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That’d be screwing themselves, the whole basis of their reputation—”
    “I get it, no one gave you a hard time cause you were so
talented
.”
    Logan smiled; no offense was meant, none taken. “I mean, sure, you don’t go looking for trouble. You find out early who the key players are and make a point of staying on their good side. You make yourself helpful to attending physicians. You don’t go around telling dirty jokes to senior administrators.”
    “Not unless you’ve seen someone else get ahead doing it first. See, now we’re getting into my territory. It’s called being obsequious.”
    “Being
careful
. There’s a difference.”
    “Don’t forget the patients. You
never
—even momentarily—leave John Eldridge Grump III in a room with a comatose ex-Pullman porter.” He paused. “Actually, one of the nicest things about Claremont Hospital is that it’s the socially acceptable place to check out—I could keeptrack of my patients through the Times obituaries. God forbid any of those people should be caught dead at Brooklyn Jewish!”
    “Fine,” acknowledged Logan, “
very
careful. I don’t pretend to be selfless—in this business that’s self-destructive. But,” he added, meaning it, “I also don’t think I ever violated my sense of integrity.”
    “All right,
strategically
obsequious.
Honorably
obsequious.” He nodded, grinning. “Neither did I.”
    Logan laughed; this guy seemed to be a soulmate. “Well, then, who’s to say that training won’t be as valuable at this place as anything else?”
    But abruptly they were cut off by the roar of a motorcycle zooming up the adjacent driveway. Skidding to a stop, the driver—in black leather, his face obscured by the black-tinted Plexiglas of his helmet—dismounted and strode into the midst of the gathering.
    “Who the hell is that?” whispered Reston. “Talk about making an impression!”
    “Stillman!” called out Seth Shein from across the patio, as if in response. “Get that goddamn thing off my lawn!”
    Stillman removed the helmet, revealing a beet-red face, topped by thick black hair matted with perspiration. He looked to be in his late thirties. His surprisingly unimpressive features—a doughy face and droopy eyelids—lent him a sense of sleepy disengagement.
    Almost instantly, a half dozen senior associates surrounded the eminent oncologist. “You guys I already know,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let’s see if we’ve got any scientists in this new bunch.”
    From then on, it was Stillman’s show. Purposefully, he began making the rounds of the newcomers, introducing himself and exchanging a few words. Given Bernstein’s earlier warning, Logan found himself surprised that the man seemed quite the opposite of an ogre.
    “I read your recommendations,” he told the young doctor. “We’re looking for good things from you.”
    “Thank you, sir,” said Logan, immensely pleased. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
    “Good. Don’t.” Unexpectedly, he flashed a smile. “Anything you need, I’m the guy—”
    “Chicken, Greg?” offered Seth Shein, suddenly at their side, thrusting a plate of barbecued chicken Stillman’s way. He smiled, but there was utterly no warmth in it.
    Stillman speared a leg—“Why not?”—and started munching it. Suddenly he was a different man, his eyes alive, looking distinctly younger,
energized
.
    “Why not a breast, Greg? Isn’t that your specialty?”
    “Not after you’ve been handling it, Seth. At that point the patient is usually beyond hope.”
    The other glared at him. “At least I don’t run experiments that risk lives!”
    “That’s true,” said Stillman. “Your experiments don’t do anything at all.”
    Looking on, Logan was aghast. It wasn’t merely that Shein had had far too much to drink, or even that these two so clearly loathed each other. What was remarkable, what even the wars at Claremont had not prepared him for, was how little