Ferrel kicked them on, shuddering as the bone-shaking harmonic hum indicated their activity. He couldn’t complain about the equipment, at least. Ever since the last accident, when the State Congress developed ideas, there’d been enough gadgets lying around to stock up several small hospitals. The supersonics were intended to penetrate through all solids in the room, sterilizing where the UV light couldn’t reach. A whistling note in the harmonics reminded him of something that had been tickling around in the back of his mind for minutes.
“There was no emergency whistle, Jenkins. Hardly seems to me they’d neglect that if it were so important.”
Jenkins grunted skeptically and eloquently. “I read in the papers a few days ago where Congress was thinking of moving all atomic plants — meaning National, of course — out into the Mojave Desert. Palmer wouldn’t like that… There’s the siren again.”
Jones, the male attendant, had heard it, and was already running out the fresh stretcher for the litter into the back receiving room. Half a minute later, Beel came trundling in the detachable part of the litter. “Two,” he announced. “More coming up as soon as they can get to ’em, Doc.”
There was blood spilled over the canvas, and a closer inspection indicated its source in a severed jugular vein, now held in place with a small safety pin that had fastened the two sides of the cut with a series of little pricks around which the blood had clotted enough to stop further loss.
Doc kicked off the supersonics with relief and indicated the man’s throat. “Why wasn’t I called out instead of having him brought here?”
“Hell, Doc, Palmer said bring ’em in and I brought ’em — I dunno. Guess some guy pinned up this fellow so they figured he could wait. Anything wrong?”
Ferrel grimaced. “With a split jugular, nothing that stops the bleeding’s wrong, orthodox or not. How many more, and what’s wrong out there?”
“Lord knows, Doc. I only drive ’em. I don’t ask questions. So long!” He pushed the new stretcher up on the carriage, went wheeling it out to the small two-wheeled tractor that completed the litter. Ferrel dropped his curiosity back to its proper place and turned to the jugular case, while Dodd adjusted her mask. Jones had their clothes off, swabbed them down hastily, and wheeled them out on operating tables into the center of the surgery.
“Plasma!” A quick examination had shown Doc nothing else wrong with the jugular case, and he made the injection quickly. Apparently the man was only unconscious from shock induced by loss of blood, and the breathing and heart action resumed a more normal course as the liquid filled out the depleted blood vessels. He treated the wound with a sulphonamide derivative in routine procedure, cleaned and sterilized the edges gently, applied clamps carefully, removed the pin, and began stitching with the complicated little motor needle — one of the few gadgets for which he had any real appreciation. A few more drops of blood had spilled, but not seriously, and the wound was now permanently sealed. “Save the pin, Dodd. Goes in the collection. That’s all for this. How’s the other, Jenkins?”
Jenkins pointed to the back of the man’s neck, indicating a tiny bluish object sticking out. “Fragment of steel, clear into the medulla oblongata. No blood loss, but he’s been dead since it touched him. Want me to remove it?”
“No need — mortician can do it if they want…. If these are a sample, I’d guess it as a plain industrial accident, instead of anything connected with radiation.”
“You’ll get that, too, Doc.” It was the jugular case, apparently conscious and normal except for pallor. “We weren’t in the converter house. Hey, I’m all right!… I’ll be—”
Ferrel smiled at the surprise on the fellow’s face. “Thought you were dead, eh? Sure, you’re all right, if you’ll take it easy. A torn jugular either kills you or else it’s nothing to worry about. Just pipe down and let the nurse put you to sleep, and you’ll never know you got it.”
“Lord! Stuff came flying out of the air-intake like bullets out of a machine gun. Just a scratch, I thought; then Jake was bawling like a baby and yelling for a pin. Blood all over the place — then here I am, good as new.”
“Uh-huh.” Dodd was already wheeling him off to a ward room, her grim face wrinkled into a half-quizzical expression over the mask. “Doctor said to pipe down, didn’t he? Well!”
As soon as Dodd vanished, Jenkins sat down, running his hand over his cap; there were little beads of sweat showing where the goggles and mask didn’t entirely cover his face. “ ‘Stuff came flying out of the air-intake like bullets out of a machine gun,’ ” he repeated softly. “Dr. Ferrel, these two cases were outside the converter — just by-product accidents. Inside—”
“Yeah.” Ferrel was picturing things himself, and it wasn’t pleasant. Outside, matter tossed through the air ducts; inside—He left it hanging, as Jenkins had. “I’m going to call Blake. We’ll probably need him.”
2
“Give me Dr. Blake’s residence — Maple 2337,” Ferrel said quickly into the phone. The operator looked blank for a second, starting and then checking a purely automatic gesture toward the plugs. “Maple 2337, I said.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Ferrel, I can’t give you an outside line. All trunk lines are out of order.” There was a constant buzz from the board, but nothing showed in the panel to indicate whether from white inside lights or the red trunk indicators.
“But — this is an emergency, operator. I’ve got to get in touch with Dr. Blake!”
“Sorry, Dr. Ferrel. All trunk lines are out of order.” She started to reach for the plug, but Ferrel stopped her.
“Give me Palmer, then — and no nonsense! If his line’s busy, cut me in, and I’ll take the responsibility.”
“Very good.” She snapped at her switches. “I’m sorry, emergency call from Dr. Ferrel. Hold the line and I’ll reconnect you.” Then Palmer’s face was on the panel, and this time the man was making no attempt to conceal his expression of worry.
“What is it, Ferrel?”
“I want Blake here — I’m going to need him. The operator says—”
“Yeah,” Palmer nodded tightly, cutting in. “I’ve been trying to get him myself, but his house doesn’t answer. Any idea of where to reach him?”
“You might try the Bluebird or any of the other nightclubs around there.” Damn, why did this have to be Blake’s celebration night? No telling where he could be found by this time.
Palmer was speaking again. “I’ve already had all the nightclubs and restaurants called, and he doesn’t answer. We’re paging the movie houses and theaters now — just a second…. Nope, he isn’t there, Ferrel. Last reports, no response.”
“How about sending out a general call over the radio?”
“I’d… I’d like to, Ferrel, but it can’t be done.” The manager had hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his reply was positive. “Oh, by the way, we’ll notify your wife you won’t be home. Operator! You there? Good, reconnect the Governor!”
There was no sense in arguing into a blank screen, Doc realized. If Palmer wouldn’t put through a radio call, he wouldn’t, though it had been done once before. “All trunk lines are out of order…. We’ll notify your wife…. Reconnect the Governor!” They weren’t even being careful to cover up. He must have repeated the words aloud as he backed out of the office, still staring at the screen, for Jenkins’ face twitched into a maladjusted grin.
“So we’re cut off. I knew it already; Meyers just got in with more details.” He nodded toward the nurse, just coming out of the dressing room and trying to smooth out her uniform. Her almost pretty face was more confused than worried.