“Stratton let us give him his arteriogram. No more trouble.”

“That colored girl, Gertrude Soames, signed her way out of the hospital this afternoon,” Adam said. “She’s committing suicide.”

Maybe not enough to live for, boy, Spur said silently. There were two cans of beer left. He handed one to Adam and kept the last one for himself. “Little warm,” he apologized.

“Good beer. Last beer I had was Bax.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Soapsuds and hoss piss. Big down South.”

“You don’t talk like a Southerner.”

“Pennsylvania boy. Pitt, Jefferson Medical. You?”

“New Yorker. N.Y.U. all the way. Where’d you intern?”

“Philadelphia General. Took the first part of my residency at Atlanta Surgical.”

“Hostvogel’s clinic?” Spurgeon said, impressed despite his desire not to be. “Get to see much of the big man?”

“I was Hostvogel’s resident.”

Spurgeon whistled soundlessly. “What brought you here? The kidney transplant program?”

“No, I’m going into general surgery. The transplant stuff is just the frosting on the cake.” He smiled. “Being Hostvogel’s resident wasn’t as good as it sounds. The great man loves to operate. House officers down there hardly get to hold a knife.”

“Lord.”

“Oh, he doesn’t do it out of meanness. It’s just that if any cutting is to be done, he can’t give it up. Maybe that’s what keeps him a great surgeon.”

“Is he really great? As good as they say?”

“He’s great, all right,” Silverstone said. “He’s so great he feels pulses nobody else in the world can feel because they aren’t there. And statistics were invented just for him. I remember a medical society meeting when he announced that because of a surgical technique of his invention only three prostatectomies in a thousand developed trouble, and this old redneck surgeon who had used the method stood up and drawled, ‘Yeah, suh, an’ all three of ’em are my patients.’” He grinned. “A great reputation, a lousy teacher. After spending my time mostly watching I said hell with it and came here to learn surgery instead of flourishes. Longwood can’t match Hostvogel’s glitter, but he’s a fantastic teacher.”

“He scared the hell out of me at the Mortality Conference.”

“Well, according to scuttlebutt, that’s no act. That Chinese resident—Lee?—told me the tradition at this hospital dates back to years ago, when Longwood’s predecessor, Paul Harrelmann, was fighting for the Chief-of-Service job against Kurt Dorland. The way they competed was in committee. They challenged each other, debated, needled, questioned, demanded justification of technique. Harrelmann finally was given the job and Dorland went away to become famous in Chicago, of course. But they had shown that the Death Committee could be used to keep the staff practicing the best possible surgery.” Silverstone shook his head. “It isn’t a gentle group. I never expected anything like that.”

Spurgeon shrugged. “It isn’t unique. Even without someone like Longwood pushing, at a lot of places it isn’t only the new boys who have to sit up straight during the meeting. Those old pros know how to cut each other up pretty good.” He looked at Silverstone curiously. “You sound as if it’s new to you. Didn’t you have a Mortality Conference down there in the land of peach cobbler and Lester Maddox?”