“I’m afraid not. Your father is doing a brain tumor on the Bishop’s aunt, Paton is scheduled for a hysterectomy on the president of the Woman’s College, Peters is demonstrating his new retina operation before some visiting medical students; but Hoffbein, Harrison, and Barton will be here, and we have the others’ approval to go ahead. I’m sorry they can’t come, but I do not feel I can assume the responsibility of delaying the meeting. Is Mattus coming?”
“No, sir. He’s doing my teaching rounds with the students.”
“Heddis believes....”
Dr. MacArthur slid the typewritten findings toward Cub. The young man lit a cigarette, looked away from them and frowned.
“Dr. MacArthur,” his voice had assumed its steely quality under which he always hid his emotions. He held out an envelope.
MacArthur took it automatically and asked, “What is it, son?”
“My resignation, sir.”
MacArthur straightened as though he had been struck by an electric eel. His blue eyes shot into Cub Sterling’s and he muttered:
“Are you afraid to face the music, Ethridge?”
“No, sir!”