conversation switched to the sorry state of American medicine and how prepaid health-care groups were eroding the foundations of private practice. Remembering the furs and jewels, Marissa didn't feel that those present were suffering too much.
"How about the CDC?" asked Dr. Hayward, looking across at Cyrill. "Have you been experiencing budgetary constraints?"
Cyrill laughed cynically, his smile forming deep creases in his cheeks. "Every year we have to do battle with the Office of Management and Budget as well as the House Appropriations Committee. We've lost five hundred positions due to budgetary cuts."
Dr. Jackson cleared his throat: "What if there were a serious outbreak of influenza like the pandemic of 1917-1918. Assuming your
r
department would be involved, do you have the manpower for such an eventuality?"
Cyrill shrugged. "It depends on a lot of variables. If the strain doesn't mutate its surface antigens and we can grow it readily in tissue culture, we could develop a vaccine quite quickly. How quickly, I'm not sure. Tad?"
"A month or so," said Tad, "if we were lucky. More time to produce enough to make a significant difference."
"Reminds me of the swine flu fiasco a few years ago," interjected Dr. Hayward.
"That wasn't the CDC's fault," said Cyrill defensively. "There was no doubt about the strain that appeared at Fort Dix. Why it didn't spread is anybody's guess."
Marissa felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself looking at one of the black-dressed waitresses.
"Dr. Blumenthal?" whispered the girl.
"Yes."
"There is a phone call for you."
Marissa glanced down the table at Ralph, but he was busy talking with Mrs. Jackson. She excused herself and followed the girl to the kitchen. Then it dawned on her, and she felt a stirring of fear, like the first time she had been called at night as an intern: It had to be the CDC. After all, she was on call and she'd dutifully left Ralph's number. No one else knew she was there.
"Dr. Blumenthal?" asked the CDC operator, when Marissa picked up the phone.
The call was switched to the duty officer. "Congratulations," he said jovially. "There has been an epidemic aid request. We had a call from the California State Epidemiologist, who would like CDC help on a problem in L.A. It's an outbreak of unknown but apparently serious illness in a hospital called the Richter Clinic. We've gone ahead and made a reservation for you on Delta's flight to the coast that leaves at 1:10 A.M. We've arranged hotel accommodations at a place called the Tropic Motel. Sounds divine. Anyway, good luck!"
Replacing the receiver, Marissa left her hand on the phone for a moment while she caught her breath. She didn't feel prepared at all. Those poor, unsuspecting people in California had called the CDC expecting to get an epidemiologic expert, and instead, they were going to get her, Marissa Blumenthal. All five feet of her. She made her way back to the dining room to excuse herself and say good-bye.
2
January 21
BY THE TIME MARISSA had gotten her suitcase from the baggage carousel, waited for the rent-a-car van, gotten the rent-a-car (the first one wouldn't start), and had somehow managed to find the Tropic Motel, the sky had begun to lighten.
As she signed in, she couldn't help thinking of Roger. But she wouldn't call. She'd promised herself that much several times on the flight.
The motel was depressing, but it didn't matter. Marissa didn't think she'd be spending much time there. She washed her hands and face, combed her hair and replaced her barrette. With no other plausible reason for delay, she returned to the rent-a-car and set out for the Richter Clinic. The palms of her hands were damp against the steering wheel.
The clinic was conveniently situated on a wide thoroughfare. There were few cars at that time of morning. Marissa pulled into a parking garage, took a ticket and found a spot near the entrance. The entire structure was modern, including the garage, the
"How about the CDC?" asked Dr. Hayward, looking across at Cyrill. "Have you been experiencing budgetary constraints?"
Cyrill laughed cynically, his smile forming deep creases in his cheeks. "Every year we have to do battle with the Office of Management and Budget as well as the House Appropriations Committee. We've lost five hundred positions due to budgetary cuts."
Dr. Jackson cleared his throat: "What if there were a serious outbreak of influenza like the pandemic of 1917-1918. Assuming your
r
department would be involved, do you have the manpower for such an eventuality?"
Cyrill shrugged. "It depends on a lot of variables. If the strain doesn't mutate its surface antigens and we can grow it readily in tissue culture, we could develop a vaccine quite quickly. How quickly, I'm not sure. Tad?"
"A month or so," said Tad, "if we were lucky. More time to produce enough to make a significant difference."
"Reminds me of the swine flu fiasco a few years ago," interjected Dr. Hayward.
"That wasn't the CDC's fault," said Cyrill defensively. "There was no doubt about the strain that appeared at Fort Dix. Why it didn't spread is anybody's guess."
Marissa felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she found herself looking at one of the black-dressed waitresses.
"Dr. Blumenthal?" whispered the girl.
"Yes."
"There is a phone call for you."
Marissa glanced down the table at Ralph, but he was busy talking with Mrs. Jackson. She excused herself and followed the girl to the kitchen. Then it dawned on her, and she felt a stirring of fear, like the first time she had been called at night as an intern: It had to be the CDC. After all, she was on call and she'd dutifully left Ralph's number. No one else knew she was there.
"Dr. Blumenthal?" asked the CDC operator, when Marissa picked up the phone.
The call was switched to the duty officer. "Congratulations," he said jovially. "There has been an epidemic aid request. We had a call from the California State Epidemiologist, who would like CDC help on a problem in L.A. It's an outbreak of unknown but apparently serious illness in a hospital called the Richter Clinic. We've gone ahead and made a reservation for you on Delta's flight to the coast that leaves at 1:10 A.M. We've arranged hotel accommodations at a place called the Tropic Motel. Sounds divine. Anyway, good luck!"
Replacing the receiver, Marissa left her hand on the phone for a moment while she caught her breath. She didn't feel prepared at all. Those poor, unsuspecting people in California had called the CDC expecting to get an epidemiologic expert, and instead, they were going to get her, Marissa Blumenthal. All five feet of her. She made her way back to the dining room to excuse herself and say good-bye.
2
January 21
BY THE TIME MARISSA had gotten her suitcase from the baggage carousel, waited for the rent-a-car van, gotten the rent-a-car (the first one wouldn't start), and had somehow managed to find the Tropic Motel, the sky had begun to lighten.
As she signed in, she couldn't help thinking of Roger. But she wouldn't call. She'd promised herself that much several times on the flight.
The motel was depressing, but it didn't matter. Marissa didn't think she'd be spending much time there. She washed her hands and face, combed her hair and replaced her barrette. With no other plausible reason for delay, she returned to the rent-a-car and set out for the Richter Clinic. The palms of her hands were damp against the steering wheel.
The clinic was conveniently situated on a wide thoroughfare. There were few cars at that time of morning. Marissa pulled into a parking garage, took a ticket and found a spot near the entrance. The entire structure was modern, including the garage, the
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