Vital Signs

11

"My God!" Wendy said as she and Marissa waited for their baggage in the Brisbane airport.

"I never had any idea the Pacific was so immense."

"I feel like we've been traveling for a week," Marissa agreed.

They had flown from Boston to L.A. Then from L.A. they had taken a nonstop to Sydney. It was the longest flight either had ever been on: almost fifteen hours. Then, as soon as they'd passed through formalities at Sydney, they boarded an Australian Airlines plane for the final leg to Brisbane.

"I knew Australia was far away," Wendy continued, "but I didn't know it was this far."

When their luggage appeared, they cheered. Having traveled on so many flights, they were afraid they'd never see it again.

They loaded the bags onto an airport pushcart and headed for the taxi stand.

"Certainly a modern-looking airport," Wendy commented.

Getting a cab was a breeze. The driver helped them with their bags and even opened and closed the cab doors for them. Once they were all settled, he turned to them and said: "Where to, luvs?"

"Mayfair Crest International Hotel, please," Marissa told him. Marissa had gotten the name of the hotel from an agent at Beacon Hill Travel. The agent had been an enormous help, essentially accomplishing the impossible: getting documents and reservations to leave the same afternoon.

"Do up your seat belts, ladies," the taxi driver said as he eyed them in the rearview mirror.

"Forty dollars if the coppers catch you without them."

Marissa and Wendy did as they were told. They were too tired to question.

"Is the Mayfair a good hotel?" Marissa asked.

"It's a bit dear," the driver said, "but it's or right

Marissa smiled at Wendy.

"I like the Australian accent," she whispered.

"It's like an English accent, but with a. down-home coziness."

"You ladies Yanks?" the driver asked them.

Marissa said that they were.

"We're from Boston, Massachusetts.

"Welcome to the Lucky Country," the driver said.

"Been here before?"

"First time," Marissa admitted.

With that, the cabdriver launched into a colorful history of Brisbane, including mention of its origins as a penal colony for the worst convicts of Sydney.

Both Marissa and Wendy were surprised by the lush greenness of the land. Luxuriant tropical vegetation lined the roads, engulfing entire buildings in a riot of colors. Purple jacaranda trees competed with pink oleander and blood-red bougainvillaea.

When the undistinguished, glass-faced high-rises of the downtown area came into view, Marissa and Wendy were less impressed.

"Looks like a city anywhere," Wendy said.

"You'd think they could have taken a hint from the local natural beauty and done something original."

"You wonder with all this land why they have to build so high," Marissa said.

Entering the city itself, their impressions improved. Although it was past rush hour, there were people everywhere. Everyone looked tanned and healthy. Almost all the men were in shorts.

"I think I'm going to like Australia," Wendy quipped.

As they waited at a light, Marissa looked at the parade of sunburnt faces. Many of the men had sandy blond hair and angular jaws.

"They remind me of Robert," Marissa said.

"Forget Robert!" Wendy said.

"At least for now."

During the flight, Marissa had told Wendy about her experience at Robert's office. Wendy had been horrified and sympathetic.

"No wonder you'd been so eager to leave," Wendy had said.

"I don't know what I'll do when I get back," Marissa had said.

"If Robert and Donna are truly having an affair, then our marriage is over."

The taxi entered a large square lined with palm trees.

"That's your hotel over there," the driver said, pointing with his free hand. Then, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he said, "On the other side, that sandstone building with the clock tower, that's Brisbane City Hall. Built in the twenties. It's got a great marble staircase. There's a good view of the whole city from the top."

Checking into the hotel was effortless. Soon the women found themselves in a plainly decorated, air-conditioned room with a city view that included a portion of the Brisbane River.

After hanging up some of their clothes, they spread out on their respective beds.

"Are you as tired as I am?" Wendy asked.

"I sure am," Marissa said.

"But it's a good exhaustion: like a catharsis. I'm glad we came and I'm eager to see some of the city."

"All I need is a shower and a nap," Wendy said.

"Who's the tour director?"

"Sounds good to me," Marissa said.

"But I don't think we should sleep too long. Otherwise we won't be able to adjust to the time difference. I think we should call the desk and have someone wake us up in a couple of hours. Then we could do some sightseeing.

We'll save the clinic for tomorrow when we're fresh."

"I want to find out about getting out to the Great Barrier Reef," Wendy said.

"I can't wait. I've heard it's the best diving in the world."

"Why don't you hop in the shower first?" Marissa said.

"I want to look up Female Care Australia in the phone book and figure out where it is on the city map."

Wendy didn't argue. She scooted off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom while Marissa flipped through the phone book on the night-table between the beds. The clinic was located in a nearby suburb called Herston. Checking the map provided by the hotel, she noted that Herston was just north of Brisbane. She grabbed a scratch pad bearing the hotel's name to write down the address.

Marissa. was about to replace the phone book when she thought about Tristan Williams. Opening the directory to the his, she ran her finger down the column.

Just then, the door to the bathroom opened. Steam billowed out.

"Your turn," Wendy called. She had one towel wrapped around her head, another around her body.

"I can't believe how good it felt, especially washing my hair."

"Our pathologist friend's not in the phone book," Marissa said.

Wendy smiled.

"That would have been too easy."

Marissa put the phone book away, then stepped into the bathroom for her shower.

When the phone rang, Marissa had trouble rousing herself.

Groggily she groped for the receiver. A cheerful voice at the other end of the line told her it was noon. Marissa hardly knew what to make of it. It wasn't until she saw Wendy soundly sleeping in the bed next to her that she recalled where she was.

Lying back down again, Marissa almost fell back to sleep. But remembering her own advice, she forced herself to get up. For the moment she was so exhausted that she was nauseated, yet she knew she had to adapt to the time difference.

Wendy hadn't budged. Getting unsteadily to her feet, Marissa. gently shook her friend's shoulder.

"Wendy!" Marissa called softly. Then louder: "Wendy, time to wake up."

"Already?" Wendy asked groggily. She pushed herself up to a sitting position. Then she groaned.

"Oh, my word! I feel awful."

Marissa nodded.

"I know it's hard; I'm still exhausted. It feels like midnight but it's only noon. We'd better get used to it."

Wendy threw herself back on the bed.

"Tell the tour director I died," she said.

An hour later, Marissa and Wendy descended in the elevator to the lobby, feeling much improved. A second shower and room service "tucker," as the bellboy had called the food, had revived them more than they'd expected.

Once they were in the lobby, Wendy went to a nearby travel agency to make inquiries about the Great Barrier Reef while Marissa waited in line to speak with the concierge concerning Brisbane sightseeing. The two rendezvoused half an hour later.

"I got it all figured out," Wendy reported.

"Take a look at this." She smoothed out a map of the entire Queensland coastline including all the offshore islands.

"Holy Toledo," Marissa. exclaimed.

"How long is this reef? It looks like it goes all the way to New Guinea."

"Practically," Wendy said.

"It's well over a thousand miles long and in area it's larger than Britain. But we're going here, to Hamilton Island." Wendy poked her finger halfway up the peninsula.

"It's part of the Whitsunday Island group."

"Are you sure I'm going to like this?" Marissa said. She wasn't big on diving as her friend.

"You're going to love it!" Wendy said.

"Hamilton Island is a good choice because it's got an airport that takes regular jets. We can fly directly from Brisbane with Ansett Airlines. Usually they're pretty well booked, but it turns out that April is offseason."

"Even that doesn't sound so good to me," Marissa said.

"If it's off-season, there's usually a good reason, like it's not a good time to go."

"I was told that we may have a thunderstorm or two, but that's the only negative," Wendy said.

"Is diving on this reef dangerous?" Marissa asked.

"Don't worry! We'll have a dive master with us," Wendy assured her.

"We'll charter a boat and head out to the outer reef.

That's where there are the most fish and the clearest water."

"What about sharks?" Marissa asked.

"They didn't say anything about sharks," Wendy said.

"But sharks stay out in deep water. We'll be diving on the reef itself.

I'm telling you, you'll love it. Trust me."

"Well, I have some tamer information," Marissa said.

"The concierge recommended we take a city bus tour. At first she said to walk around, but when I told her we'd just flown in, she told me about the buses. She said we should be sure to visit the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary."

"Wonderful!" Wendy said with glee.

"I love koalas."

The bus tour was their first order of business. They were driven around in air-conditioned comfort and viewed such sights as the French Renaissance-style Parliament House and the Italian Renaissance-style

Treasury building. The streets were loaded with sidewalk cafes. Marissa couldn't get over how relaxed and casual everyone looked.

Fatigue eventually took over again. During the second hour both Marissa and Wendy nodded off as the bus slowed for a viewing of the new Queensland Cultural Center. They roused a bit for the visit to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary. Not only were there more koala bears than they could have imagined, there were dingos, kookaburras, kangaroos, and evena platypus. They were able to walk among the kangaroos and feed them by hand.

The strength of the animals' curled front paws came as a surprise.

The most appealing creatures by far were the koala bears.

Wendy was ecstatic when she learned she could hold one, but when she did, her enthusiasm waned. They had a peculiar odor that she found unpleasant.

"It's because of their eucalyptus diet," one of the keepers explained.

After they'd watched a koala bear show and learned all sorts of koala bear trivia, they'd had enough. Boarding a city bus, they returned to the hotel.

"No, you don't!" Marissa said as she restrained Wendy from collapsing on the bed.

"Please!" Wendy begged.

"Tell the tour director I have a touch of the bubonic plague."

After their third shower of the day, they followed a suggestion from the concierge and took a short walk across the Victoria Bridge to the Queensland Cultural Center. In a rather modern restaurant called the Fountain Room, they relaxed for their first dinner in Australia. The view of the city across the muddy river was superb.

"I want to try something Australian," Wendy said, hiding behind a huge menu. They ended up ordering barra mundi a type of Australian perch. To complement the food, they selected a chilled Australian Chablis. Once it came and was opened for them, the two women toasted their Australian adventure.

After tasting the wine, Marissa smiled contentedly. Its crisp finish was a delight to her palate. For the moment she was blithely confident the trip would mean just the right combination of relaxation and research.

"Ahhhh," Wendy murmured, peering into her long-stemmed glass.

"Just what the doctor ordered."

"Amen," Marissa agreed.

The next morning, after a hearty English breakfast, Marissa and Wendy hailed a cab.

"Do you know this address?" Marissa asked. She'd given the driver the piece of paper with the FCA clinic's address on it.

"Sure, luv!" he said.

"That's the women's clinic, it is. Buckle up and I can have you there straightaway."

The ride to Herston was pleasant. As they entered the green and hilly suburbs, they noticed a number of quaint, wide perched tin-roofed homes built on stilts.

"Those are called Queenslanders," the driver explained.

"Built in the air to keep 'em away from water. The verandas are to keep em cool. Gets mighty hot here in the summertime."

In minutes, the cab pulled up to a strikingly modern four-story building surfaced entirely with bronzed mirrored glass. The

ISI grounds were landscaped with gorgeous flowering trees and bushes.

Getting out of the cab, Marissa and Wendy were struck by the sounds of the birds. They seemed to be everywhere: brightly colored and chirping and squawking. On the sidewalk leading to the entrance of the clinic they ran into a flock of mynah birds quarreling over a piece of bread.

As soon as the entrance doors closed behind them, the women stopped, awed by the building's interior. The FCA wasn't like any clinic they'd ever visited. The floors were gleaming onyx. The walls were a dark tropical wood polished to a high gloss.

"This place looks like a law firm," Wendy said uneasily.

"You sure you got the right address?"

There was a lush garden area in the center of the building featuring the same mix of flowering trees as outside. There was evena small pond with a waterfall constructed of red granite blocks.

At one end of the spacious lobby was an information area that looked more like the front desk of a luxury hotel.

"Can we be of assistance?" asked one of the two perky receptionists.

Instead of the white that was standard in American clinics, these women were dressed in brightly colored floral prints.

"We're doctors from the United States," Marissa said.

"We are interested in your facility. We were wondering if-" "From America!" the woman said with delight.

"I've just returned from California. How nice of you to visit. I'll ring up Mr.

Carstans. One moment, please."

The receptionist dialed a phone in front of her and spoke briefly. Hanging up, she said, "Mr. Carstans will be out directly.

Perhaps you would care to sit in our waiting area beyond those planters." She pointed with her pen.

"Who's Mr. Carstans?" Wendy asked.

"He's our public relations man," the receptionist explained.

Marissa and Wendy walked over to the sitting area.

"Public relations man?" Wendy questioned.

"How many clinics do you know that have public relations men?"

"My thought exactly," Marissa said.

"This clinic must do a healthy amount of business to justify that kind of expense."

After a few minutes' wait, a man approached them.

"G'day, ladies," he said.

Carstans was a tall, corpulent fellow with ruddy cheeks. He was wearing shorts along with a jacket and tie.

"Welcome to FCA. My name is Bruce Carstans. What can we do for you?"

"I'm Dr. Blumenthal and this is Dr. Wilson," Marissa said.

"Gynecologists?" Mr. Carstans asked.

"I'm a pediatrician," Marissa said.

"I'm an ophthalmologist," Wendy said.

"Our fame must be spreading far and wide," Mr. Carstans said with a smile.

"Usually we only have overseas gynecologists for visitors. Are you ladies game for a tour of our establishment?"

The women exchanged glances, then shrugged.

"Why not?"

Wendy said.

"It would be interesting," Marissa agreed.

For the next hour Marissa and Wendy were treated to a look at the most up-to-date medical facility either had ever seen. The clinic offered a full battery of women's medical services. There were X-ray rooms, a CAT scanner, and eve nan NMR machine.

There were examination rooms, waiting rooms, minor surgery rooms, as well as delivery and birthing rooms. There was also an overnight ward.

By far the most impressive part of the clinic was the infertility section, boasting its own surgical wing capable of major surgical procedures. There were also six fully computerized ultrasound rooms. Filled with the absolute latest equipment, they had a Star Wars appearance. The clinical infertility lab was a huge room with large incubators, centrifuges, and modern cryogenic units.

Marissa and Wendy thought they'd seen it all when Mr. Carstans opened a heavy door and stepped aside for them to enter.

The women found themselves in a glass enclosure that served as the dust-free entry to a fairyland of high-tech instrumentation.

On the other side of the glass, a number of hooded technicians were at work. The laboratory looked like a space station in the twenty-first century.

"This is the heart of FCA," Mr. Carstans explained.

"This is the basic research section. It is from here that many of the breakthroughs in in-vitro fertilization techniques have come. Right now we are concentrating on cryopreservation techniques for both embryos and gametes. But we are also working on fetal tissue research, particularly for Parkinson's Disease, diabetes, and even immunodeficiency problems."

"I've never seen such a research setup," Wendy said.

"It's a tribute to capitalism," Mr. Carstans said with a smile.

"Private initiative and private investment. It's the only way to get things done in the modern world. The public benefits both in the availability of new techniques as well as superior clinical care."

"What are the FCA success rates with in-vitro fertilization?"

Marissa asked.

"We are approaching a pregnancy rate of eighty percent," Mr. Carstans said with obvious pride.

"No other program can match it."

Mr. Carstans walked the women back to the front entrance.

He could tell they were impressed.

"We are pleased you came to visit," he said, stopping near the waiting area where they'd begun the tour.

"I think you've seen most everything-Hope you enjoyed it. Are there any questions you'd like to ask?"

"I do have a question," Marissa said. Opening her shoulder bag, she pulled out the journal article that Cyrill had given her.

She handed it to Mr. Carstans.

"I assume you're familiar with this article. It's about a series of cases here at FCA."

Mr. Carstans hesitated, then took the paper. He glanced at it, then handed it back.

"No, I've never seen it," he said.

"How long have you been associated with FCAT' Wendy asked.

"Just shy of five years," Mr. Carstans said.

"This paper is only two years old," Wendy said.

"How could the public relations department have been unaware of it? I would have thought that such a paper would have been a significant issue for you. It's about relatively young women coming down with TB in their fallopian tubes."

"As a rule, I don't read technical journals," Mr. Carstans said.

"What journal was it published in?"

"The Australian Journal of Infectious Diseases, " Marissa said.

"What about the author, Dr. Tristan Williams? Apparently he was on the staff here in pathology. Were you acquainted with him?"

"Afraid not," Mr. Carstans said.

"But then again, I don't know all the staff. For questions like these, I'll have to refer you to Charles Lester, the director of the clinic."

"Do you think he'd be willing to speak with us?" Marissa asked.

"Under the circumstances," Mr. Carstans said, "I believe he would be happy to speak to you. In fact, if you'll be patient for a moment, I'll trot upstairs and see if he's free this very moment."

Marissa and Wendy watched Mr. Carstans disappear through a stairwell door. Then they looked at each other.

"What do you think?" Wendy asked.

"Beats me," Marissa said.

"I couldn't tell if he was on the level or not."

"I'm beginning to get a weird feeling," Wendy said.

"This place seems too good to be true. Have you ever seen such opulence at a clinic?"

"I'm amazed that there is a chance we can meet the director," Marissa said.

"I wouldn't have thought that possible without some formal introduction."

Just then Mr. Carstans reappeared.

"You're in luck," he said.

"The director says he'll be delighted to say hello to some esteemed colleagues from Boston, provided you have the time to spare."

"Absolutely," Marissa said.

They followed Mr. Carstans up a flight of stairs. The furnishing in the director's suite of offices was even more lavish than what they had already seen. It was as if they were visiting the office of the CEO of a major Fortune 500 company.

"Do come in!" the director said as he stood up from his desk to greet Marissa and Wendy. He shook hands with both, then indicated seats for them to make themselves comfortable. He then dismissed Mr. Carstans who discreetly left, closing the door behind him. Coming back to the women, the director said, "What about a fresh cup of coffee? I know you Yanks drink lots of coffee."

Charles Lester was a large, heavyset man, but not as beefy as Carstans. He looked like a gracefully aging athlete still up to a good game of tennis. His face was tanned like everyone else's in the city, and his eyes were set deep. He sported a thick mustache.

"Coffee would be fine with me," Wendy said. Marissa nodded, indicating that she'd like the same.

Lester buzzed his secretary and asked her to bring coffee for three. While they waited, he engaged the two women in small talk, asking them what hospitals they were associated with and where they'd done their specialty training. Lester admitted that he'd done some fellowship work in Boston.

"You're a physician?" Wendy asked.

"Very much so," Lester said.

"Some of us prefer the English system of address. As a gynecological surgeon during my training in London, I became accustomed to the title 'mister." But as a doctor I haven't been doing much clinical work of late. Unfortu Iss nately, I've been caught at this desk doing more administrative work than I would like."

A steward brought in the coffee and served it. Lester added a touch of cream to his and sat back. He studied the women over the top of his cup, "Mr. Carstans mentioned to me that you were inquiring about an old journal article," Lester said.

"Can I ask what the article was about?"

Marissa pulled the reprint from her shoulder bag and handed it to Mr. Lester. Like Mr. Carstans, he only glanced at it before handing it back.

"What is your interest in this?" he asked.

"It's kind of a long story," Marissa said.

"I have the time," Lester answered.

"Well," Marissa began, "both Dr. Wilson and I have the same infertility problem as the women described in the article: blocked fallopian tubes from tuberculosis." She then went on to explain her background with the CDC and her training in epidemiology.

"When we found out the problem was occurring on an international scale, we decided to investigate. The article was sent to me by the CDC. We called the clinic here but were unable to reach the author."

"What would you have asked him if you'd been successful in reaching him?" Lester asked.

"Two things in particular," Marissa said.

"We wanted to know if he'd done any epiderniologic follow-up on the cases that were reported. We also wanted to know if he'd seen any new cases. Back in Boston we know of three other cases besides ourselves."

"You do know that infertility in general is on the rise?" Lester said.

"Infertility from all causes, not just from blocked tubes."

"We're aware of that," Marissa said.

"But even the increase in blocked tubes is usually a nonspecific inflammatory process or endometriosis, it's not a specific infection, especially not something as relatively rare as TB. These cases raise a lot of epidemiological questions that should be answered. They might even represent some new, serious clinical entity."

"I'm sorry that you've come such a long way to learn more about that article. I'm afraid the author had entirely contrived his data. It was an utter fabrication. Not a whit of truth to it. Those were not real patients. Well, maybe one or two were real cases.

The rest were fictitious. If you had reached me by phone I could have told you as much."

"Oh, no," Marissa groaned. The thought that the article could have been a hoax had never occurred to her.

"Where is the author now?" Wendy asked.

"I couldn't tell you," Lester said.

"Obviously we dropped him from the staff immediately. Since then I understand he's been indicted on drug charges. What eventually happened, I don't know. I also don't know where he currently is, but I do know one thing: he is not practicing pathology."

"How would you suggest we find him?" Marissa asked.

"I'd still like to talk to him, especially since I have the condition he described. Of all the data he could have dreamed up, why did he pick something so unusual? What could he have hoped to gain?

It doesn't make sense."

"People do strange things for strange motives," Lester said. He got to his feet.

"I hope this paper wasn't the only reason you've come all the way to Australia."

"We also thought we'd go out on the Great Barrier Reef," Wendy said.

"A little work and a little play."

"I trust your play will be more rewarding than your work," Lester said.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to my own work."

A few minutes later Marissa and Wendy found themselves standing by the front information desk again. The receptionist was calling them a taxi.

"That was rather abrupt," Wendy said.

"One minute he was telling us he had the time, the next he was shooing us out of his office."

"I don't know what to make of all this," Marissa agreed.

"But there is one thing I do know. I'd like to find that Tristan Williams just to wring his neck. Imagine the nerve of making up patients just to publish an article!"

"That old publish-or-perish mentality," Wendy said.

"A taxi will be along directly," the receptionist said as she hung up the receiver.

"I suggest you wait outside. The taxi queue is just up the street."

The women left the FCA clinic, stepping into the glorious morning sunshine.

"So what does the tour director suggest we do now?" Wendy asked.

"I'm not sure," Marissa said.

"Maybe we should go out to the University of Queensland and use the medical library."

"Oh, boy!" Wendy said with obvious sarcasm.

"Now that sounds titillating!"

Charles Lester had not gone back to his work. Marissa and Wendy's visit had disturbed him. It had been over a year since the last inquiry about that irritating paper by Williams. At the time he'd hoped it would be the last.

"Damn," he said aloud, smacking a fist on his desk top. He had the uncomfortable premonition that there was trouble ahead. The fact that these meddlesome women had come all the way from Boston was upsetting to say the least. Most distressing of all was the possibility that their search for Williams might persist. That could spell disaster.

He decided it was time to confer with some of his associates.

After figuring the time difference, he picked up the phone and called Norman Wingate at home.

"Charles!" Dr. Wingate exclaimed with delight.

"Good to hear your voice. How's everything Down Under?"

"It's been better," Lester said.

"I have to talk to you about something important."

"Okay!" Dr. Wingate said.

"Let me get the extension."

Lester could hear Dr. Wingate say something to his wife. In a few minutes he heard another phone being picked up.

"I've got it, luv," Dr. Wingate said. Lester heard the other extension disconnect.

"What's the problem?" Dr. Wingate said into the phone.

"Does the name Dr. Marissa Blumenthal mean anything to you?"

"Good Lord, yes," Wingate said.

"Why do you ask?"

"She and a companion named Wendy Wilson just left my office. They came in here with that article about TB salpingitis."

"My God!" Wingate said.

"I can't believe they're in Australia.

And we were so generous to them." He related the details of the pair's attempt to break into the Women's Clinic's computer record system.

"Did they get anything out of your computer?" Lester asked.

"We don't believe so," Wingate said.

"But those women are troublemakers. Something will have to be done."

"I'm coming to the same conclusion," Lester said.

"Thanks."

Hanging up his phone, Lester pressed his intercom.

"Penny," he said, "ring up Ned Kelly in security. Tell him to get his arse up here on the spot."

Ned Kelly's name wasn't really Ned Kelly, it was Edmund Stewart. But at a young age Edmund had taken such a liking to the stories of the renowned bushranger Ned Kelly that his friends had started calling him Ned.

Although most Australian men liked to think of themselves as some reflection of the famous outlaw, Ned took to imitating him, even to the point of sending a pair of bullock testicles to the wife of a man he was feuding with. A life of contempt for authority and petty crime led people to call him Ned Kelly, and the name stuck.

Lester pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window. It seemed that just when things were running smoothly, some irritating problem had to crop up.

Lester had come a long way from his humble origins in the cutback of New South Wales. At age nine he'd arrived in Australia from England with his family. His father, a sheet-metal worker, had taken advantage of liberal immigration policies in the immediate post-World War II period. The Australian government had even paid passage for the whole family.

Early on, Lester had gravitated toward learning. He saw it as his ticket out of the sapping dullness of the vast Australian interior. In contrast to his brothers, he thirsted for knowledge, taking correspondence courses to supplement the meager schooling available in his tiny hometown. His studies had led him to medical school. From then on he'd never looked back. Nor did he tolerate hindrances. When people got in his way, he stepped on them.

"Watchagot?" Ned asked as he came through the door. Behind him was Willy Tong, a slightly built but muscular Chinese man.

Ned kicked the door shut with a resounding thump, then sat on the arm of the couch. He was not a big man, but he exuded toughness. Like Carstans, he wore shorts along with a shirt and tie. On his sleeve was sewn the logo of the security department of the clinic. His face was tanned to a lined, leathery texture. He looked as if he'd spent his entire thirty-eight years in the desert sun. Above his left eye was a scar from a knife fight in a pub. The argument had been over a pitcher of beer.

Lester was chagrined to have to resort to such men. It was a bore to have to deal with the likes of Ned Kelly. Yet occasionally it was necessary, as it was at present. Lester had met Ned purely by accident when he was in his last year of medical school. Ned had come into the university hospital with one of his many gun shot wounds. During the course of his recuperation, they'd become acquaintances. Over the years Lester had used Ned for various projects, culminating in his being hired as head of the clinic's security department.

"We have a couple of women interested in that article by Williams," Lester said.

"It was the same article that brought that gynecologist from L.A. here. Do you remember? It was about a year ago."

"How could I forget," Ned said with a sinister smile curling his lips.

"He was the poor man who had that awful auto accident.

Remember him, Willy?"

Willy's eyes narrowed as he smiled broadly.

"These women were talking about finding Williams," Lester said.

"I don't want that to happen."

"You should have let me take care of Williams way back when," Ned said.

"It would have saved a lot of trouble."

"He was too much in the spotlight at the time," Lester said.

"But let's not worry about that now. Now we have to worry about these women. I want something done, and I want it done before they dredge up any more information on TB salpingitis."

"You want it to look like some kind of accident?" Ned asked.

"That would be best," Lester said.

"Otherwise, there will be an investigation, which I'd prefer to avoid. But can you manage an accident when there are two people involved?"

"It's more difficult," Ned admitted.

"But certainly not impossible.

Be easy if they rent a car. Yanks are lousy left-hand drivers."

He laughed.

"Reminds me of that gynecologist. He almost killed himself without our help."

"The women's names are Marissa Blumenthal and Wendy Wilson," Lester said. He wrote them down and handed the paper to Ned.

"Where are they stayine." Ned asked.

"I don't know," Lester said.

"The only thing I do know is that they are planning to go out on the Reef."

"Really!" Ned said with interest, "Now that bit of info could come in handy. Do you know when they plan to go?"

"No," Lester said.

"But don't wait too long. I want something done soon. Understand?"

"We'll start calling hotels as soon as we get downstairs," Ned said.

"This should be fun. Like going out in the bush and shooting 'roos."

"Excuse me," Marissa whispered.

"I'm Dr. Blumenthal and this is Dr. Wilson." Wendy nodded hello. They were standing at the main circulation desk of the University of Queensland Medical

School Library.

They had driven halfway to St. Lucia, where the university was located, when they'd asked the taxi driver if he knew where the medical school library was. To their surprise, he'd responded by "throwing a u-ey" and heading directly back to Herston. The medical school, they'd learned, was a short distance from the FCA.

"We're from the States," Marissa said to the man behind the medical school library circulation desk.

"And we were wondering if it might be possible for us to use the library facilities."

"I don't see why not," the man replied.

"But it would be best if you inquired in the office down the hall. Ask for Mrs. Pierce, the librarian."

Marissa and Wendy walked down the corridor and into the administration office.

"Absolutely," Mrs. Pierce answered in reply to their request.

"You're more than welcome to use material here at the library.

Of course, we will not be able to allow any of it to circulate."

"I understand," Marissa said.

"Is there anything I could help you with?" Mrs. Pierce offered.

"It's not every day we have visitors from Boston."

"Perhaps there is," Marissa said.

"We were lucky enough to have been vena tour of the FCA clinic building this morning.

I must say, we were truly impressed."

"We're quite proud of the clinic here in Brisbane," Mrs. Pierce said.

"For good reason," Marissa said.

"What we'd like to do is to read some of their current papers. I imagine they publish quite a bit of material there."

"Indeed they do," Mrs. Pierce said.

"They have been our leaders in reproductive technologies here in Australia. They are also generous contributors to the medical school; we have a lot of their material."

"We're also interested in a certain Australian pathologist," Wendy said.

"His name is Tristan Williams. We have a reprint of one of his papers that appeared in an Australian journal. We'd like to see if he's done any subsequent articles."

"We'd especially like to locate him," Marissa interjected.

"Perhaps you may have some suggestions as to how we might do that."

"It didn't mention where he practiced in the article?" Mrs. Pierce asked.

"He'd been at the FCA when he published the paper," Wendy said, "but that was two years ago and he's since left the FCA staff. We asked over there at the clinic, but no one seemed to have a forwarding address."

"We have an annual publication by the Royal College of Pathology,"

Mrs. Pierce said.

"It contains the hospital and university affiliations of all Australian pathologists. I think that would be the most fruitful place to start. Why don't you come with me?

I'll acquaint you with our reference and periodical rooms."

Marissa and Wendy followed Mrs. Pierce. The woman was quite striking: she had flaming red hair and was quite tall, particularly in contrast to Marissa and Wendy. Together the three women descended a curved stairway leading to the lower floor.

Mrs. Pierce's pace was brisk. Marissa and Wendy had, to keep up with her.

Mrs. Pierce stopped at a group of computer monitors. She put her hand on the top of the first screen.

"Here are the terminals for literature searches. This would be the easiest way to search for Dr. Williams' latest articles."

Leaving the computer area, Mrs. Pierce walked to a series of low bookshelves. She pulled a dark-covered volume from the shelf and handed it to Wendy.

"Here's the Royal College of Pathology's publication. That's the best way to locate a pathologist, at least in terms of his professional associations."

Leaving the shelves, Mrs. Pierce strode off at a determined pace. Marissa and Wendy hurried after her.

"She must do triathlons on the weekends," Wendy muttered under her breath to Marissa.

Mrs. Pierce led them to another corner of the periodical room.

"This section here," she said, making a sweeping gesture with her hand, "is devoted to FCA-related articles. So that should keep you busy for a while. If you have any further questions, please feel free to come see me back in the office."

After Marissa and Wendy thanked Mrs. Pierce, she left them on their own.

"Okay, what first?" Wendy asked.

"Look Williams up in the book you're holding," Wendy said.

"If it says he's gone to Perth I'll scream. Did you know that's about three thousand miles away from here?"

Wendy set the book on top of one of the periodical shelves and turned to the his. There was no Tristan Williams.

"At least he's not in Perth," Wendy said.

"I guess Mr. Charles Lester was telling us the truth," Marissa said.

"Did you doubt him?" Wendy asked.

"Not really," Marissa answered.

"It would have been too easy for us to check." She scanned the surrounding shelves.

"Let's take a look at some of this FCA material."

For the next hour Marissa and Wendy pored over articles on a wide range of topics related to reproductive technology. The scope and breadth of FCA research was as impressive as the clinic itself. It soon became clear that FCA had played a pioneering role in fetal fertility research, especially in regard to the use of fetal tissue for treatment of metabolic and degenerative diseases.

Most of the articles they merely skimmed. Those dealing with in vitro fertilization they put aside. Once they had finished a cursory look at all the material, they turned back to the articles on in-vitro fertilization.

I'm impressed but confused," Wendy said after half an hour.

"I must be missing something."

"I have the same feeling," Marissa said.

"When you read these articles in sequence, it shows that their percent success per cycle in terms of achieving pregnancy was going up every year. Like for five cycles the success rate went from twenty percent in 1983 to almost sixty percent in 1987 "Exactly," Wendy said.

"But what happened in 1988? Maybe it's a misprint."

"Can't be a misprint," Marissa said.

"Look at the data for 1989." She tossed a paper onto Wendy's lap. Wendy studied the figures.

"Curious that they didn't even calculate the per-cycle pregnancy rate after they'd made such a big deal out of doing it in every other year."

"It's a simple calculation," Marissa said.

"Do it yourself for five cycles."

Wendy pulled a piece of paper from her purse and did the division.

"You're right," she said when she'd finished.

"It's the same as 1988, and when compared to 1987, it's much worse. Less than ten percent. Something was going wrong."

"Yet look at the pregnancy rate per patient," Marissa said.

"Iley changed the basis of their reporting. 11ey didn't talk about achieving pregnancy per cycle anymore, they switched to pregnancy per patient. And that still went up in both 1988 and 1989."

"Wait a second," Wendy said.

"I don't think that's possible. I want to graph this stuff. Let me see if I can find some paper."

Wendy walked over to the reference desk.

Meanwhile, Marissa went back to the figures. As Wendy suggested, it didn't seem possible for rates per cycle to go down while rates per patient went up. And not only that, the pregnancy rate per patient in 1988 approached eighty percent!

"Ta da!" Wendy said as she came back, triumphantly waving several sheets of graph paper. She set to work, swiftly sketching two graphs.

After briefly studying her efforts, she pushed the paper across the table to Marissa.

"There has to be something we're missing," she said.

"This still doesn't make sense to me."

Marissa examined the graphs Wendy had drawn. It didn't make sense to her either. Seeing the supposedly related curves going in different directions seemed contradictory.

"The crazy part is that they can't be bogus statistics," Wendy said.

"If they were making them up, they certainly wouldn't have had the per-cycle success rate go down. They wouldn't be that stupid."

"I don't know what to make of it," Marian said. She handed the graphs back to Wendy, who folded them and put them in her purse.

"Let's sleep on it," Wendy suggested.

"Maybe we should go back to FCA and ask Mr. Lester," Marissa said.

"But first let's check to see if our Tristan Williams has been writing any more papers."

After returning all the FCA journal articles to their proper shelves, Marissa. and Wendy returned to the computer terminals that Mrs. Pierce had pointed out to them. Wendy sat down while

Marissa leaned over her shoulder. Without much difficulty, Wendy set the computer to run a search for all articles written by Tristan Williams. After she pushed the Execute button, it took the computer only a few seconds to flash the result. Tristan Williams had written only one published article, and that was the one they already had.

"Not what I'd call a prolific bloke," Wendy said.

"That's an understatement," Marissa said.

"I'm starting to get a bit discouraged. You have any suggestions nowT' "Sure do," Wendy said.

"Ixt's have lunch."

After inquiring at the circulation desk, Marissa and Wendy walked over to a cafeteria-style lunchroom and bought sandwiches.

Taking them outside, they sat on a bench beneath a beautiful flowering tree of a species neither one recognized.

"Do you think it's really worth the effort to try to find this Williams character?" Wendy asked between bites.

"After all, he might not even appreciate our seeking him out. Sounds like this episode with his one and only paper was his undoing."

"I suppose my interest is mere curiosity at this point," Marissa admitted, "Maybe we should try one more thing. Let's try calling the Royal College of Pathology and ask them about him. If they don't know anything or if they tell us he's in some distant place like Perth, we'll give up. This already is beginning to feel like a wild-goose chase."

"And then we'll let ourselves have some fun!" Wendy said.

"Right," Marissa said.

Once they finished eating, they returned to the library and consulted the Royal College of Pathology's publication for the society's address and phone number. Using a public phone in the library, Marissa made her call. The phone was answered by a cheerful operator who connected Marissa to an administrator named Shirley McGovern once Marissa told her why she was calling.

"I'm terribly sorry," Mrs. McGovern said after Marissa repeated her question.

"It is the College's rule not to give out information on its members."

"I understand," Marissa said.

"But perhaps you can tell me if he is a member of your organization."

There was a pause on the line.

"I've come all the way from America," Marissa added.

"We're old friends..

"Well.. Mrs. McGovern said, "I suppose it is all right to tell you that he is no longer a member of the College. But beyond that, I cannot tell you more."

Marissa hung up the phone and told Wendy what little she'd learned.

"Although she certainly implied that he had been a member in the past," Marissa added.

"I suppose that further corroborates Mr. Lester's story," Wendy said.

"Let's give up on the bastard. The more I think about him publishing a fictitious paper, the less I want to talk to him. Let's go diving."

"I'll make you a deal," Marissa said.

"As long as we're on the medical school campus, let's find the alumni office and see if he happened to go to school here. If this alumni office is anything like ours, they'd be sure to have the man's latest address to hit him up for money. If they don't know of him, then we'll give up."

"You've got yourself a deal," Wendy said.

The alumni office was in the main administration building on the second floor. It was a small operation with only a three person staff. The director, a Mr. Alex Hammersmith, was cordial and eager to help.

"The name's not familiar," he said in response to their inquiry, "but let me have a go at our master list."

He had a computer terminal on his desk and he typed in Tristan Williams' name.

"How do you know this bloke?" he asked, keying the computer to start its search.

"Old friend," Marissa said evasively.

"We came to Australia on the spur of the moment and decided to try to look him up to say hello."

"Bloody friendly of you," Mr. Hammersmith said as he glanced over at his screen.

"Here we go. Yes, Mr. Tristan Williams was a graduate here, class of 1979."

"Do you have his current address?" Marissa asked. This was the first encouraging lead they'd had all day.

"Only his work address," Mr. Hammersmith said.

"Would you care to have that?"

"Very much so," Marissa said, motioning Wendy to give her a piece of paper. Wendy handed her another sheet of graph paper from her purse.

"Mr. Williams is close by," Mr. Hammersmith said.

"Only a few blocks away at the Female Care Australia clinic. It's near enough to walk."

Marissa sighed. She handed the graph paper back to Wendy along with the pen.

"We've already been there," she said.

"They told us he'd left two years ago."

"Oh, dear!" Mr. Hammersmith said.

"Terribly sorry about that. We try to keep our files up to date, but we're not always successful."

"Thank you for your help," Marissa said, getting to her feet.

"I suppose Tristan and I were destined never to meet again.

"Bloody awful," Mr. Hammersmith said.

"But hold on. Let me try something else here." He went back to his computer screen and began typing on the keyboard.

"There we have it!" Mr. Hammersmith said with a smile.

"I've chocked the faculty roster with the 1979 year of graduation. We have three people from that year on staff My advice is to ask them about Tristan Williams. I'm sure one of them will know where he is." He wrote down the faculty names and their respective departments and handed the sheet to Marissa.

I'd try the bloke on top of the list first," Mr. Hammersmith said.

"For a while he was acting as the class secretary for the alumni journal. He works in the Anatomy Department, which is in the building directly across from this one. If after talking with him and the others you still haven't turned old Williams up, come back. I have a few other ideas that might be worth trying. I could contact the Health Insurance Commission in Canberra for one.

If he's doing any outpatient billing, they'd have to have an address for him. And of course there is the Australian Medical Association. I think they keep a data bank on physicians whether they are members or not. Beyond that, there's the State Licensing Board. There are actually a lot of ways we might track him down."

"You've been most kind," Marissa said.

"Good luck," Mr. Hammersmith said.

"We Australians love to see friends from abroad. It would be a shame if you two missed each other after you've come all this way."

After leaving the alumni office, Marissa stopped Wendy in the stairwell.

"You don't mind if we follow up on this, do you?" she asked.

"This is a step beyond our deal."

"We're here," Wendy said.

"Let's give it a shot."

Marissa and Wendy had no trouble finding the Anatomy Department, where they went and asked for Dr. Lawrence Spenser.

"Third floor," a secretary told them.

"Gross anatomy. He's usually in the lab in the afternoon."

Climbing the stairs, Wendy said, "The smell alone here is starting to awaken bad memories. How well I remember it from my med school days. Did you like gross anatomy first year?"

"It wasn't bad," Marissa said.

"I hated it," Wendy said.

"That smell. I couldn't get it out of my hair for the entire three months."

The door to the gross anatomy room was ajar. The women peeked inside. There were about twenty shrouded tables. Toward the rear was a lone individual wearing an apron and rubber gloves. His back was to them.

"Excuse me!" Marissa called.

"We're looking for Lawrence Spenser."

The man turned around. He had dark curly hair. Compared to the people Marissa and Wendy had been seeing, he seemed pale.

"You've found him," the man said with a smile.

"What can I do for you?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions," Marissa called.

"Well, it's a little hard to converse across the room," Spenser said.

"Come on in."

Marissa and Wendy entered and weaved their way among the many shrouded tables. Both women were aware that the plastic sheets were covering corpses. Wendy tried to breathe through her mouth so as not to smell the formalin.

"Welcome to gross anatomy," Spenser said.

"I'm afraid I don't get many visitors."

Wendy recoiled from the sight of what he had been working on. It was the torso of a cadaver, sawed off at the umbilicus. The eyes were half open, the mouth pulled back in a sneer with the tips of yellow teeth barely visible. The skin of the left cheek had been dissected, revealing the course of the facial nerve.

Following Wendy's line of sight, Spenser said, "Sorry about Archibald here. He's been under the weather lately."

"We've just come from the alumni office," Marissa told him.

"Excuse me," Wendy said, interrupting her.

"I think I'll wait outside." She turned and started for the hall.

"Are you okay?" Marissa called after her.

"I'll be fine," Wendy said with a wave.

"Take your time. I'll be outside."

Turning back to Spenser, Marissa explained, "Anatomy wasn't her favorite subject."

"Sorry about that," Spenser said.

"When you do this every day, you forget its effect on others."

"Getting back to what I was saying," Marissa continued.

"We were over at the alumni office and Mr. Hammersmith gave us your name. We're doctors from the States. We're looking for Tristan Williams. Mr. Hammersmith said you might know of him since you two graduated together."

"Sure, I know Tris," Spenser said.

"In fact, I spoke to him about six months ago. Why are you looking for him?"

"Just old friends," Marissa said.

"We happened to be in Brisbane and wanted to say hello, but he'd left the FCA."

"And not under the best of circumstances," Spenser said.

"Poor Tris has been going through some hard times, but things seem better now. In fact, I think he's quite happy where he is."

"Is he still in the Brisbane area?" Marissa asked.

"Hell, no!" Spenser said.

"He's out in Never Never."

"Never Never?" Marissa questioned.

"Is that a town?"

Spenser laughed heartily.

"Not quite," he said.

"It's an Aussie expression, like the Back of Bourke or the Back of Beyond. It refers to the outback, the Australian bush. Tris is working as a general practitioner with the Royal Flying Doctor Service out of Charleville."

"Is that far from here?" Marissa asked.

"Everything is far in Australia," Spenser said.

"It's a big country and most of it is like a desert. Charleville is about four hundred miles from Brisbane, out at the edge of the channel country. From there Tris flies out to Betoota Hotel, Windorah, Cunnamulla, godforsaken places like that, to visit isolated cattle stations. As I understand it, he stays out for weeks at a time. It takes a special man for that kind of work. I admire him. I couldn't do it, not after living around here."

"is it difficult to get out there?" Marissa. asked.

"It's not hard to get to Charleville," Spenser said.

"There's a bitumen road all the way. You can even fly there. But beyond Charleville, I think the road deteriorates to dirt and bull dust I don't recommend it for a holiday," "Thanks for taking the time to talk to me," Marissa said.

"I appreciate your help." In truth, she was depressed by his information.

It seemed as if the closer she got to finding out about Tristan Williams, the further he slipped away.

"Happy to be of service," Spenser said.

"If I were you, I'd forget about the outback and Tris. I'd head down to the Gold Coast and beach it, Aussie-style. You don't know what desolate means until you've seen some areas of the Australian outback."

After exchanging goodbyes, Marissa left and went back out side. She found Wendy sitting on the front steps of the building.

"You okay?" Marissa asked, sitting down beside her friend.

"Oh, I'm fine now," Wendy said.

"Sorry to abandon you in there. You'd think I could stomach that stuff by now."

"I'm glad you had sense enough to walk out," Marissa said.

"I'm sorry to have put you through it. But we found Tristan Williams."

"Eureka!" Wendy said.

"Is he close?"

"Everything is relative," Marissa said.

"He's not in Perth, but he's someplace out in the Australian outback. Apparently he's abandoned pathology, or pathology has abandoned him. He's working as a GP flying around to isolated locations like cattle ranches."

"Sounds like a romantic do-gooder job for someone who falsified data for a journal article."

Marissa nodded.

"His home base is a town called Charleville, which is about four hundred miles from here. But he's away for weeks at a time. I think it would be pretty tough to track him down. What do you think?"

"Sounds like a lot of effort for a questionable payoff. But let's think about it. Meanwhile, we deserve a break from all this effort.

Let's go diving. After that maybe we'll have more enthusiasm."

"Okay," Marissa said, getting to her feet.

"You've been patient.

Let's go see how great this Barrier Reef really is!"

They caught a cab at the administration building and returned to their hotel. There they picked up their traveler's checks and walked over to the travel agent Wendy had visited the day before.

There was no problem arranging for jet transportation for the following day even though it was the weekend. They were able to reserve a room at the Hamilton Island Resort. The agent even called to be sure to get them a seaside room.

"What's the best way to arrange for a day's diving?" Wendy asked when the agent had finished the call.

"You can allow the hotel to make the arrangements," the agent said.

"That certainly is the easiest. But to tell you the truth, if I were you I'd wait until I got there and find your own charter.

It's a good-sized marina, there are a lot of dive and fishing boats.

It's their slow time and you'll be able to bargain. You'd find a much better deal."

Wendy picked up the tickets and brochures.

"That sounds terrific. We'll follow your suggestion," she said.

"Thanks for your help."

"Glad to be of service," the agent said.

"But there is something I should warn you about."

Marissa felt her heart skip a beat. She was already concerned about diving in exotic depths.

"What?" Wendy asked.

"The sun," the agent said.

"Make sure you use a lot of block."

Marissa laughed.

"Thanks for the tip," Wendy said. She grabbed Marissa's arm and headed for the door.

"Can I help you?" the agent asked, turning to her next customer.

He was a leathery Australian man. The agent guessed he was from the outback. He'd been browsing through a rack of European tour brochures to the right of the agent's desk while the American women made their plans. When they'd first arrived, the agent had thought all three were together.

"As a matter of fact, you can," the man said.

"I need two return air tickets for Hamilton Island. The names are Edmund Stewart and Willy Tong."

"Will you be needing accommodations?" the agent asked.

"No, thanks," Ned said.

"We'll take care of that when we get there.