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ablations—never one mishap."
          "How long will he be in here?"
          "One day of pre-op, a day of post-op, and a week of bed rest."
           "Too long," she said.
"He won't go for it."
          "Make him."
          "Listen—you think I haven't tried? He's a warrior. He fights for
causes he views as more important than himself. He won't do it, and he's in
charge of his life, not me. If it's going to take that long he's not going to
sign a consent for surgery."
          "Then we should try and convert him with the paddles. That's the
next best option. If it works, he should be able to leave first thing in the
morning. But he's nuts if he tries a case in his condition. He's very sick. The
man needs rest. Christ, he must feel like hell."
          She sat absolutely still, and for a moment Lance Shiller didn't think
she was going to respond. Then she looked up at him and in her eyes he now saw
something else. It was resolve. No, not quite resolve—it was more like fierce
pride.
          "He told me once that most of the important work being done in the
world is being done by people who don't feel very well," she said.
          "How much of it is being done by dead people?" Dr. Shiller
said angrily. He saw her eyes go cold and knew instantly he had blown it with
her, but, damn it, even though he wanted to connect with Susan Strockmire he was still a
doctor, a brilliant chest-cutter, and a fine fucking surgeon. He hated it when
his patients chose the wrong option.
          Susan left Dr. Lance Shiller in the cafeteria still picking at his
California plate. She wandered out onto the patio where the sun was just going
down. She couldn't believe that L.A. was this hot in April. She thought of her
apartment in Washington, D.C., and of her father's cramped little house where
she grew up after her mother split, leaving them to take care of each other.
Now that little bungalow located two blocks off the beltway housed Herman and
the Institute for Planetary Justice.
          It was still cold in D.C. at this time of year—blustery. L.A. had it
all: beaches, mountains, deserts, and bright sunshine twelve months a year. And
yet there seemed something prefab and superficial about it. A town designed for
tourists. The fringe celebrity commerce of Tinseltown seemed absurd to her:
maps to the stars' homes, a tour of famous actors' gravesites in a
twenty-year-old black Cadillac hearse, plus the tacky Hollywood sign. In L.A.
fame towered over accomplishment. That was a concept that didn't fit the heroic
proportions of Herman Strockmire Jr., a man she fought daily to protect and
whom she adored.
          Susan had grown up watching her beloved father run headlong into legal
and political brick walls, often badly damaging himself. "No, Daddy,
don't!" she would yell, feeling helpless to stop him, even as an adult.
Then she'd watch in awe as her battered father would pick himself up, shake it
off, back up, and do it all over again. Always in pursuit of an idea, a
principle, an underdog. He became her hero early in life and had never once
disappointed her. She never saw him do one thing she couldn't respect.
          Not that he didn't have his shortcomings. Hell, he wore them like plates
of tarnished armor—and he had plenty. He didn't seem to know that sometimes
discretion was the better part of valor. He couldn't distinguish between
causes, taking on an important lawsuit against the Pentagon for
    illegally developing bio-weapons at Fort
Detrick with the same fervor that he chased after the silly Area 51 alien
thing. But, to Herman they were equally important, because to him it was always
about morality, honor, and integrity.
          Herman was the last defender of justice in a world that no longer cared,
because life in America now seemed to be only about celebrity, money, and
success. The core values her father stood for had been left in the vapor trail
of a seesawing Dow Jones