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 byproduct 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. Well probably need him.”
II
“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 night clubs 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 night dubs 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 rooms and trying to smooth out her uniform. Her almost pretty face was more confused than worried.
“I was just leaving the plant, Dr. Ferrel, when my name came up on the outside speaker, but I had trouble getting here. We’re locked in! I saw them at the gate—guards with sticks. They were turning back everyone that tried to leave, and wouldn’t tell why, even. Just general orders that no one was to leave until Mr. Palmer gave his permission. And they weren’t going to let me back in at first. Do you suppose…do you know what it’s all about? I heard little things that didn’t mean anything, really, but—”
“I know just about as much as you do, Meyers, though Palmer said something about carelessness with one of the ports on No. 3 or 4,” Ferrel answered her. “Probably just precautionary measures. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it yet.”
“Yes, Dr. Ferrel.” She nodded and turned back to the front office, but there was no assurance in her look. Doc realized that neither Jenkins nor himself were pictures of confidence at the moment.
“Jenkins,” he said, when she was gone, “if you know anything I don’t, for the love of Mike, out with it! I’ve never seen anything like this around here.”
Jenkins shook himself, and for the first time since he’d been there, used Ferrel’s nickname. “Doc, I don’t—that’s why I’m in a blue funk. I know just enough to be less sure than you can be, and I’m scared as hell!”
“Let’s see your hands.” The subject was almost a monomania with Ferrel, and he knew it, but he also knew it wasn’t unjustified. Jenkins’ hands came out promptly, and there was no tremble to them. The boy threw up his arm so the sleeve slid beyond the elbow, and Ferrel nodded; there was no sweat trickling down from the armpits to reveal a worse case of nerves than showed on the surface. “Good enough, son; I don’t care how scared you are—I’m getting that way myself—but with Blake out of the picture, and the other nurses and attendants sure to be out of reach, I’ll need everything you’ve got.”
“Doc?”
“Well?”
“If you’ll take my word for it, I can get another nurse here—and a good one, too. They don’t come any better, or any steadier, and she’s not working now. I didn’t expect her—well, anyhow, she’d skin me if I didn’t call when we need one. Want her?”
“No trunk lines for outside calls,” Doc reminded him. It was the first time he’d seen any real enthusiasm on the boy’s face, and however good or bad the nurse was, she’d obviously be of value in bucking up Jenkins’ spirits. “Go to it, though; right now we can probably use any nurse. Sweetheart?”
“Wife.” Jenkins went toward the dressing room. “And I don’t need the phone; we used to carry ultra-short-wave personal radios to keep in touch, and I’ve still got mine here. And if you’re worried about her qualifications, she handed instruments to Bayard at Mayo’s for five years—that’s how I managed to get through medical school!”
The siren was approaching again when Jenkins came back, the little tense lines about his lips still there, but his whole bearing somehow steadier. He nodded. “I called Palmer, too, and he O.K.’d her coming inside on the phone without wondering how I’d contacted her. The switchboard girl has standing orders to route all calls from us through before anything else, it seems.”
Doc nodded, his ear cocked toward the drone of the siren that drew up and finally ended on a sour wheeze. There was a feeling of relief from tension about him as he saw Jones appear and go toward the rear entrance; work, even under the pressure of an emergency, was always easier than sitting around waiting for it. He saw two stretchers come in, both bearing double loads, and noted that Beel was babbling at the attendant, the driver’s usually phlegmatic manner completely gone.
