaching is going to be increasingly difficult.”

“At any rate, there’s my military service,” Rafe said.

“We request deferments for medical faculty people,” Dr. Longwood said. “The deferments are renewable annually.”

His eyes said nothing but Rafe had the uncomfortable feeling that now Longwood was smiling inside.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said.

For the next two days he tried to tell himself there was a chance he wouldn’t go after the job.

Then the morning of the Mortality Conference came and he sat in dumb shame while Longwood nailed Spurgeon Robinson to the library wall, though he knew he could take the brunt of the attack—share the crucifixion—with a statement that the intern had called him before releasing the woman from the hospital.

All it would have taken was a simple declarative sentence.