Nurses [antikvár]

If you came off a spaceship into the Community Care Clinics of All Souls Women's Hospital in the middle of the day this Monday, you would probably think you had landed in a war zone. A restless crowd milled around, with babies crying, people shouting, children squabbling, arguments empting, telephones ringing and over it all, the intermittent outburst of gabble from the loudspeakers. Since four of the clinics were open this Monday—including one for the most difficult patients—^the commotion was not the final throes of anarchy. It was just business as usual. So no one noticed the silent figure, furtively looking about, then sidling into one of the offices, dropping an envelope on the desk. Out quickly, fading back into the normal traffic, the figure moved on, with a satisfied smile. Neatly done, and nobody the wiser. One more drop of poison one more nasty httle secret exposed one more proof of who was really in control around here. Marty Lamb, making her final rounds of the day, caught something out of the comer of her eye—a. movement, a door opening, she wasn't quite sure. But when she tumed, everything was normal—^which, on Monday, meant chaos. The trick was to keep the chaos under control, and fortunately, she was pretty good at it. She'd better be, since she was in charge. Marta D. Lamb, N.P., Ph.D., it said on her dove-gray business cards. Director, Community Care Clinics. All Souls Women's Hospital. Thirty-four years old and boss of the first and the only nurse-mn health facility in the entire city of New York, now into its fourth year. Not bad for a gawl^, redheaded girl from the 1