The 13th Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by Lester Del Rey

  Press, massage, relax, don’t hurry it too much. There! For a second, his fingers felt a faint flutter, then again; but it stopped. Still, as long as the organ could show such signs, there was hope, unless his fingers grew too tired and he muffed the job before the moment when the heart could be safely trusted by itself.

  “Jenkins!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Ever do any heart massage?”

  “Practiced it in school, sir, on a model, but never actually. Oh, a dog in dissection class, for five minutes. I…I don’t think you’d better trust me, Doc.”

  “I may have to. If you did it on a dog for five minutes, you can do it on a man, probably. You know what hangs on it—you saw the converter and know what’s going on.”

  Jenkins nodded, the tense nod he’d used earlier. “I know—that’s why you can’t trust me. I told you I’d let you know when I was going to crack—well, it’s damned near here!”

  Could a man tell his weakness, if he were about finished? Doc didn’t know; he suspected that the boy’s own awareness of his nerves would speed up such a break, if anything, but Jenkins was a queer case, having taut nerves sticking out all over him, yet a steadiness under fire that few older men could have equaled. If he had to use him, he would; there was no other answer.

  Doc’s fingers were already feeling stiff—not yet tired, but showing signs of becoming so. Another few minutes, and he’d have to stop. There was the flutter again, one—two—three! Then it stopped. There had to be some other solution to this; it was impossible to keep it up for the length of time probably needed, even if he and Jenkins spelled each other. Only Michel at Mayo’s could—Mayo’s! If they could get it here in time, that wrinkle he’d seen demonstrated at their last medical convention was the answer.

  “Jenkins, call Mayo’s—you’ll have to get Palmer’s O.K., I guess—ask for Kubelik, and bring the extension where I can talk to him!”

  He could hear Jenkins’ voice, level enough at first, then with a depth of feeling he’d have thought impossible in the boy. Dodd looked at him quickly and managed a grim smile, even as she continued with the respiration; nothing could make her blush, though it should have done so.

  The boy jumped back. “No soap, Doc! Palmer can’t be located—and that post-mortem misconception at the board won’t listen.”

  * * * *

  Doc studied his hands in silence, wondering, then gave it up; there’d be no hope of his lasting while he sent out the boy. “O.K., Jenkins, you’ll have to take over here, then. Steady does it, come on in slowly, get your fingers over mine. Now, catch the motion? Easy, don’t rush things. You’ll hold out—you’ll have to! You’ve done better than I had any right to ask for so far, and you don’t need to distrust yourself. There, got it?”

  “Got it, Doc. I’ll try, but for Pete’s sake, whatever you’re planning, get back here quick! I’m not lying about cracking! You’d better let Meyers replace Dodd and have Sue called back in here; she’s the best nerve tonic I know.”

  “Call her in then, Dodd.” Doc picked up a hypodermic syringe, filled it quickly with water to which a drop of another liquid added a brownish-yellow color, and forced his tired old legs into a reasonably rapid trot out of the side door and toward Communications. Maybe the switchboard operator was stubborn, but there were ways of handling people.

  He hadn’t counted on the guard outside the Communications Building, though. “Halt!”

  “Life or death; I’m a physician.”

  “Not in here—I got orders.” The bayonet’s menace apparently wasn’t enough; the rifle went up to the man’s shoulder, and his chin jutted out with the stubbornness of petty authority and reliance on orders. “Nobody sick here. There’s plenty of phones elsewhere. You get back—and fast!”

  Doc started forward and there was a faint click from the rifle as the safety went off; the darned fool meant what he said. Shrugging, Ferrel stepped back—and brought the hypodermic needle up inconspicuously in line with the guard’s face. “Ever see one of these things squirt curare? It can reach before your bullet hits!”

  “Curare?” The guard’s eyes flicked to the needle, and doubt came into them. The man frowned. “That’s the stuff that kills people on arrows, ain’t it?”

  “It is—cobra venom, you know. One drop on the outside of your skin and you’re dead in ten seconds.” Both statements were out-and-out lies, but Doc was counting on the superstitious ignorance of the average man in connection with poisons. “This little needle can spray you with it very nicely, and it may be a fast death, but not a pleasant one. Want to put down the rifle?”

  A regular might have shot; but the militiaman was taking no chances. He lowered the rifle gingerly, his eyes on the needle, then kicked the weapon aside at Doc’s motion. Ferrel approached, holding the needle out, and the man shrank backward and away, letting him pick up the rifle as he went past to avoid being shot in the back. Lost time! But he knew his way around this little building, at least, and went straight toward the girl at the board.

  “Get up!” His voice came from behind her shoulder and she turned to see the rifle in one of his hands, the needle in the other, almost touching her throat. “This is loaded with curare, deadly poison, and too much hangs on getting a call through to bother with physician’s oaths right now, young lady. Up! No plugs! That’s right; now get over there, out of the cell—there, on your face, cross your hands behind your back, and grab your ankles—right! Now if you move, you won’t move long!”

  Those gangster pictures he’d seen were handy, at that. She was thoroughly frightened and docile. But, perhaps, not so much so she might not have bungled his call deliberately. He had to do that himself. Darn it, the red lights were trunk lines, but which plug—try the inside one, it looked more logical; he’d seen it done, but couldn’t remember. Now, you flip back one of these switches—uh-uh, the other way. The tone came in assuring him he had it right, and he dialed operator rapidly, his eyes flickering toward the girl lying on the floor, his thoughts on Jenkins and the wasted time running on.

  “Operator, this is an emergency. I’m Walnut 7654; I want to put in a long-distance call to Dr. Kubelik, Mayo’s Hospital, Rochester, Minnesota. If Kubelik isn’t there, I’ll take anyone else who answers from his department. Speed is urgent.”

  “Very good, sir.” Long-distance operators, mercifully, were usually efficient. There was the repeated signals and clicks of relays as she put it through, the answer from the hospital board, more wasted time, and then a face appeared on the screen; but not that of Kubelik. It was a much younger man.

  Ferrel wasted no time in introduction. “I’ve got an emergency case here where all Hades depends on saving a man, and it can’t be done without that machine of Dr. Kubelik’s; he knows me, if he’s there—I’m Ferrel, met him at the convention, got him to show me how the thing worked.”

  “Kubelik hasn’t come in yet, Dr. Ferrel; I’m his assistant. But, if you mean the heart and lung exciter, it’s already boxed and supposed to leave for Harvard this morning. They’ve got a rush case out there, and many need it—”

  “Not as much as I do.”

  “I’ll have to call— Wait a minute, Dr. Ferrel, seems I remember your name now. Aren’t you the chap with National Atomic?”

  Doc nodded. “The same. Now, about that machine, if you’ll stop the formalities—”

  The face on the screen nodded, instant determination showing, with an underlying expression of something else. “We’ll ship it down to you instantly, Ferrel. Got a field for a plane?”

  “Not within three miles, but I’ll have a truck sent out for it. How long?”

  “Take too long by truck if you need it down there, Ferrel; I’ll arrange to transship in air from our special speedster to a helicopter, have it delivered wherever you want. About—um, loading plane, flying a couple hundred miles, transshipping—about half an hour’s the best we ca
n do.”

  “Make it the square of land south of the Infirmary, which is crossed visibly from the air. Thanks!”

  “Wait, Dr. Ferrel!” The younger man checked Doc’s cut-off. “Can you use it when you get it? It’s tricky work.”

  “Kubelik gave quite a demonstration and I’m used to tricky work. I’ll chance it—have to. Too long to rouse Kubelik himself, isn’t it?”

  “Probably. O.K., I’ve got the telescript reply from the shipping office, it’s starting for the plane. I wish you luck!”

  Ferrel nodded his thanks, wondering. Service like that was welcome, but it wasn’t the most comforting thing, mentally, to know that the mere mention of National Atomic would cause such an about-face. Rumors, it seemed, were spreading, and in a hurry, in spite of Palmer’s best attempts. Good Lord, what was going on here? He’d been too busy for any serious worrying or to realize, but—well, it had gotten him the exciter, and for that he should be thankful.

  The guard was starting uncertainly off for reinforcements when Doc came out, and he realized that the seemingly endless call must have been over in short order. He tossed the rifle well out of the man’s reach and headed back toward the Infirmary at a run, wondering how Jenkins had made out—it had to be all right!

  Jenkins wasn’t standing over the body of Jorgenson; Brown was there instead, her eyes moist and her face pinched in and white around the nostrils that stood out at full width. She looked up, shook her head at him as he started forward, and went on working at Jorgenson’s heart.

  “Jenkins cracked?”

  “Nonsense! This is woman’s work, Dr. Ferrel, and I took over for him, that’s all. You men try to use brute force all your life and then wonder why a woman can do twice as much delicate work where strong muscles are a nuisance. I chased him out and took over, that’s all.” But there was a catch in her voice as she said it, and Meyers was looking down entirely too intently at the work of artificial respiration.

  “Hi, Doc!” It was Blake’s voice that broke in. “Get away from there; when this Dr. Brown needs help, I’ll be right in there. I’ve been sleeping like a darned fool all night, from four this morning on. Didn’t hear the phone, or something, didn’t know what was going on until I got to the gate out there. You go rest.”

  Ferrel grunted in relief; Blake might have been dead drunk when he finally reached home, which would explain his not hearing the phone, but his animal virility had soaked it out with no visible sign. The only change was the absence of the usual cocky grin on his face as he moved over beside Brown to test Jorgenson. “Thank the Lord you’re here, Blake. How’s Jorgenson doing?”

  Brown’s voice answered in a monotone, words coming in time to the motions of her fingers. “His heart shows signs of coming around once in a while, but it doesn’t last. He isn’t getting worse from what I can tell, though.”

  “Good. If we can keep him going half an hour more, we can turn all this over to a machine. Where’s Jenkins?”

  “A machine? Oh, the Kubelik exciter, of course. He was working on it when I was there. We’ll keep Jorgenson alive until then, anyway, Dr. Ferrel.”

  “Where’s Jenkins?” he repeated sharply, when she stopped with no intention of answering the former question.

  Blake pointed toward Ferrel’s office, the door of which was now closed. “In there. But lay off him, Doc. I saw the whole thing, and he feels like the deuce about it. He’s a good kid, but only a kid, and this kind of hell could get any of us.”

  “I know all that.” Doc headed toward the office, as much for a smoke as anything else. The sight of Blake’s rested face was somehow an island of reassurance in this sea of fatigue and nerves. “Don’t worry, Brown, I’m not planning on lacing him down, so you needn’t defend your man so carefully. It was my fault for not listening to him.”

  Brown’s eyes were pathetically grateful in the brief flash she threw him, and he felt like a heel for the gruffness that had been his first reaction toward Jenkins’ absence. If this kept on much longer, though, they’d all be in worse shape than the boy, whose back was toward him as he opened the door. The still, huddled shape did not raise its head from its arms as Ferrel put his hand onto one shoulder, and the voice was muffled and distant.

  “I cracked, Doc—high, wide and handsome, all over the place. I couldn’t take it! Standing there, Jorgenson maybe dying because I couldn’t control myself right, the whole plant blowing up, all my fault. I kept telling myself I was O.K., I’d go on, then I cracked. Screamed like a baby! Dr. Jenkins—nerve specialist!”

  “Yeah… Here, are you going to drink this, or do I have to hold your blasted nose and pour it down your throat?” It was crude psychology but it worked, and Doc handed over the drink, waited for the other to down it, and passed a cigarette across before sinking into his own chair. “You warned me, Jenkins, and I risked it on my own responsibility, so nobody’s kicking. But I’d like to ask a couple of questions.”

  “Go ahead—what’s the difference?” Jenkins had recovered a little, obviously, from the note of defiance that managed to creep into his voice.

  “Did you know Brown could handle that kind of work? And did you pull your hands out before she could get hers in to replace them?”

  “She told me she could. I didn’t know before. I dunno about the other; I think…yeah, Doc, she had her hands over mine. But—”

  Ferrel nodded, satisfied with his own guess. “I thought so. You didn’t crack, as you put it, until your mind knew it was safe to do so—and then you simply passed the work on. By that definition, I’m cracking, too. I’m sitting in here, smoking, talking to you, when out there a man needs attention. The fact that he’s getting it from two others, one practically fresh, the other at a least a lot better off than we are, doesn’t have a thing to do with it, does it?”

  “But it wasn’t that way, Doc. I’m not asking for grandstand stuff from anybody.”

  “Nobody’s giving it to you, son. All right, you screamed—why not? It didn’t hurt anything. I growled at Brown when I came in for the same reason—exhausted, overstrained nerves. If I went out there and had to take over from them, I’d probably scream myself, or start biting my tongue—nerves have to have an outlet; physically, it does them no good, but there’s a psychological need for it.” The boy wasn’t convinced, and Doc sat back in the chair, staring at him thoughtfully, “Ever wonder why I’m here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you might. Twenty-seven years ago, when I was about your age, there wasn’t a surgeon in this country—or the world, for that matter—who had the reputation I had; any kind of surgery, brain, what have you. They’re still using some of my techniques…uh—hum, thought you’d remember when the association of names hit you. I had a different wife then, Jenkins, and there was a baby coming. Brain tumor—I had to do it, no one else could. I did it, somehow, but I went out of that operating room in a haze, and it was three days later when they’d tell me she’d died; not my fault—I know that now—but I couldn’t realize it then.

  “So, I tried setting up as a general practitioner. No more surgery for me! And because I was a fair diagnostician, which most surgeon aren’t, I made a living, at least. Then, when this company was set up, I applied for the job, and got it; I still had a reputation of sorts. It was a new field, something requiring study and research, and damned near every ability of most specialists plus a general practitioner’s, so it kept me busy enough to get over my phobia of surgery. Compared to me, you don’t know what nerves or cracking means. That little scream was a minor incident.”

  * * * *

  Jenkins made no comment, but lighted the cigarette he’d been holding. Ferrel relaxed farther into the chair, knowing that he’d be called if there was any need for his work, and glad to get his mind at least partially off Jorgenson. “It’s hard to find a man for this work, Jenkins. It takes too much ability at too many fields, even though it pays well.
We went through plenty of applicants before we decided on you, and I’m not regretting our choice. As a matter of fact, you’re better equipped for the job than Blake was—your record looked as if you’d deliberately tried for this kind of work.”

  “I did.”

  “Hm-m-m.” That was the one answer Doc had least expected; so far as he knew, no one deliberately tried for a job at Atomics—they usually wound up trying for it after comparing their receipts for a year or so with the salary paid by National. “Then you knew what was needed and picked it up in toto. Mind if I ask why?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Why not? Turnabout’s fair play. It’s kind of complicated, but the gist of it doesn’t take much telling. Dad had an atomic plant of his own—and a darned good one, too, Doc, even if it wasn’t as big as National. I was working in it when I was fifteen, and I went through two years of university work in atomics with the best intentions of carrying on the business. Sue—well, she was the neighbor girl I followed around, and we had money at the time; that wasn’t why she married me, though. I never did figure that out—she’d had a hard enough life, but she was already holding down a job at Mayo’s, and I was just a raw kid. Anyway—

  “The day we came home from our honeymoon, Dad got a big contract on a new process we’d worked out. It took some swinging, but he got the equipment and started it… My guess is that one of the controls broke through faulty construction; the process was right! We’d been over it too often not to know what it would do. But, when the estate was cleared up, I had to give up the idea of a degree in atomics, and Sue was back working at the hospital. Atomic courses cost real money. Then one of Sue’s medical acquaintances fixed it for me to get a scholarship in medicine that almost took care of it, so I chose the next best thing to what I wanted.”

  “National and one of the biggest competitors—if you can call it that—are permitted to give degrees in atomics,” Doc reminded the boy. The field was still too new to be a standing university course, and there were no better teachers in the business than such men as Palmer, Hokusai and Jorgenson. “They pay a salary while you’re learning, too.”