Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  “What is it‌—‌radiation burns, or straight accident?”

  “Oh‌—‌radiation mostly‌—‌maybe accident, too. Someone got a little careless‌—‌you know how it is. Nothing to worry about, though. You’ve been through it before when they opened a port too soon.”

  Doc knew enough about that‌—‌if that’s what it was. “Sure, we can handle that, Palmer. But I thought No. 1 was closing down at five-thirty tonight. Anyhow, how come they haven’t installed the safety ports on it? You told me they had, six months ago.”

  “I didn’t say it was No. 1, or that it was a manual port. You know, new equipment for new products.” Palmer looked up at someone else, and his upper arms made a slight movement before he looked down at the vision cell again. “I can’t go into it now, Dr. Ferrel, accident’s throwing us off schedule, you see‌—‌details piling up on me. We can talk it over later, and you probably have to make arrangements now. Call me if you want anything.”

  The screen darkened and the phone clicked off abruptly, just as a muffled word started. The voice hadn’t been Palmer’s. Ferrel pulled his stomach in, wiped the sweat off his hands again, and went out into the surgery with careful casualness. Damn Palmer, why couldn’t the fool give enough information to make decent preparations possible? He was sure 3 and 4 alone were operating, and they were supposed to be foolproof. Just what had happened?

  Jenkins jerked up from a bench as he came out, face muscles tense and eyes filled with a nameless fear. Where he had been sitting, a copy of the Weekly Ray was lying open at a chart of symbols which meant nothing to Ferrel, except for the penciled line under one of the reactions. The boy picked it up and stuck it back on a table.

  “Routine accident,” Ferrel reported as naturally as he could, cursing himself for having to force his voice. Thank the Lord, the boy’s hands hadn’t trembled visibly when he was moving the paper; he’d still be useful if surgery were necessary. Palmer had said nothing of that, of course‌—‌he’d said nothing about entirely too much. “They’re bringing a few men over for radiation burns, according to Palmer. Everything ready?”

  Jenkins nodded tightly. “Quite ready, sir, as much as we can be for ‌—‌routine accidents at 3 and 4! … Isotope R… . Sorry, Dr. Ferrel, I didn’t mean that. Should we call in Dr. Blake and the other nurses and attendants?”

  “Eh? Oh, probably we can’t reach Blake, and Palmer doesn’t think we need him. You might have Nurse Dodd locate Meyers‌—‌the others are out on dates by now if I know them, and the two nurses should be enough, with Jones; they’re better than a flock of the others, anyway.” Isotope R? Ferrel remembered the name, but nothing else. Something an engineer had said once‌—‌but he couldn’t recall in what connection‌—‌or had Hokusai mentioned it? He watched Jenkins leave and turned back on an impulse to his office where he could phone in reasonable privacy.

  “Get me Matsuura Hokusai.” He stood drumming on the table impatiently until the screen finally lighted and the little Japanese looked out of it. “Hoke, do you know what they were turning out over at 3 and 4?”

  The scientist nodded slowly, his wrinkled face as expressionless as his unaccented English. “Yess, they are make I-713 for the weevil. Why you assk?”

  “Nothing; just curious. I heard rumors about an Isotope R and wondered if there was any connection. Seems they had a little accident over there, and I want to be ready for whatever comes of it.”

  For a fraction of a second, the heavy lids on Hokusai’s eyes seemed to lift, but his voice remained neutral, only slightly faster. “No connection, Dr. Ferrel, they are not make Issotope R, very much assure you. Besst you forget Issotope R. Very ssorry. Dr. Ferrel, I must now ssee accident. Thank you for call. Good-by.” The screen was blank again, along with Ferrel’s mind.

  Jenkins was standing in the door, but had either heard nothing or seemed not to know about it. “Nurse Meyers is coming back,” he said. “Shall I get ready for curare injections?”

  “Uh‌—‌might be a good idea.” Ferrel had no intention of being surprised again, no matter what the implication of the words. Curare, one of the great poisons, known to South American primitives for centuries and only recently synthesized by modern chemistry, was the final resort for use in cases of radiation injury that were utterly beyond control. While the Infirmary stocked it for such emergencies, in the long years of Doc’s practice it had been used only twice; neither experience had been pleasant. Jenkins was either thoroughly frightened or overly zealous‌—‌unless he knew something he had no business knowing.

  “Seems to take them long enough to get the men here‌—‌can’t be too serious, Jenkins, or they’d move faster.”

  “Maybe.” Jenkins went on with his preparations, dissolving dried plasma in distilled, deaerated water, without looking up. “There’s the litter siren now. You’d better get washed up while I take care of the patients.”

  Doc listened to the sound that came in as a faint drone from outside, and grinned slightly. “Must be Beel driving; he’s the only man fool enough to run the siren when the runways are empty. Anyhow, if you’ll listen, it’s the out trip he’s making. Be at least five minutes before he gets back.” But he turned into the washroom, kicked on the hot water and began scrubbing vigorously with the strong soap.

  Damn Jenkins! Here he was preparing for surgery before he had any reason to suspect the need, and the boy was running things to suit himself, pretty much, as if armed with superior knowledge. Well, maybe he was. Either that, or he was simply half crazy with old wives’ fears of anything relating to atomic reactions, and that didn’t seem to fit the case. He rinsed off as Jenkins came in, kicked on the hot-air blast, and let his arms dry, then bumped against a rod that brought out rubber gloves on little holders. “Jenkins, what’s all this Isotope R business, anyway? I’ve heard about it somewhere‌—‌probably from Hokusai. But I can’t remember anything definite.”

  “Naturally‌—‌there isn’t anything definite. That’s the trouble.” The young doctor tackled the area under his fingernails before looking up; then he saw Ferrel was slipping into his surgeon’s whites that had come out on a hanger, and waited until the other was finished. “R’s one of the big maybe problems of atomics. Purely theoretical, and none’s been made yet‌—‌it’s either impossible or can’t be done in small control batches, safe for testing. That’s the trouble, as I said; nobody knows anything about it, except that‌—‌if it can exist‌—‌it’ll break down in a fairly short time into Mahler’s Isotope. You’ve heard of that?”

  Doc had‌—‌twice. The first had been when Mahler and half his laboratory had disappeared with accompanying noise; he’d been making a comparatively small amount of the new product designed to act as a starter for other reactions. Later, Maicewicz had tackled it on a smaller scale, and that time only two rooms and three men had gone up in dust particles. Five or six years later, atomic theory had been extended to the point where any student could find why the apparently safe product decided to become pure helium and energy in approximately one-billionth of a second.

  “How long a time?”

  “Half a dozen theories, and no real idea.” They’d come out of the washrooms, finished except for their masks. Jenkins ran his elbow into a switch that turned on the ultraviolets that were supposed to sterilize the entire surgery, then looked around questioningly. “What about the supersonics?”

  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.”

  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 clubs 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 th
e 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!”