He had to be alone to think things out, so he went back to his room, but found Collins sprawling there as usual. He turned to go out again.
“Wait a minute,” called Collins.
Wearily Kildare faced him.
“What’s wrong?” asked Collins. “Who’s got a knife in you now?”
“Shut up, Tom,” said Kildare. “Everything is all right.”
“Not by the look of you. You take everything the hard way. Want to be alone here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Kildare. “I keep hoping that I haven’t made up my mind, but I suppose I have.”
“Made up your mind to what? You need a transfusion,” said Collins. “You need a shot of happy blood without so many red corpuscles in it. Why not do things the easy way for once in your life?”
“The easy way?” said Kildare. “That’s right. That’s what I’m going to do—right now.” He managed to laugh a little.
“You sound like the ghost in ‘Hamlet,’” stated Collins. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
But Kildare was gone. He went up to Carew and was able to see him at once.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Kildare. “I’ll take the Messenger case.”
Carew, to his surprise, showed more curiosity than pleasure.
“Not because I tempted you, I hope. You’ve got permission from Gillespie to take time off?” he asked. “No,” said Kildare.
“You realise that it may mean a complete break between you and the great man?”
“I realise that.”
Carew, pursing his lips, looked into his own thoughts “I suppose I understand,” he said. “You got a taste of comfort and soft living in the Messenger house and after that the hospital regime looked as long and dry as a desert. And yet you know, Kildare, that there is always that long chance—Gillespiemight make a great man of you. You’re going to risk that?”
“It seems that I am,” answered Kildare dryly.
“Ah!” murmured Carew. “Well, Gillespie’s hope about you goes where most dreams go—into the garbage can or out the window into the gutter…I’ll get in touch with Messenger at once. He’ll be very pleased, I dare say…And after all, this may turn out to be a great thing for the hospital—a great thing for your own future. I’m almost glad that you’ve turned out to be a practical fellow, Kildare.”
He picked up the telephone as he spoke, turning his head quickly away. Even Carew despised him for his decision. And when the news of it went abroad, what would the others say who had watched with envy and astonishment as Kildare climbed by the hard, straight road toward the top of the medical ladder? But facing them was nothing compared with telling Gillespie.
Half an hour later he was bewildered to find that the old man was already back in his wheel chair, intent upon the entangled problems of his experiment, shouting orders once more at Mary Lamont. “Can’t I turn my back, can’t I blink my eyes and lie down for a moment without having you slip out of my sight?” he exclaimed when he saw Kildare. “Lamont, get some more Petri dishes and put the agar in them.”
“I’d like to speak to you alone for a moment,” said Kildare.
“Don’t be secretive, Jimmy,” advised Gillespie. “There’s mighty little reason for whispering in this world, and when you get to my age you’ll understand it…But go on and leave us alone, Lamont.”
She already was out of the room.
“If you’re going to talk about the little dizzy spell I had,” said Gillespie, “I won’t hear a word of it.”
“It’s not that. It’s other things that will go wrong with you,” replied Kildare. “You’ve only a certain amount of strength, and it can’t be replenished in you as it can in younger people.”
Gillespie made a brutally terse summing-up. He said: “I’ll do the addition for you. I’m old. There’s a melanoma eating my body away. I have only a few months to live. And I ought to conserve the oil in the lamp so that it will cast a light as long as possible. Right?”
“That’s my idea, sir,” agreed Kildare.
“You’re wrong then,” exclaimed Gillespie. “If there’s something worth burning for, let all the oil be consumed to make one big flash. It might be a signal that will be seen across a whole ocean of time. If you look back through the centuries, Jimmy, you can’t see the little dim souls that keep falling into oblivion like leaves from trees. You see only the creatures that burned as they lived; you see them by their own light, and time can’t exhaust it. It’s like the difference between peace and war. In peacetime little happens. In war the trained soldier goes out with his life in his hand and throws it away like a gambling fool. One in a million receives glory in exchange. And we’re soldiers in a war, Jimmy. The enemy is ignorance. Ignorance is the dark. And any man who can throw a light is a fool if he’s not willing to die to do it. So we’re going to rush on with the experiment. What if I pass out while I’m working? The great attempt is nine-tenths of accomplishment. And if I’m a bit reckless with the little I have left to spend, why, I always have that young Dr. Kildare to complete what I’ve started.”
He laughed aloud and struck his hands together.
“They can beat us one by one, Jimmy, but they can’t beat us when we hold fast together.”
The thing had to be said, and Kildare said it slowly. The words had a strange taste in his throat.
“The point is that I won’t be here—at least for a time. I’ve told Doctor Carew that he can assign me out on the Messenger case…”
“You’ve told him what? You’ve told him what?” shouted Gillespie. “What sort of infernal nonsense is this anyway? You know perfectly well that I can’t have you assigned out when we’re in the middle of the experiment. I’d as soon have no assistant at all as a will-o’-the-wisp who’s here today and gone tomorrow and never to be counted on!”
“I’m sorry,” answered Kildare.
“To the devil with your sorrow!” cried Gillespie. His voice changed to a quieter tone that took the breath out of Kildare. “It’s not possible that you’re thinking of walking out on me!”
Kildare looked away from his old preceptor and through the window toward the rain that slanted down in a fine sweep of brilliance borrowed from the shining west. In comparison, the interior of the office was lost in a twilight. So are all our hours and our days until some touch of genius lights them. He remembered what Gillespie had said of the dim souls who are lost by millions in the fog of time. He would be one of them, no doubt, if he lost his opportunity of borrowing light from this great man.
But he found himself repeating the lesson of Carew: “It seems to me that a man ought to have a chance to live—I mean, I’d like to get some taste out of life before I’m an old man.”
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Gillespie.
“It’s true,” lied Kildare. “From the time I was a small youngster, I’ve had a tough time of it. Now I see my way clear to get into the long green and I want some of it.”
“Are you drunk?” demanded Gillespie harshly.
“No, sir. I’m simply seeing some of the realities. I’m just a little tired of the life I’ve been leading.”
“Am I a fool?” barked Gillespie.
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Did I pick you out as my assistant?’
“Yes, sir.”
“After twenty-five years of searching to find some brain that might be worth the teaching I could give it, did I select you from all the thousands?”