O'Farrell's Law Read Free Page A

the right sections of a spectrum divided into primary hues—easier than the verbal inquisition and finished it feeling quite satisfied that he had made no errors; done well, in fact.
    The physical examination was as complete as the mental probe. O’Farrell, well aware of the procedure, stripped to a tied-at-the-back operation gown and subjected himself to two hours of intense and concentrated scrutiny. Symmons put him in a soundproof room for audio tests and plunged it into absolute blackness for the eyesight check. Before putting O’Farrell on a treadmill, the man took blood samples, as well as checking blood pressure and lung capacity. The man gradually increased the treadmill speed, pushing O’Farrell to an unannounced but obviously predetermined level. O’Farrell was panting and weak-legged when it finished.
    O’Farrell was weighed and measured—thighs and chest and waist as well as biceps—and touched his toes for Symmons to make an anal investigation and spread his legs and coughed when Symmons told him to cough.
    O’Farrell dressed unhurriedly, wanting some small redress for the indignities. He fixed and then refixed his tie and arranged the tuck of his shirt around a hard waist to spread the creases and carefully parted and combed his hair. The reflected image was of a neat, unobtrusive, unnoticed man, fading fair hair cropped close against the encroaching gray; smooth-faced; open, untroubled eyes; no shake or twitching mannerisms visible at all. All right, thought O’Farrell, actually moving his lips in voiceless conversation with himself; you’re all right, so don’t worry.
    â€œWill I live?” he demanded as he emerged from the dressing area, caught by the cynicism of a further attempt at glibness. That was all right, too: Symmons didn’t know. Only a very few people knew.
    Symmons stayed hunched over the formidable bundle of files and documents and folders that constituted O’Farrell’s medical record. Symmons said, “A shade over one hundred and forty-eight pounds?”
    â€œI saw it register on the machine.”
    â€œThe same as you were twenty years ago.” Symmons smiled up at him. “That’s remarkable at forty-six: there’s usually a weight increase whether you like it or not.”
    â€œI suppose I’m lucky.”
    â€œStill not smoking?”
    â€œHardly likely I’ll start now, is it?”
    â€œAnd still only one martini at night?”
    â€œNo more.” That was near truth enough.
    â€œWhat about worries?”
    â€œI don’t have any.”
    â€œEveryone has something to worry about,” challenged the man.
    But what precisely was the something —the doubt—making him feel as he did? O’Farrell said, “Lucky again, I guess.”
    â€œThat makes you a very unusual guy indeed,” Symmons insisted.
    â€œI don’t think of myself being unusual in any way,” O’Farrell said. Didn’t he?
    â€œWhat about money difficulties?”
    Damn that reaction to the financial question. O’Farrell said, with attempted forcefulness, “None.”
    â€œNone at all?” pressed Symmons.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat about sex? Everything okay between you and Jill?”
    They did not make love with the regularity or with the need they’d once had, but when they did, it was always good. O’Farrell said, “Everything’s fine.”
    â€œWhat about elsewhere?”
    â€œElsewhere?” O’Farrell asked, choosing to misunderstand.
    â€œAny sudden affairs?”
    It was a fairly regular question, acknowledged O’Farrell. Getting satisfaction from the reply, he said, “None.”
    â€œYou’ve said that before,” the doctor reminded him unnecessarily.
    â€œIt’s been true before, like it is now.”
    â€œNot a lot of guys who say that are telling the truth.”
    â€œI am,” said O’Farrell, who