to inspect himself. «Must be a dozen more on you since I last saw you. How much time

you spending in the sun? Are you wearing a broad–brimmed hat like I suggested? I want

you to see a dermatologist about them. Bob King`s good. He`s just in the next building.

Here`s his number. Know him?»

Julius nodded.

«He can burn off the unseemly ones with a drop of liquid nitrogen. I had him

remove several of mine last month. No big deal—takes five, ten, minutes. A lot of

internists are doing it themselves now. Also there`s one I want him to look at on your

back: you can`t see it; it`s just under the lateral part of your right scapula. It looks

different from the others—pigmented unevenly and the borders aren`t sharp. Probably

nothing, but let`s have him check it. Okay, buddy?»

«Probably nothing, but let`s have him check it.» Julius heard the strain and forced

casualness in Herb`s voice. But, let there be no mistake, the phrase «pigmented

differently and borders aren`t sharp,” spoken by one doc to another, was a cause for

alarm. It was code for potential melanoma, and now, in retrospect, Julius identified that

phrase, that singular moment, as the point when carefree life ended and death, his

heretofore invisible enemy, materialized in all its awful reality. Death had come to stay, it

never again left his side, and all the horrors that followed were predictable postscripts.

Bob King had been a patient of Julius`s years ago, as had a significant number of

San Francisco physicians. Julius had reigned over the psychiatric community for thirty

years. In his position as professor of psychiatry at the University of California he had

trained scores of students and, five years before, had been president of the American

Psychiatric Association.

His reputation? The no–bullshit doctor`s doctor. A therapist of last resort, a canny