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 dressing him down, so you needn’t defend your man so carefully. If 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 to 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 arm as Ferrel put his hand onto one shoulder, and the voice was muted 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, the whole plant blowing up, all my fault. I kept telling myself I was okay, 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. 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 obviously recovered a little, judging 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 least a lot better off than we are, doesn’t have a thing to do with it, does it?”
“But it wasn’t that away, 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 over-strained 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…Yes, I 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 before 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 surgeons 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 about 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 back 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 enough. 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.”
“Mmm.” 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 — my stepfather, that is — 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 as an engineer when I was fifteen. But we were a little weak on medical radioactive development, so Dad insisted I take up medicine at the university. That’s where I met Sue, in her last year. I had money enough to give her a rush then, even though she wasn’t around after the one year. She was already holding down a job at Mayo’s while I was boning up on medicine. Anyway…
“Dad got a big contract on a new process we’d worked out. It took some swinging, but he financed the equipment and started it…. My guess is that one of the controls broke through faulty construction; the process itself was right! We’d been over it too often not to know what it would do. But when the estate was cleaned up, I had to go back to medicine full time. Sue supported us, and she had enough pull to swing me an interneship at Mayo’s. It wasn’t atomics, but I figured I’d still use what I learned on that if I could get on here. Then you hired me.”
“National can give a degree 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.”
“Umm. Takes ten years that way, and the salary’s just enough for a single man. No, I’d married Sue with the intention she wouldn’t have to work again; well, she did until I finished the interneship, but I knew if I get the job here I could support her. As an atomjack, working up to an engineer, the prospects weren’t so good. We’re saving a little money now and some day maybe I’ll get a crack at it…. Doc, what’s all this about? You babying me out of my fit?”
Ferrel grinned at the boy. “Nothing else, son, though I was curious. And it worked. Feel all right now, don’t you?”
“Mostly, except for what’s going on out there — I got too much of a look at it from the truck. Oh, I could use some sleep, I guess, but I’m okay again.”
“Good.” Doc had profited almost as much as Jenkins from the rambling off trail talk, and had managed more rest from it than from nursing his own thoughts. “Suppose we go out and see how they’re making out with Jorgenson? What happened to Hoke, come to think of it?”
“Hoke? Oh, he’s in my office now, figuring out things with a pencil and paper since we wouldn’t let him go back out there. I was wondering —”
“Atomics? Then suppose you go in and talk to him; he’s a good guy and he won’t give you the brush-off. Nobody else around here apparently suspected this Isotope R business, and you might offer a fresh lead for him. With Blake and the nurses here and the men out of the mess except for the tanks, there’s not much you can do to help on my end.”
Ferrel felt more at peace with the world than he had since the call from Palmer as he watched Jenkins head off across the surgery toward his office; and the glance that Brown threw, first toward the boy, then back at Doc, didn’t make him feel worse. That girl could say more with her eyes than most women could with their mouths! He went over toward the operating table, where Blake was now working the heart massage with one of the fresh nurses attending to respiration and casting longing glances toward the mechanical-lung apparatus; it couldn’t be used in this case, since Jorgenson’s chest had to be free for heart attention.
Blake looked up, his expression worried. “This isn’t so good, Doc. He’s been sinking in the last few minutes. I was just going to call you. I —”
The last words were drowned out by the bull-throated drone that came dropping down from above them, a sound peculiarly characteristic of the heavy Sikorsky freighters with the modified blades they used to gain lift. Ferrel nodded at Brown’s questioning glance, but he didn’t choose to shout as his hands went around those of Blake and took over the delicate work of stimulating the natural heart action. As Blake withdrew the sound stopped and Doc motioned him out with his head.
“You’d better go to them and oversee bringing in the apparatus — and grab up any of the men you see to act as porters — or send Jones for them. The machine is an experimental model and pretty cumbersome; must weigh three-four-hundred pounds.”
“I’ll get them myself; Jones is sleeping.”
There was no flutter to Jorgenson’s heart under Doc’s deft manipulations, though he was exerting every bit of skill he possessed. “How long since there was a sign?”
“About four minutes now. Doc, is there still a chance?”
“Hard to say. Get the machine, though, and we’ll hope.”
But still the heart refused to respond, though the pressure and manipulation kept the blood circulating and would at least prevent any starving or asphyxiation of the body cells. Carefully, delicately, he brought his mind into his fingers, trying to woo a faint quiver. Perhaps he did, once, but he couldn’t be sure. It all depended on how quickly they could get the machine working now and how long a man could live by manipulation alone. That point was still unsettled.
But there was no question about the fact that the spark of life burned faintly and steadily lower in Jorgenson, while outside the man-made hell went on ticking off the minutes that separated it from becoming Mahler’s Isotope. Normally Doc was an agnostic, but now unconsciously his mind slipped back into the simple faith of his childhood, and he heard Brown echoing the prayer that was on his lips. The second hand of the watch before him swung around and around and around again before he heard the sound of men’s feet at the back entrance, and still there was no definite quiver from the heart under his fingers. How much time did he have left, if any, for the difficult and unfamiliar operation required?
His side glance showed the seemingly innumerable filaments of platinum that had to be connected into the nerves governing Jorgenson’s heart and lungs, all carefully coded, yet almost terrifying in their complexity. If he made a mistake anywhere it was at least certain there would be no time for a second trial; if his fingers shook or his tired eyes clouded at the wrong instant there would be no help from Jorgenson. Jorgenson would be dead!
Chapter 11
Take over massage, Brown,” he ordered, “and keep it up no matter what happens. Good. Dodd, assist me, and hang onto my signals. If it works we can all rest afterward.”
He turned toward the machine, his hasty glance showing that the technicians had already plugged it into the electrical outlets. He waved them aside brusquely and kicked on the supersonics and ultra-violet tubes. Keeping the operating theater properly aseptic had become impossible.
“Dr. Ferrel! Wait —”
It was one of the men who’d delivered the machine, but Doc had no time to waste on routine instructions. He swung back to Jorgenson, motioning irritably toward Jones. “Get those men out of the way. And prepare blood to replace Jorgenson’s once this is finished!”
Ferrel wondered grimly with that part of his mind that was off by itself whether he could justify his boast to Jenkins of having been the world’s greatest surgeon; it had been true once, he knew with no need for false modesty, but that was long ago and this was at best a devilish job. He’d hung on with a surge of the old fascination as Kubelik had performed it on a dog at the convention, and his memory for such details was still good, as were his hands. But something else goes into the making of a great surgeon and he wondered if that was still with him.
Then as his fingers made the microscopic little motions needed and Dodd became another pair of hands, he ceased wondering. Whatever it was, he could feel it surging through him and there was a pure joy to it somewhere, over and above the urgency of the work. This was probably the last time he’d ever feel it, and if the operation succeeded, probably it was a thing he could put with the few mental treasures that were still left from his former success. The man on the table ceased to be Jorgenson, the excessively gadgety Infirmary became again the main operating theater of that same Mayo’s which had produced Brown and this strange new machine, and his fingers were again those of the Great Ferrel, the miracle boy from Mayo’s’ who could do the impossible twice before breakfast without turning a hair.
Some of his feeling was devoted to the machine itself. Massive, ugly, with parts sticking out in haphazard order, it was more like something from an inquisition chamber than a scientist’s achievement, but it worked; he’d seen it functioning. In that ugly mass of assorted pieces little currents were generated and modulated to feed out to the heart and lungs and replace the orders given by a brain that no longer worked or could not get through, to coordinate breathing and beating according to the need. It was a product of the combined genius of surgery and electronics, but wonderful as the exciter was, it was distinctly secondary to the technique Kubelik had evolved for selecting and connecting only those nerves and nerve bundles necessary and bringing the almost impossible into the limits of surgical possibility.
Brown interrupted, and that interruption in the midst of such an operation indicated clearly the strain she was under. “The heart fluttered a little then, Dr. Ferrel.”
Ferrel nodded, untroubled by the interruption. Talk, which bothered most surgeons, was habitual in his own little staff and he always managed to have one part of his mind reserved for that while the rest went on without noticing. “Good. That gives us at least double the leeway I expected.”
His hands went on, first with the heart, which was the more pressing danger. Would the machine work, he wondered, in this case? Curare and radioactives, fighting each other, were an odd combination. Yet the machine controlled the nerves close to the vital organ, pounding its message through into the muscles, where the curare had a complicated action that paralyzed the whole nerve, establishing a long block to the control impulses from the brain. Could the nerve impulses from the machine be forced through the short paralyzed passage? Probably — the strength of its signals was controllable. The only proof was in trying.
Brown drew back her hands and stared down uncomprehendingly. “It’s beating, Dr. Ferrel! By itself…it’s beating!”
He nodded
again, though the mask concealed his smile. His technique was still not faulty and he had performed the operation correctly after seeing it once on a dog! He was still the Great Ferrel! Then, the ego in him fell back to normal, though the lift remained, and his exultation centered around the more important problem of Jorgenson’s living. And later when the lungs began moving of themselves as the nurse stopped working them, he was expecting it. The detail work remaining was soon over and he stepped back, dropping the mask from his face and pulling off his gloves.
“Congratulations, Dr. Ferrel!” The voice was guttural, strange. “A truly great operation — truly great. I almost stopped you but now I am glad I did not; it was a pleasure to observe you, sir.” Ferrel looked up in amazement at the bearded, smiling face of the man who had interrupted him before the operation, and abruptly he realized it was the face of Kubelik himself! He started to mutter words of explanation for not recognizing the surgeon. But Kubelik apparently expected no apology as his huge hand clasped around Doc’s.
“I, Kubelik, came, you see; I could not trust another with the machine, and fortunately I made the plane. Then when you had me shoved aside before I could offer my help, I knew there was no time for arguments. And you seemed so sure, so confident…I remained quietly on the sidelines, cursing myself. Now I shall return — since you have no need of me — the wiser for having watched you…. No, not a word; not a word from you, sir. Don’t destroy your miracle with words. The ‘copter awaits me, I go; but my admiration for you remains forever!”
Ferrel still stood looking down at his hand as the roar of the ‘copter cut in, then at the breathing body with the artery on the neck now pulsing regularly. That was all that was needed; he had been admired by Kubelik, the man who thought all other surgeons were fools and nincompoops. For a second or so longer he treasured it, then shrugged it off.
Nerves Page 12
