Nerves

Chapter 4

The whistle indicating the end of a shift had sounded as Ferrel finished his hasty supper and headed back toward his office. The cafeteria was filling with the usual five-o’clock rush, but now there was a further bustle as those who would be on the graveyard shift headed for it. It wasn’t hard now to spot the family men; they were busy with discussions of the amount of overtime they’d draw, while the bachelors were the ones grumbling and swearing at broken dates and ruined plans. If there was any tension left from the day it didn’t show, but that was no proof it wasn’t there.

He let himself in through the side door. Blake was sitting on a corner of his desk checking through the few memos of the day.

Blake shook his head solemnly, making clucking noises with his tongue. “You’re getting old, Doc. Taking a coffee break at this time. And you’ve forgotten that memo for disinfection of the showers. They’re going to need new blood at the top here if this keeps up.” Then he stood up, grinning. “Come on, we’ve still got that celebration to take care of.”

“I’m sorry, Blake. Not a chance now.” He’d forgotten their tenth anniversary completely, but it was too late to back out on his agreement with Palmer now. “The plant’s on overtime, and I’ve been elected to the graveyard shift. Some rush order for Three and Four.”

Blake frowned. “Why can’t Jenkins swing it alone? Anne’s been counting on you and Emma.”

“This happens to be my job. As a matter of fact, though, Jenkins will be staying on with me.”

Blake sighed and gave up. “Anne’s gonna be disappointed, but she ought to know how it goes. If you get off early, you and Emma drop out and say hello, even if it’s after midnight. Well, take it easy.”

“‘Night.” Ferrel watched him leave and smiled affectionately. Some day Dick would be out of medical school, and Blake would make a good man for him to start under and begin the same old grind upward. First, like young Jenkins, Dick would be filled with his mission to humanity, tense and uncertain, but somehow things would roll along through Blake’s stage and up, probably to Doc’s own level where the same old problems were solved in the same old way, and life settled down into a comfortable routine with only an occasional bad day, like this one.

There were worse lives, certainly, even though it wasn’t like the mass of murders, kidnapings and applied miracles in the movie he’d seen recently on television, where chrome-plated converters covered with pretty neon tubes were mysteriously blowing up every second day and men were brought in with blue flames all over them, cured instantly — to dash out and quench the flame barehanded.

For a moment he wondered whether such films helped create the average man’s fear of atomics or simply mirrored it. Probably a little of both he decided as he dropped into his chair.

Then he heard Jenkins out in the surgery, puttering around with quick, nervous little sounds. Never do to let the boy find him loafing back here when the possible fate of the world so obviously hung on his alertness. Young doctors had to be disillusioned slowly or they became bitter and their work suffered. Yet in spite of his amusement at Jenkins’ nervousness, he couldn’t help envying the thinfaced young man’s erect shoulders and flat stomach. Blake might be right; maybe he was growing old.

Jenkins straightened a wrinkle on his white jacket fussily and looked up. “I’ve been getting the surgery ready for instant use, Dr. Ferrel. Do you think it’s safe to keep only Miss Dodd and one male attendant here? Shouldn’t we have more than the legally required minimum staff?”

“Dodd’s a one-woman staff,” Ferrel said. “Expecting more accidents tonight?”

“No, sir, not exactly. But do you know what they’re running off?”

“No.” Farrel hadn’t asked Palmer; he’d learned long ago that he couldn’t keep up with the atomic engineering developments, and had stopped trying. “Something new for the army?”

“Worse than that, sir. They’re making their first commercial run of Natomic Isotope 713 in both Number Three and Four converters at once.”

“So? Seems to me I did hear something about that. Had to do with killing off the boll weevils, didn’t it?” Ferrel was vaguely familiar with the process of sowing radioactive dust in a circle outside the weevil area to isolate the pest, then gradually moving inward from the border. Used with proper precautions it had slowly killed off the weevil and driven it back into half the territory once occupied.

Jenkins managed to look disappointed, surprised and slightly superior. “There was an article on it in the Natomic Weekly Ray of last issue, Dr. Ferrel. You probably know that the trouble with Natomic Isotope 544, which they’ve been using, was its half-life of over four months. It made the land sowed useless for planting the next year, so they had to move slowly. Isotope-713 has a half-life of less than a week and reaches safe limits in about four months, so they’ll be able to isolate whole strips of hundreds of miles during the winter and still have the land usable by spring. Field tests with pilot runs have been highly successful and we’ve just got a huge order from a state that wants immediate delivery.”

“After the legislature waited six months debating whether to use it or not,” Ferrel hazarded out of long experience. “Ummm, sounds good if they can sow enough earthworms after them to keep the ground in good condition. But what’s the worry?”

Jenkins shook his head indignantly. “I’m not worried. I simply think we should take every possible precaution and be ready for any accident; after all, they’re working on something new, and a half-life of a week is rather strong, don’t you think? Besides, I looked over some of the reaction charts in the article and — What was that?”

From somewhere to the left of the Infirmary, a muffled growl was being accompanied by ground tremors; then it gave way to a steady hissing, barely audible through the insulated walls of the building. Ferrel listened a moment and shrugged.

“Nothing to worry about, Jenkins; you’ll hear it a dozen times a year. Ever since I joined the staff here, Hokusai’s been bugs about getting an atomic fuel that can be used in rockets. He isn’t satisfied with the progress they’ve made on the space station — wants to see real payloads carried up. Some day you’ll probably see the little guy brought in here minus his head but so far he hasn’t found anything with the right kick that he can control. What about the reaction charts on I-713?”

“Nothing definite, I guess.” Jenkins turned reluctantly away from the sound, still frowning. “I know it worked in small lots but there’s something about one of the intermediate steps I distrust, sir. I thought I recognized… I tried to speak to Jorgenson and you can guess what happened. He wouldn’t discuss it.”

Seeing the boy’s face whiten over tensed jaw muscles. Ferrel held back his smile and nodded slowly. If that was what had led to Jorgenson’s outburst it was understandable enough. But the whole picture didn’t make sense. Jenkins’ pride would have been wounded, but hardly as much as seemed to be the case. There was something funny behind it and some day Ferrel would have to find what it was; little things like that could ruin a man’s steadiness with the instruments if he kept them to himself. Meantime the subject was best dropped.

The telephone girl’s heavily syllabalized voice cut into his thoughts from the paging speaker. “Dr. Ferrel! Dr. Ferrel wanted on the telephone. Dr. Ferrel, please!”

Jenkins’ face went completely white. His eyes darted to his superior. Doc grunted. “Probably Palmer’s bored and wants to tell me how he made out with the union. Or about his grandson. He thinks the child’s a genius because he knows a couple of words now.”

But inside the office he stopped to wipe his hands free of perspiration before answering. There was something contagious about Jenkins’ suppressed fears. And Palmer’s face on the phone’s little viewer was all wrong. He was wearing a set smile like a mask. Ferrel suspected that there was someone else in the office out of sight of the pickup.

“Hi, Ferrel.” Palmer’s voice also had a false heartiness to it, and the use of the last name was a clear sign of some trouble. “There has been a little accident on one converter, they tell me. They’re bringing a few men over to the Infirmary for treatment — probably not right away, though. Has Blake gone yet?”

“He’s been gone half an hour or more. Think it’s serious enough to call him back, or are Jenkins and myself enough?”

“Jenkins? Oh, the new doctor.” Palmer hesitated, and his arms showed quite clearly the doodling operations of his hands, out of sight of the pickup. “No, of course there’s no need to call Blake back, I suppose — not yet, anyway. It would only worry anyone who saw him returning. You can probably handle everything.”

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

“Mostly radiation, I think — maybe some accident stuff, too. Someone got careless again. You know what that means; you’ve seen what happens when one of the highpressure lines breaks.”

Doc had been through that, if that was what it was. “Sure, we can handle that, Palmer. But I thought you weren’t going to use Number One until it had been overhauled completely. And how come they haven’t installed the pressure reliefs? I thought all that was done six months ago.”

“I didn’t say it was Number One or that a line broke. I was just comparing it to something familiar. We have to use new equipment for the new products.” Palmer looked up at someone else, confirming Doc’s idea, and his upper arms made a slight movement before he looked down at the pickup again. “I can’t go into it now, Doc; the accident’s throwing us off schedule already — 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 Three and Four alone were operating, and they were supposed to be fool-proof. Just what had happened?

As he came out Jenkins jerked up from a bench, face muscles tense and eyes filled with a sure 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 was necessary. Palmer had said nothing about 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 Three and Four! 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 those two should be enough with Jones, they’re better than a flock of the other nurses, 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 Three and Four?”

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

“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. Best you forget Issotope R. Very sorry, Dr. Ferrel, I must now see accident. Thank you for call. Good-by.” The screen was blank again, along with Ferrel’s mind.

Jenkins was standing at 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, de-aïerated water. He added the ingredients for checking plutonic anemia and liver degeneration 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. As Jenkins came in, Doc rinsed off, 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 that Ferrel was slipping into his surgeon’s whites, which 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. His helper, 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 surgery, then looked around questioningly. “What about the supersonics?”

Ferrel kicked them on, shuddering as a bone-shaking subharmonic hum indicated their activity. Technicians had supposedly debugged the supersonics twice, but the hum was still there. He couldn’t complain about the amount of equipment, though. Ever since the last major accident, when the state congress developed ideas, there’d been enough gadgets 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 from their generator reminded him of something that had been tickling around in the back of his mind for some minutes.

“There was no emergency whistle, Jenkins. Hardly seems to me they’d neglect that if it was so important.”

Jenkins grunted skeptically and eloquently. “With everyone trying to get Congress to chase all the atom plants out into the middle of the Mojave desert, Palmer would be a fool to advertise the fact that there was another accident.”

“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 vein, now held in place by 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 torn 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 and 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 first 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 man on the table, 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 an antibiotic 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 samples, I’d guess it as a plain industrial accident, instead of anything connected with radiation.”

“You’ll get that, too, Doc.” It was the first man, 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. 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 toward 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, those 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. “I’m going to call Blake. We’ll probably need him.”