Kender and Miriam Parkhurst talked with him in private and gave him every opportunity to withdraw the offer with honor.

“Are you certain?” Kender asked for the third time. “Generally a donor is a relative.”

“He’s my uncle by marriage,” Meomartino said.

Kender snorted but Rafe smiled. There had been enough conversation for him to know that they had argued themselves out. Their consciences were satisfied and they would accept his kidney eagerly.

Kender confirmed it. “An unrelated live donor is so much better than a cadaver,” he said. “We’ll have to run tests on both of you.” He looked at Rafe. “You won’t have to worry about the surgery. No one has ever lost a live donor.”

“I’m not worried,” Rafe said. “I have one stipulation. He’s not to know from whom the kidney is coming.”

Poor Miriam looked bewildered.

“He wouldn’t take it. We don’t like one another.”

“I’ll tell him the donor doesn’t want publicity,” Kender said.

“Suppose he still won’t take it,” Miriam said.

“Just repeat your speech about the work of genius his finished book will be,” Meomartino said. “He’ll take it.”

“We’ll use Anti-Lymphocyte Serum this time,” Kender said. “Adam Silverstone has the quantities worked out.”

The only possible obstacle was crossed when samples of tissue from his body and the old man’s were cross-matched and found to be well within the range of compatibility. In what seemed a frighteningly short time he was lying on his back in OR-3, feeling that this was an odd thing for him to be doing in that place despite the anesthetic Norman Pomerantz had kindly and painlessly slipped into his haunch.

“Rafe,” Pomerantz said to him, the words bubbling down into his ears.

“Rafe? Can you hear me, buddy?”

Of course I can hear you, he tried to say.

He could see Kender approaching the table, and Silverstone.

Cut well, my enemy, he thought.

Content for once to let others do the surgery, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Convalescence was a slow-moving unreality.

Liz’s absence became increasingly obvious and people now seemed to understand that their marriage was over.

He had a flood of visitors which diminished to a trickle as time wore on and novelty wore off. Miriam Parkhurst gave him a small dry kiss and a basket of fruit that was far too large. With the passing days the bananas turned black and the peaches and oranges developed creeping white rot and gave off an effluvium that forced him to throw away everything but the apples.

His kidney was functioning beautifully in the Old Man. He made it a point never to ask, but they kept him abreast of Harland Longwood’s progress.

Television offered temporary refuge. One day he was searching through TV Guide when Joan Anderson came into his room with icewater. “Is today’s ball game on television or just on radio?” he asked.