In the main corridor, some of the veteran imnates watched and jeered as the new men walked out of the orientation room. “Hey, lookit. New meat!”

“Hey, bitches, see ya later.”

“That one’s a good-looker. She’s mine.”

“Hell, I saw her first, she’s my punk.”

Ragen knew they were pointing to him, and he stared back coldly.

In his cell that night, he discussed things with Arthur. “You’re in charge here,” Arthur said, “but I’d like to point out that a great deal of that teasing and joking is merely prisoners’ letting off steam in a pressure-cooker situation. Anything to get a bit of laughter. You would do well to discriminate between the prison comedians and those who might really be dangerous.”

Ragen nodded. “Is exactly vat I am thinking.”

“I have another suggestion.”

Ragen listened with a half smile. It amused him to hear Arthur making suggestions instead of issuing orders.

“I noticed that those inmates wearing green hospital uniforms are the only ones—except for the guards—allowed to walk in the center of the corridors. When the time comes to apply for a work detail, it might be advisable to have Allen request assignment to the prison hospital.”

“For vat reason?”

“Working as a medic could provide a margin of safety— especially for the children. You see, in a prison community a medical attendant is respected, since every inmate knows that someday he might need emergency treatment. I would do the work, using Allen to communicate.”

Ragen agreed it was a good idea.

The next day, when the guards talked to the new prisoners about work experience and previous specialization, Allen said he thought he would like to work in the prison hospital.

“Y’all got training?” asked Captain Leach.

Allen answered as Arthur had coached him: “When I was in the Navy, there was a pharmacists’ school at Great Lakes Naval Base. I worked in the hospital there.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Arthur had studied those things on his own. He hadn’t exactly said he’d been trained as a medic.

The following week the call came down from the prison hospital that Dr. Harris Steinberg, the medical director, wanted to see Milligan. Walking the wide halls, Allen noticed that Lebanon was laid out in the form of a giant nine-legged crab. The central corridor was lined with offices, but at various intervals the cell-block corridor branched off in all directions. At the hospital Allen waited in the outer room separated by unbreakable glass partitions, watching Dr. Steinberg, an elderly white-haired man with a kind, ruddy face and a gentle smile. Allen noticed there were paintings on the walls.

Finally Dr. Steinberg waved him into his office. “I understand you have lab experience.”

“All my life I’ve wanted to be a doctor,” Allen said. “I thought with a big prison population like this, you might be able to use someone who could do blood counts and urine tests.”

“Ever do that before?”

Allen nodded. “Of course, it was a long time ago and I probably forgot a great deal, but I can learn. I’m fast. And like I say, working in this field is my great ambition when I get out of here. I’ve got medical books at fiome I’ve studied on my own. I’m particularly interested in hematology, and if you’d just give me a chance, I’d appreciate it.”