A Case of Need

by Michael Crichton

I HAD TO SEE SANDERSON. I had promised to see him, and now I needed his advice badly. But as I entered the lobby of the Lincoln Hospital, the first person I saw was Harry Fallon. He was slinking down a corridor, wearing a raincoat and hat pulled down over his forehead. Harry is an internist with a large suburban practice in Newton; he is also a former actor and something of a clown. I greeted him and he raised the brim of his hat slowly. His eyes were bloodshot and his face sallow. “I hab a code,” Harry said. “Who are you seeing?” “Gordon. The cheeb residend.” He took out a Kleenex and blew his nose loudly. “Aboud my bat code.” I laughed. “You sound like you’ve swallowed cotton. “Thang you bery mugh.” He sniffled. “This is no labbing madder.” He was right, of course. All practicing doctors feared getting sick. Even small colds were considered bad for your image, for what is loosely called “patient rapport,” and any serious illness became a matter for the utmost secrecy. When old Henley finally developed chronic glomerulonephritis, he went to elaborate lengths to be sure his patients never found out; he would visit his doctor in the middle of the night, sneaking about like a thief. “It doesn’t sound like a bad cold,” I told Harry. “Hah. You thingh so? Listen to me.” He blew his nose again, a long, honking sound, somewhere between a foghorn and the death rattle of a hippopotamus. “How long have you had it?” “Du days. Du miberable, miberable days. My padends are nodicing.” “W...