tc.redrabbit-第43部分

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　　　〃It's　our　national　health…care　system；〃　Byrd　explained。
　　　〃I　see；〃　Cathy　said。　But　she　didn't　really。　The　surgeons　here　were　proficient　enough；　but　they　did　only　a　bit　more　than　half　the　procedures　she　and　her　colleagues　did　at　Hopkins…and　she'd　never　felt　overworked　in　the　Maumenee　Building。　Sure；　you　worked　hard。　But　people　needed　you；　and　her　job　was　to　restore　and　improve　the　sight　of　people　who　required　expert　medical　care…and　to　Caroline　Ryan；　M。D。；　FACS；　that　was　a　religious　calling。　It　wasn't　that　the　local　docs　were　lazy；　it　was　just　that　the　system　allowed…nay；　encouraged…them　to　take　a　very　laissez…faire　attitude　toward　their　work。　She'd　arrived　in　a　very　new　medical　world；　and　it　wasn't　all　that　brave。
　　　Neither　had　she　seen　a　CAT　scanner。　They'd　essentially　been　invented　in　Britain　by　EMI；　but　some　bean　counter　in　the　British　government…the　Home　Office；　they'd　told　her…had　decided　that　the　country　only　needed　a　few　of　them；　and　so　most　hospitals　lost　the　lottery。　The　CAT　scan　had　just　e　into　being　a　few　years　before　she'd　entered　the　Johns　Hopkins　University　School　of　Medicine；　but　in　the　ensuing　decade　they'd　bee　as　much　a　part　of　medicine　as　the　stethoscope。　Practically　every　hospital　in　America　had　one。　They　cost　a　million　dollars　apiece；　but　the　patient　paid　for　the　use　of　the　things；　and　they　paid　themselves　off　quickly　enough。　She　only　rarely　needed　one…to　examine　tumors　around　the　eye；　for　example…but　when　you　did；　you　damned　well　needed　it　right　now！
　　　And　at　Johns　Hopkins；　the　floors　were　mopped　every　day。
　　　But　the　people　had　the　same　needs；　and　she　was　a　doc；　and　that；　Cathy　decided；　was　that。　One　of　her　medical　school　colleagues　had　gone　to　Pakistan　and　e　back　with　the　kind　of　experience　in　eye　pathologies　that　you　couldn't　get　in　a　lifetime　in　American　hospitals。　Of　course；　he'd　also　e　back　with　amoebic　dysentery；　which　was　guaranteed　to　lessen　anyone's　enthusiasm　for　foreign　travel。　At　least　that　wouldn't　happen　here；　she　told　herself。　Unless　she　caught　it　in　a　doctor's　waiting　room。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　9　…　SPIRITS
　　　Thus　far；　Ryan　had　not　managed　to　catch　the　same　train　home　as　his　wife；　always　managing　to　get　home　later　than　she　did。　By　the　time　he　got　home；　he'd　be　able　to　think　about　doing　some　work　on　his　Halsey　book。　It　was　about　70　percent　done；　with　all　the　serious　research　behind　him。　He　just　had　to　finish　the　writing。　What　people　never　seemed　to　understand　was　that　this　was　the　hard　part；　researching　was　just　locating　and　recording　facts。　Making　the　facts　seem　to　e　together　in　a　coherent　story　was　the　difficult　part；　because　human　lives　were　never　coherent；　especially　a　hard…drinking　warrior　like　William　Frederick　Halsey；　Jr。　Writing　a　biography　was　more　than　anything　else　an　exercise　in　amateur　psychiatry。　You　seized　incidents　that　happened　in　his　life　at　randomly　selected　ages　and　education　levels；　but　you　could　never　know　the　little　key　memories　that　formed　a　life…the　third…grade　schoolyard　fight；　or　the　admonishment　from　his　maiden　aunt　Helen　that　resonated　in　his　mind　for　his　entire　life；　because　men　rarely　revealed　such　things　to　others。　Ryan　had　such　memories；　and　some　of　them　appeared　and　disappeared　in　his　consciousness　at　seemingly　random　intervals；　when　the　message　from　Sister　Frances　Mary　in　Second　Grade　at　St。　Matthew's　School　leaped　into　his　memory　as　though　he　were　seven　years　old　again。　A　skilled　biographer　seemed　to　have　the　ability　to　simulate　such　things；　but　it　sometimes　came　down　to　making　things　up；　to　applying　your　own　personal　experiences　to　the　life　of　another　person　and　that　was。。。　fiction；　and　history　wasn't　supposed　to　be　fiction。　Neither　was　an　article　in　a　newspaper；　but　Ryan　knew　from　his　own　experience　that　much　purported　〃news〃　was　made　up　from　whole　cloth。　But　nobody　ever　said　that　writing　a　biography　was　easy。　His　first　book；　Doomed　Eagles；　had　been　in　retrospect　a　much　easier　project。　Bill　Halsey；　Fleet　Admiral；　USN；　had　fascinated　him　since　reading　the　man's　own　autobiography　as　a　boy。　He'd　manded　naval　forces　in　battle；　and　while　that　had　seemed　exciting　to　a　boy　of　ten　years；　it　was　positively　frightening　to　a　man　of　thirty…two；　because　now　he　understood　the　things　that　Halsey　didn't　discuss　in　full…the　unknowns；　having　to　trust　intelligence　information　without　really　knowing　where　it　came　from；　how　it　was　gathered；　how　it　was　analyzed　and　processed；　how　it　was　transmitted　to　him；　and　whether　or　not　the　enemy　was　listening　in。　Ryan　was　now　in　that　loop；　and　having　to　wager　his　life　on　the　work　that　he　did　himself　was　frightening　as　hell…rather　more　so；　actually；　to　be　wagering　the　lives　of　others　whom　he　might　or；　more　likely；　might　not　know。
　　　There　was　a　joke　he　remembered　from　his　time　in　the　Marine　Corps；　Ryan　thought；　as　the　green　English　countryside　slid　past　his　window：　The　motto　of　the　intelligence　services　was　〃We　bet　your　life。〃　That　was　now　his　business。　He　had　to　wager　the　lives　of　others。　Theoretically；　he　might　even　e　up　with　an　intelligence　estimate　that　risked　the　fate　of　his　country。　You　had　to　be　so　damned　sure　of　yourself　and　your　data。。。
　　　But　you　couldn't　always　be　sure；　could　you？　He'd　scoffed　at　many　official　CIA　estimates　to　which　he'd　been　exposed　back　at　Langley；　but　it　was　a　damned　sight　easier　to　spit　on　the　work　of　others　than　it　was　to　produce　something　better　yourself。　His　Halsey　book；　tentatively　titled　Fighting　Sailor；　would　upset　a　few　conventional…wisdom　apple　carts；　and　deliberately　so。　Ryan　thought　that　the　conventional　thinking　in　some　areas　was　not　merely　incorrect；　but　stuff　that　could　not　possibly　be　true。　Halsey　had　acted　rightly　in　some　cases　where　the　all…　seeing　eye　of　hindsight　had　castigated　him　for　being　wrong。　And　that　was　unfair。　Halsey　could　only　be　judged　responsible　for　the　information　that　was　available　to　him。　To　say　otherwise　was　like　castigating　doctors　for　not　being　able　to　cure　cancer。　They　were　smart　people　doing　their　best；　but　there　were　some　things　they　didn't　know　yet…they　were　working　like　hell　to　find　them　out；　but　the　process　of　discovery　took　time　then；　and　it　was　still　taking　time　now；　Ryan　thought。　Was　it　ever。　And　Bill　Halsey　could　only　know　what　he　was　given；　or　what　a　reasonably　intelligent　man　might　deduce　from　that　information；　given　a　lifetime　of　experience　and　what　he　knew　of　the　psychology　of　his　enemy。　And　even　then　the　enemy　did　not　willingly　cooperate　in　his　own　destruction；　did　he？
　　　That's　my　job；　all　right；　Ryan　thought　behind　blank　eyes。　It　was　a　quest　for　Truth；　but　it　was　more　than　that。　He　had　to　replicate　for　his　own　masters　the　thinking　processes　of　others；　to　explain　them　to　his　own　superiors；　so　that　they；　Ryan's　bosses；　could　better　understand　their　adversaries。　He　was　playing　pshrink　without　a　diploma。　In　a　way；　that　was　amusing。　It　was　less　so　when　you　considered　the　magnitude　of　the　task　and　the　potential　consequences　of　failure。　It　came　down　to　two　words：　dead　people。　In　the　Basic　School　at　Quantico　Marine　Base；　they'd　hammered　the　same　lesson　home　often　enough。　Screw　up　leading　your　platoon；　and　some　of　your　Marines　don't　go　home　to　their　mothers　and　wives；　and　that　would　be　a　heavy　burden　to　carry　on　your　conscience　for　the　rest　of　your　life。　The　profession　of　arms　attached　a　large　price　tag　to　mistakes。　Ryan　hadn't　served　long　enough　to　learn　that　lesson　for　himself；　but　it　had　frightened　him　on　quiet　nights；　feeling　the　roll　of　the　ship　on　her　way　across　the　Atlantic。　He'd　talked　it　over　with　Gunny　Tate；　but　the　sergeant…then　an　〃elderly〃　man　of　thirty…four…had　just　told　him　to　remember　his　training；　trust　his　instincts；　and　to　think　before　acting　if　he　had　the　time；　and　then　warned　that　you　didn't　always　have　the　luxury　of　time。　And　he'd　told　his　young　boss　not　to　worry；　because　he　seemed　pretty　smart　for　a　second　lieutenant。　Ryan　would　never　forget　that。　The　respect　of　a　Marine　gunnery　sergeant　didn't　e　cheaply。
　　　So　he　had　the　brains　to　make　good　intelligence　estimates　and　the　guts　to　put　his　name　behind　them；　but　he　had　to　be　damned　sure　they　were　good　stuff　before　he　put　them　out。　Because　he　was　betting　the　lives　of　other　people；　wasn't　he？
　　　The　train　slowed　to　a　stop。　He　walked　up　the　steps；　and　there　were　a　few　cabs　topside。　Jack　ima