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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