restraining vest, then she tied him to the table. His legs were restrained individually by the ankles, his left arm by the wrist.
"You'd think with all that juice in him he'd be out of it," she said. "Two drinks and I'm flat." She slanted Frank another look.
He ignored her.
"Where's dear Dr. Greensmith, that's what I'd like to know," she said. "Surely he couldn't have bedded down for his beauty sleep this early."
* * *
Dolph struggled against the ties but his muscles were stiffening, he was in a sea of warm wax that would harden around him. If he didn't keep his head above it he'd be sealed underneath like in a jar of his grandma's preserves. Already he could feel the waxy grayness creeping upward past his thighs, his chest. He opened his mouth to cry for help but he was too late and the wax poured in, gagging him. He tried to retch and then darkness swept over everything.
* * *
Crawford Greensmith brushed his hair back, staring intently into the mirror. Was he letting it get too long? One thing to be mod and another to be labeled a grasper at the coattails of youth. Not that he had passed yet, not at all. But it didn't do to appear desperate.
No noticeable gray, he thought with satisfaction. Gray could be flattering and distinguished in a dark-haired man but with blondes it dulled the natural shine. He smoothed his just-right mustache and turned away from the mirror.
He really should do something about getting a place in town. There was something distinctly déclassé about inviting a friend to quarters on the state hospital grounds. Of course it was cheap to live here—unfortunately in more ways than one. He sighed and picked up his raincoat.
No use to dwell on what might have been if he'd managed to be just a tad smarter five years ago. Who'd have dreamed a friend could be so vindictive?
Crawford let himself out into the wet evening and hurried to his car. He certainly didn't plan to walk over to the Ad Ward in this downpour. Why on earth people couldn't get to the hospital at a reasonable hour for admission was more than he could understand. This wasn't even an emergency admit and, to top it off, the patient had managed to slice himself up on the way here.
My luck to be MOD tonight, he thought.
He hated suturing. For that matter he didn't like medicine itself particularly well. His mother had thought only of the prestige. She'd never been forced to handle bodies with all their disgusting illnesses. He had to last one more year at this cesspool of insanity before he'd be free to move anywhere he wanted. It certainly wouldn't be anywhere within the state hospital system.
There were pleasanter ways to practice medicine. The big companies, for one. Goodyear, he'd heard, had hospitals in Europe —one could travel. The insurance conglomerates offered big bucks and lots of perks. He might even decide to teach—although that could be a bore.
Crawford parked and let himself into the Ad Ward where he found the new patient unconscious on the table in the treatment room.
"We had to give him a few milligrams of Thorazine to calm him down, Dr. Greensmith," Frank told him.
Crawford felt the radial pulse in the right wrist. "A tad fast. What's his blood pressure?"
"110 over 60 at the last reading," Alma said.
"Hmm. Well, he certainly won't need a local—we'll just stitch him up and get him to bed." Crawford opened the packet of sterile gloves.
"I irrigated the wounds," Alma said. "There didn't seem to be any embedded glass splinters."
"Good, good." Crawford fitted the needle into a holder and poked it through the flesh of the patient's palm. The man gave no sign of feeling anything.
"How's the girl on Ten East you called me about earlier?" Crawford asked Frank, continuing to sew up the injured hand. "Still running a fever?"
"Down to 101 on aspirin," Frank replied.
"If she doesn't develop any other symptoms, I think it can wait until morning."
Frank nodded.
Crawford finished and peeled off his
"You'd think with all that juice in him he'd be out of it," she said. "Two drinks and I'm flat." She slanted Frank another look.
He ignored her.
"Where's dear Dr. Greensmith, that's what I'd like to know," she said. "Surely he couldn't have bedded down for his beauty sleep this early."
* * *
Dolph struggled against the ties but his muscles were stiffening, he was in a sea of warm wax that would harden around him. If he didn't keep his head above it he'd be sealed underneath like in a jar of his grandma's preserves. Already he could feel the waxy grayness creeping upward past his thighs, his chest. He opened his mouth to cry for help but he was too late and the wax poured in, gagging him. He tried to retch and then darkness swept over everything.
* * *
Crawford Greensmith brushed his hair back, staring intently into the mirror. Was he letting it get too long? One thing to be mod and another to be labeled a grasper at the coattails of youth. Not that he had passed yet, not at all. But it didn't do to appear desperate.
No noticeable gray, he thought with satisfaction. Gray could be flattering and distinguished in a dark-haired man but with blondes it dulled the natural shine. He smoothed his just-right mustache and turned away from the mirror.
He really should do something about getting a place in town. There was something distinctly déclassé about inviting a friend to quarters on the state hospital grounds. Of course it was cheap to live here—unfortunately in more ways than one. He sighed and picked up his raincoat.
No use to dwell on what might have been if he'd managed to be just a tad smarter five years ago. Who'd have dreamed a friend could be so vindictive?
Crawford let himself out into the wet evening and hurried to his car. He certainly didn't plan to walk over to the Ad Ward in this downpour. Why on earth people couldn't get to the hospital at a reasonable hour for admission was more than he could understand. This wasn't even an emergency admit and, to top it off, the patient had managed to slice himself up on the way here.
My luck to be MOD tonight, he thought.
He hated suturing. For that matter he didn't like medicine itself particularly well. His mother had thought only of the prestige. She'd never been forced to handle bodies with all their disgusting illnesses. He had to last one more year at this cesspool of insanity before he'd be free to move anywhere he wanted. It certainly wouldn't be anywhere within the state hospital system.
There were pleasanter ways to practice medicine. The big companies, for one. Goodyear, he'd heard, had hospitals in Europe —one could travel. The insurance conglomerates offered big bucks and lots of perks. He might even decide to teach—although that could be a bore.
Crawford parked and let himself into the Ad Ward where he found the new patient unconscious on the table in the treatment room.
"We had to give him a few milligrams of Thorazine to calm him down, Dr. Greensmith," Frank told him.
Crawford felt the radial pulse in the right wrist. "A tad fast. What's his blood pressure?"
"110 over 60 at the last reading," Alma said.
"Hmm. Well, he certainly won't need a local—we'll just stitch him up and get him to bed." Crawford opened the packet of sterile gloves.
"I irrigated the wounds," Alma said. "There didn't seem to be any embedded glass splinters."
"Good, good." Crawford fitted the needle into a holder and poked it through the flesh of the patient's palm. The man gave no sign of feeling anything.
"How's the girl on Ten East you called me about earlier?" Crawford asked Frank, continuing to sew up the injured hand. "Still running a fever?"
"Down to 101 on aspirin," Frank replied.
"If she doesn't develop any other symptoms, I think it can wait until morning."
Frank nodded.
Crawford finished and peeled off his
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