“It was Dr. Coleman.” Bannister answered readily; this was a subject he had hoped would come up. Alongside him John Alexander had a sense of foreboding.

“When?” Pearson’s question was sharp.

“Yesterday. Dr. Coleman signed the requisition anyway.” Bannister pointed to the voucher, then added maliciously, “In the place where you usually sign.”

Pearson glanced down at the form. Until now he had not noticed there was a signature on it. He asked Bannister, “What does he want it for? Do you know?”

The senior technician relaxed. He had set the wheels of retribution in motion and now he could enjoy this scene as a spectator. He told John Alexander, “Go ahead. Tell him.”

A shade uneasily John Alexander said, “It’s for a blood-sensitization test, Dr. Pearson. For my wife. Dr. Dornberger ordered it.”

“Why Coombs serum?”

“It’s for an indirect Coombs test, Doctor.”

“Tell me—is there something special about your wife?” Pearson’s voice had an edge of sarcasm. “What’s wrong with the saline and high-protein tests? The same as we use for everybody else?”

Alexander swallowed nervously. There was a silence. Pearson said, “I’m waiting for an answer.”

“Well, sir.” Alexander hesitated, then blurted out, “I suggested to Dr. Coleman—and he agreed—it would be more reliable if, after the other tests, we did a—”

“You suggested to Dr. Coleman, eh?” The tone of the question left no doubt of what was about to happen. Sensing it, Alexander blundered on.

“Yes, sir. We felt that since some antibodies can’t be detected in saline and high protein, running the extra test—”

“Cut it out!” The words were loud, harsh, brutal. As he said them Pearson slammed his hand hard down on the pile of forms and the table beneath. There was silence in the laboratory.

Breathing hard, the old man waited, eying Alexander. When he was ready he said grimly, “There’s one big trouble with you—you’re just a bit too free with some of that stuff you picked up in technician’s school.”

As Pearson spoke his bitterness came through—the bitterness against all who were younger, who were interfering, trying to deprive him of authority—absolute and unquestioned—which until now had been his. In a different mood, and at another time, he might have handled this more tolerantly. Now, coming as it did, he had plainly decided, once and for all, to put this upstart lab assistant in his place.

“Listen to me and get this straight! I told you this once before and I don’t aim to do it again.” This was Authority speaking, the head of a department, heavy-handed, making it clear to a minor employee that there would be no more warnings, merely action, from this point on. His face close to Alexander’s, Pearson said, “I’m the one in charge of this department, and if you or anybody else have any queries, they come to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” At this instant all Alexander wanted was for this to end. He already knew he had made his last suggestion. If this was what you got for thinking, from here on he would do his work and keep his thoughts to himself. Let other people do the worrying—and let them have the responsibility too.

But Pearson had not finished. “Don’t go running around behind my back,” he said, “and taking advantage of Dr. Coleman because he’s new.”

Briefly Alexander’s spirit flared. “I didn’t take advantage . . .”

“And I say you did! And I’m telling you to cut it out!” The old man shouted angrily, his face muscles working, his eyes fiery.

Alexander stood, crushed and silent.

For a moment or two Pearson surveyed the younger man grimly. Then, as if satisfied that his point was made, he went on to speak again. “Now I’ll tell you something else.” His tone this time, if not cordial, was at least less harsh. “As far as that blood test is concerned, a test in saline and high protein will give us all the information we need. And let me remind you I happen to be a pathologist and I know what I’m talking about. Have you got that?”

Dully Alexander answered, “Yes, sir.”

“All right. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” Pearson’s voice became more moderate; it was almost as if he were offering a truce. “Since you’re so keen on this test being right, I’ll do it myself. Here and now. Where’s the blood specimen?”

“In the refrigerator,” Bannister said.

“Get it.”

Crossing the lab, Bannister decided this scene had not turned out exactly the way he would have liked. It was true the Alexander kid had needed to be taken down a peg, but, all the same, the old man had laid it on the kid a bit hard. Bannister would have liked to see some of the storm move in the direction of that snide young doctor. But maybe the old man was saving that for later. He selected the blood specimen marked “Alexander, Mrs. E.” and closed the refrigerator door.

Pearson took the blood sample, which already had the clot removed. As he did, Bannister noticed the purchase order which had been the cause of the trouble; it had fallen to the floor. He bent down and picked it up.

He asked Pearson, “What shall I do with this?”

The old pathologist had taken two clean test tubes. Now he was aspirating a portion of the blood serum into each. Without looking up he said irritably, “What is it?”

“It’s the purchase requisition—for Coombs serum.”

“We won’t need it now. Tear it up.” Pearson was scrutinizing the label of a small bottle containing Rh-positive cells. Prepared by a drug house, the solution was used as a reagent in testing Rh-negative blood.

Bannister hesitated. Much as he objected to Coleman, he knew there was a question of medical protocol involved. “You ought to let Dr. Coleman know,” he said doubtfully. “Do you want me to tell him?”

Pearson was having trouble with the cork of the bottle. He said impatiently, “No, I’ll tell him myself.”

Bannister shrugged. He had pointed something out; if there were any trouble now, it would not be his responsibility. He took the purchase requisition and tore it up, allowing the pieces to flutter down into a wastebasket below.

Roger McNeil, the pathology resident, suspected that no matter how many years he stayed in medicine he would never become hardened to performing autopsies on children. He had just completed one, and now, in the autopsy room, the red-gaping body of the four-year-old boy lay open, pathetically, before him. The sight disturbed McNeil as much as ever. He knew, as always, there would be little sleep for him tonight. This scene would keep recurring in his mind—particularly when he remembered, as inevitably he would, how unnecessary and futile this particular death had been.

Looking up, he saw Mike Seddons watching him. The surgical resident said, “Poor little bastard.” Then, bitterly, “How stupid can people get!”

McNeil asked, “Are the police still waiting?”

Seddons nodded. “Yes—and the others.”

“You’d better call Pearson.”

“All right.” There was a telephone in the autopsy-room annex, and Seddons went to it.

McNeil wondered if he were being cowardly in avoiding this responsibility. But this was a case the old man should be told of anyway. Then he could make the decision on who would break the news outside this room.

Seddons had returned from the phone. “Pearson was in Serology,” he said. “He’s coming across now.”

The two men waited silently. Then they heard Pearson’s shuffling footsteps, and the old man came in. He glanced at the body as McNeil recited the details of the case. An hour or two earlier the child had been struck by an automobile outside his own home. He had been brought to the hospital by ambulance but was dead on arrival. Notified, the coroner had ordered an autopsy. McNeil told Pearson what they had discovered.

The old man said, “You mean that’s all?” He seemed incredulous.

McNeil answered, “That’s all that killed him. Nothing else.”