Bewildered, she turned her attention to him.
“You should have been a urologist.” His smile widened further, contagious. “Orchiectomies a specialty. I’ve never seen anyone castrate a man so quickly.”
Susan’s irritation receded in an instant as they slid past seated residents into a center row. “No one does surgical orchiectomies anymore. Not even for chronic prostatic cancer.” She considered one remaining instance. “Not even for sexual predators. Drugs only.”
Kendall passed an empty seat, taking the one beside it. “Tell me, Calvin, where do you get that tongue sharpened?”
Susan felt a hint of remorse. Her tendency to speak her mind had hindered her social life at times. That and her focus on her studies had severely limited dating. “Was I that hard on him?”
“A witch,” Kendall confirmed. “With a capital B.” He gestured to the empty seat, and Susan accepted it. As she sat, he planted both elbows on the armrest between them. “I’m just kidding. He deserved everything he got; most surgeons do.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “Now who’s stereotyping?”
“Me.” Kendall turned to face the stage. “But it’s based on truth. Surgeons act as if they have a lock on intelligence and competence. The rest of us are peons who exist only to perform their day-to-day scut work; obviously, if we had any talent, we’d be surgeons, too.”
Until she started medical school, Susan had had no experience with physicians of any type. Her mother had died when Susan was in preschool, and she knew little about her father’s job at U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. When she asked questions, he always answered vaguely. “What isn’t restricted is dull. And actually, come to think of it, the confidential stuff is boring, too.” Then he would change the subject to her studies, her friends, her hopes and dreams. “All surgeons can’t be like that.”
Kendall shrugged. “All the ones I’ve met. And my dad’s a hospital administrator, so I’ve met a bunch.”
That caught Susan’s attention. “Administrator? Here?”
“Here? Hell, no.” Kendall feigned a dramatic shiver. “What a horrible thought.”
Susan did not understand. She adored her father and would love working under him. Before she could reply, however, a slender middle-aged man took the podium at the front of the auditorium.
“Greetings, new residents.” The nearly invisible microphone clipped to the pocket of his dress polo carried his voice evenly through the room.
A vague murmur rose from the audience, and the splendid acoustics carried that as well.
“My name is Brentwood Locke, and it’s my job to begin your orientation to Manhattan Hasbro Hospital by explaining the three holy commandments.”
Susan settled into her chair for a series of long-winded speeches. She glanced at the Vox on her left wrist. Currently, it displayed only the time: 8:03 a.m. With a few deft adjustments, she tuned it in on Brentwood Locke, bringing him into vivid focus on the screen. Looking around, she saw other residents doing the same thing. She double-checked to make sure the transmitter was turned off.
“The first thing you need to know is Manhattan Hasbro prides itself on being one of the most progressive hospitals in the country. We pioneered human manipulation of animal- and plant-based stem cells, created the passive ventilator, and have the largest in-vitro fetal diagnostic center in the world.”
A spattering of polite applause followed the pronouncement.
“Which makes us a leading recipient of government and private research grants, but also the target of every kook with an agenda in the known world. As I’m sure you all noticed on your way in this morning, we always have a plethora of protestors.”
Kendall leaned toward Susan. “A plethora of protestors,” he repeated. “Is that like a gaggle of geese? A herd of horses? A pod of porpoises?”
Susan snorted.
Brentwood Locke continued. “Commandment number one: no engaging with protestors under any circumstances. Some of those people are rabid believers with agendas that might include violence. We don’t want any of you harmed or killed, and we don’t invite unnecessary controversy.”
Susan sucked air through her teeth.
Kendall jerked his head toward her, then chuckled. “You castrated one of them, too, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.” Susan doubted anyone would fault her for a short conversation with a protestor before she learned the rules, but she did not need Kendall’s blabbering her mistake all over the auditorium.
Locke was still speaking. “Commandment number two: We obey strict rules of confidentiality. It’s fine to talk about patients with anyone who is involved in their care, including attendings in your specialty, consultants, other residents on your team, parents, guardians, spouses, designated spouse alternatives, and adult children of the patient. However, these conversations must not take place in areas where other people can overhear you, including occupied elevators.” Locke said the last with enough emphasis to make it clear problems had already occurred in that last venue.
“If you speak about patients with your family and friends, you cannot say anything that could identify the patient. No last names, no clear descriptions, no occupational designations that might make it possible for anyone to guess the patient’s identity. And, if someone such as . . . Lolinda Cosada,” he said, naming a prominent movie star, “gets admitted for any reason, no specifics or details leave her room, even if they seem unimportant and unrelated to her treatment. Violation of confidentiality policy is grounds for dismissal and possibly legal action. Do you all understand?”
Mumbles swept through the audience again, along with a few clear affirmations.
“And, last but not least, stone tablet commandment number three is if you wind up involved with any medical studies, you do so with the explicit understanding that the lead researchers’ word is law and no information leaves the hospital grounds. After years of arduous research and expensive grants, no scientist wants his results leaked, or his ideas stolen, before publication. If you violate number three, you will likely disappear off the face of the planet. And rightly so.”
The directness of the speaker caught Susan by surprise, though she appreciated it.
Locke wound down his speech. “Now, if any of you here have any doubts about your ability to perform the necessary duties of a resident in such a facility, please step outside the auditorium now. We will find you another placement, no questions asked.” He looked around the auditorium. “Anyone? Don’t be shy. If you matched here, you graduated in the top half of your class. We will have no trouble placing you.”
The rumble of conversation took over the silence, and every head moved about, seeking someone who did not belong. No one accepted Locke’s offer. Susan supposed anyone who interviewed at Manhattan Hasbro already knew its reputation. She had chosen it more for location than anything else, but the cutting-edge research and facilities had seemed like a bonus.
“Thank you.” Brentwood Locke stepped down from the podium.
A crisp young man, barely out of his twenties, took Locke’s place. After a brief introduction, he proceeded to bore the residents with a thirty-minute presentation of the history of Manhattan Hasbro, from its inception as Manhattan Public through its long years of service and reconstruction, to the years when the current Hassenfeld CEO donated the money and had it renamed in honor of his company. Susan found her mind drifting, especially when her Vox display blinked to indicate a text message from her father.