Frank looked like he expected a lynching. “Get him out of here,” he ordered the cops, pointing at the blond man. “Get him out of here right now.”
The cops nodded, and hustled the assailant into a car. Meanwhile the two ambulance attendants had transferred the alien to their stretcher and were now lifting him off the ground.
The Tosoks arrived. Their breathing orifices seemed to be spasming, and they each lifted their arms away from their bodies, possibly to help dissipate heat. Kelkad and Stant came immediately over to Hask and began peering at the wound. They chatted among themselves, then Stant’s translator spoke: “There is insufficient time to get him up to the mothership. Your germs are no problem for us, so we do not need a particularly sterile place to work. But we will need surgical implements.”
“We’re taking him to the Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center,” said one of the attendants. “It’s a huge hospital; they’ll have everything you’ll need there.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Frank.
They got the alien body into the back of the ambulance, and then Kelkad and one of the attendants climbed in the rear door. The other attendant got into the driver’s seat and Frank hopped into the passenger’s seat. The ambulance took off, a police car carrying Stant providing an escort.
“Frank,” said Kelkad’s voice, from the back of the ambulance. Frank turned around and looked into the rear compartment. “Who is responsible for this act, Frank?”
“We have the man,” said Frank. “He sounded like a religious fanatic to me. Don’t worry, Kelkad. He will pay for his crimes.”
“Shooting one of our people could be construed as an act of war,” said Kelkad.
“I know, I know. Believe me, you will have every apology possible, and I promise you the man will be punished.”
“A fanatic, you said?”
“He called Hask a devil—a demon, a supernatural creature.”
“His lawyer will try the insanity defense, then.”
The ambulance’s tires squealed as the driver took it through a tight turn.
Frank shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“See to it that my faith in this thing you call justice is not betrayed,” said Kelkad.
They continued on to the hospital, siren wailing.
*27*
Frank and Kelkad got out of the ambulance at emergency admitting. “Of all our crew, the best choice for performing the surgery now is Stant, our biochemist.”
Stant had arrived in one of the police cruisers at the medical center moments after the ambulance did. He was still rubbing his back arm, which had been crushed behind him in the car’s unmodified seat, but his tuft moved forward in agreement. “I can do the operation,” he said, “but I will need a human to assist me—not so much in procedures, but in equipment.”
He looked out at the large crowd of doctors and nurses who had gathered in the ER lobby, as well as the many often-bloodied, mostly Latino, mostly indigent patients waiting for treatment. “Is there someone who will help?”
“Yes, certainly,” said a black man of about fifty.
“I’d be glad to,” said a white man in his forties.
A third person simply cleared her throat. “Sorry, boys—rank hath its privileges. I’m Carla Hernandez, chief of surgery here.” She looked at Stant. “I’d be honored to assist you.” Hernandez was in her mid-forties, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
“Very well. Let us get to work. Do you have devices for seeing into the body?”
“X rays. Ultrasound.”
“X rays are acceptable. We will need pictures to determine the depth of the bullet.”
Hernandez nodded. “I’ll take Hask down to radiology, then prep him for surgery.” She pointed to the black man who had volunteered a few moments before. “Paul, take Stant to surgical supplies and let him select whatever tools he’ll need…”
The operation went quickly. Stant was obviously a practiced surgeon—so practiced that it occurred to Frank, watching from the packed observation gallery above, that he would have been quite capable of doing the dissection of Calhoun.
There was very little blood, despite the deep incision Stant made. The other doctors watching with Frank seemed amused by the way Stant operated: he held the X ray up to his rear pair of eyes with his back hand, and watched the operation with his front eyes, wielding the scalpel with his front hand. It took about eight minutes to complete the extraction of the bullet, which Stant pulled out with tongs and dropped into a stainless-steel pan Hernandez was holding.
“How do you close wounds?” asked Stant. His translated voice was difficult for Frank to make out over the staticky speakers in the observation gallery.
“With suture,” said Hernandez. “We sew the wound shut.”
Stant was quiet for a moment, perhaps appalled by the barbarism of it all.
“Oh,” he said at last. “You can do it, then.” He stepped aside, and Hernandez moved in over the wound, and, in a matter of about two minutes, had it neatly closed.
“When will he regain consciousness?” said Hernandez.
“Do you have ascetic acid?”
“Ascet—do you mean vinegar? Umm, maybe in the cafeteria.”
“Get some. A small amount given orally should wake him up.” Stant looked at Hernandez. “Thank you for your help.”
“It was an honor,” said Hernandez.
Hask was still recuperating the next day, and so court could not sit; the defendant had to be present for all testimony. But Dale and Linda Ziegler started the day in Judge Pringle’s chambers. “Your Honor,” said Ziegler, “the People would like to move for a mistrial.”
Judge Pringle was obviously expecting this. She nodded, and began writing on a legal pad. “On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that, given that our jury is not sequestered, its members have doubtless become aware of the fact that an attempt has been made on the defendant’s life.”
Dale spoke firmly. “Your Honor, the defense is quite content with the current jury. We vigorously oppose the motion to throw so many months of work—not to mention so many thousands of taxpayer dollars—out the window.”
Ziegler’s voice had taken on an earnest note. “Your Honor, surely seeing the defendant staggering into the courtroom all bandaged up will cause the jury to feel undue sympathy toward him, sympathy that could color their verdict in this case.”
Judge Pringle raised her eyebrows. “You’re not going to find another twelve people anywhere who haven’t heard about the shooting of Hask, Ms. Ziegler.”
“And,” said Dale, “surely knowing that at least one person felt so strongly that Hask was evil would have a prejudicial effect against my client.”
“Your Honor, if counsel thinks it’s prejudicial, then he should be arguing for a mistrial, too,” said Ziegler sharply. “The reason he isn’t is obvious: this fanatic, this Jensen, clearly felt Hask was going to go free, or he wouldn’t have bothered trying to kill him. His act is a clear signal to the jury of how they are being read.”
“Being read by one person,” said Dale, also facing Pringle. “Anyway, I’m sure there’s no need to remind my colleague of this, but Hask was supposedly under the protection of the LAPD when the attempt was made on his life. The State is at fault here; let’s not compound the State’s damage to my client by asking him to go through another trial.”
“But the prejudicial effect—”
“As Ms. Ziegler surely knows, Your Honor, I’ve built my whole career on believing that juries can rise above their prejudices. Ms. Katayama and I have faith in this one.”