She went back to the front, taking off her sandal and banging it against the panel of the door. It made a horrible amount of sound, but nobody answered.
Abruptly, a window went up in a house across the street and a man’s voice yelled at her. “You, there! Get away from here! We don’t want no trouble around here! You get, you hear. I got a gun and I’ll use it.”
Other windows were opening. Emma felt her face turning scarlet as she hobbled down the steps and back to her car. The idea of them thinking she wanted trouble! For two cents…
Then she sobered enough to know that what they were doing might be a good thing, if there were trouble makers. She got into the car and started it under the suspicious eyes of the neighborhood, moving away faster than she liked. There was still no sign from the Blake house.
Almost without thinking, she headed for the turnpike, turning on the radio and then snapping it off in disgust. Now there were only a few cars and a number of trucks on the road; the trucks all seemed to be filled with men in uniform carrying guns. The road had a closed sign further on, but she went around it, behind one of the trucks, and nobody tried to stop her. She’d learned long before that driving a car with M.D. license plates saved a lot of bother, if you just acted natural about what you were doing.
Then far ahead she saw the top of the plant’s big flagpole, with the flag whipping about. At least something was still there.
Now her picture of the little X-ray worms with snapping teeth began to creep into her mind. She tried to pretend that they had all grown toothless, unable to bite and tear at her tissues, but she couldn’t convince herself. She felt her hands growing sweaty as they always did near the place. But she drove on, nearing the cut-off to the private road. She’d just have to go in and let them bite. Maybe after a while they wouldn’t bother her. They didn’t seem to bother Roger.
She’d partly expected the guards who were posted at the cut-off and she had decided on the only way she might get through. If they stopped her she could never make it work. But maybe…
She hugged as close as she could to the truck of uniformed men, cranking down a window and pointing to the caduceus on the side of the car. “Ferrel. Emergency!” she shouted. They weren’t plant men, but more of the uniformed ones, and they might not know whether Ferrel was a man or a woman doctor.
She was past them before they could make up their minds to stop her. She watched in the rear-view mirror, but they weren’t following her, at least.
The truck ahead swung off to the side, bumping over the grass-grown land toward the top of a hill, and she saw that the road ended with another blockade at the main gate ahead. The trick would never work here where someone from the plant would be posted. There was no use trying anything. She’d just have to see what happened.
The guard who came out wore the uniform of National, she saw. She tore her eyes off the plant, where all the buildings seemed to stand as usual, except for one ugly structure that she’d never liked anyhow. She could feel the little sharp-toothed radiation things waiting for her just inside the gate, but she fought against them, trying to look natural as the guard approached.
“Mrs. Ferrel! You can’t go in. Absolute orders. I don’t know how you got this far.”
“How’s my husband?” she asked. She stared at the man, trying to remember the name Roger had called him. Then she had it. “Is he all right, Murphy?”
The man ran a nervous hand around the inside of his cap and shook his head, staring toward the militia work on top of the little hill. “Mrs. Ferrel, are any of us? I dunno. He’s in there somewhere, God have mercy on him. You can’t go in.”
“All right,” she agreed, “But I won’t go back. I’ll drive the car into a tree or something if you send me back. How are your daughter’s children, Murphy?” She’d finally sorted him out from the men who got free medical help from Roger outside the plant.
He stared at her, struggling with himself. Finally he nodded. “If you weren’t Doc’s wife, I’d kick you all the way back to Kimberly,” he said darkly. “But I suppose now I gotta say you’ve seen too much, so you stay. And don’t blame me when it gets rough here. With those militia boys more scared to be standing where they are than of getting the jug for desertion…Well, you asked for it. Only don’t get out of the car or I’ll not be responsible for you.”
He swung to one of the other guards. “Bill, park her in the lot back there, if you can squeeze another in.”
“Toward the front,” she said quietly, “I’ve got to be where I can get in as soon as the gates are open again.”
He threw up his hands and nodded.
She settled back in the car after the guard had parked it with an amazing amount of swearing and settled down to watching the corner of the Infirmary she could just see. It hadn’t been so hard to get here after all. All it took was a little firmness and some reasoning with Murphy.
Chapter 10
Dodd was working artificial respiration and Jenkins had the oxygen mask in his hands, adjusting it over Jorgenson’s face, before Ferrel reached the table. He made a grab for the pulse that had been fluttering weakly enough before, felt it flicker feebly once, pause for about three times normal period, lift feebly again, and then stop completely “Adrenalin!”
“Already shot it into his heart, Doc! Cardiacine, too!” The boy’s voice was bordering on hysteria, but Palmer was obviously closer to it than Jenkins.
“Doc, you gotta —”
“Get the hell out of here!” Ferrel’s hands suddenly had a life of their own as he grabbed frantically for instruments, ripped bandages off the man’s chest, and began working against time, when time had all the advantages. It wasn’t surgery — hardly good butchery; the bones that he cut through so ruthlessly with savage strokes of an instrument could never heal smoothly after being so mangled. But he couldn’t worry about minor details now.
He tossed back the flap of flesh and ribs that he’d hacked out. “Stop the bleeding, Jenkins!” Then his hands plunged into the chest cavity, somehow finding room around Dodd’s and Jenkins’, and were suddenly incredibly gentle as they located the heart itself and began working on it, the skilled, exact massage of a man who knew every function of the vital organ. Pressure here, there, relax; pressure again — take it easy, don’t rush things! It would do no good to try to set it going as feverishly as his emotions demanded. Pure oxygen was feeding into the lungs and the heart could safely do less work. Hold it steady, one beat a second, sixty a minute.
It had been perhaps half a minute from the time the heart stopped before his massage was circulating blood again; too little time to worry about damage to the brain, the first part to be permanently affected by stoppage of the circulation. Now if the heart could start again by itself within any reasonable time death would be cheated again. How long? He had no idea. They’d taught him ten minutes when he was studying medicine, then there’d been a case of twenty minutes once, and while he was interning it had been pushed up to a record of slightly over an hour, which still stood; but that was an exceptional case. Jorgenson, praise be, was a normally healthy and vigorous specimen, and he had been in first-class condition, but with the torture of those long hours, the radioactive, narcotic and curare all fighting against him, still one more miracle was needed to keep his life going.
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, 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.”
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 was 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, 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 device he’d seen demonstrated at their last medical convention was the answer.
“Jenkins, call Mayo’s — you’ll have to get Palmer’s okay, 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. “Okay, 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 mistrust 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 iodine 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 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 about 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 put it through 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 the 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 essential.”
“Very good, sir.” Long-distance operators, mercifully, were usually efficient. There were the repeated signals and clicks of relays as she put the call 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 may 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 trans-ship in air from our special speedster to a helicopter, have it delivered wherever you want. About — Let’s see, loading plane, flying a couple hundred miles, trans-shipping — About half an hour’s the best we can do.”
“Make it the square of land south of the Infirmary, which is crossed visibly from the air. Thanks!”
“Wait, Dr. Ferrell” The younger man checked Doc’s cutoff. “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. Okay, I’ve got the telescript already 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 could 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…Well, it had got him the exciter, and for that he should be thankful.
He put through a call to Palmer, hoping the man was in his office. Luck was with him, for once, and Palmer agreed to okay the arrival of the helicopter without argument.
The guard was starting uncertainly off for reinforcements when Doc came out, and he realized that the seemingly endless calls 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, which 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 lives 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. I guess we were really tanked up. We decided to cut the bell and put the phone under a pillow, for some reason. So I didn’t hear a darned thing until some idiot came around trying to break in and the neighbors chased her. You go rest.”
Ferrel grunted in relief; Blake might have been dead-drunk when he finally reached home, which would explain his actions with 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?”
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