bottle- washer. It was a social waste—but as has been mentioned before, the supernormals were still standing at the approaches to a bridge.
Their irresolution led to many such preposterous situations. And it happens that
'Mike,' having grown frantically bored with his task, was malevolent enough to—but let Dr. Gillis tell it:
'So he gives me these here tube numbers and says, 'Series circuit. Now stop bothering me. Build your time machine, sit down at it and turn on the switch. That's all I ask, Dr. Gillis—that's all I ask.' '
'Say,' marveled a brittle and lovely blond guest, 'you remember real good, don't you, doc?' She gave him a melting smile.
'Heck,' said Gillis modestly, 'I always remember good. It's what you call an inherent facility. And besides I told it quick to my secretary, so she wrote it down. I don't read so good, but I sure remember good, all right. Now, where was I?'
Everybody thought hard, and there were various suggestions:
'Something about bottles, doc?'
'You was starting a fight. You said 'time somebody was traveling.' '
'Yeah—you called somebody a swish. Who did you call a swish?'
'Not swish—switch!'
Dr. Gillis' noble brow grooved with thought, and he declared: 'Switch is right. It was about time travel. What we call travel through time. So I took the tube numbers he gave me and I put them into the circuit-builder; I set it for 'series' and there it is—
my time-traveling machine. It travels things through time real good.' He displayed a box.
'What's in the box?' asked the lovely blonde.
Dr. Hemingway told her: 'Time travel. It travels things through time.'
'Look,' said Gillis, the physicist. He took Dr. Hemingway's little black bag and put it on the box. He turned on the switch and the litd? black bag vanished.
'Say,' said Dr. Hemingway, 'that was, uh, swell. Now bring it back.'
'Huh?'
'Bring back my little black bag.''
'Well,' said Dr. Gillis, 'they don't come back. I tried it backward and they don't come back. I guess maybe that dummy Mike give me a bum steer.'
There was wholesale condemnation of 'Mike' but Dr. Hemingway took no part in it. He was nagged by a vague feeling that there was something he would have to do.
He reasoned: 'I am a doctor, and a doctor has got to have a little black bag. I ain't got a little black bag—so ain't I a doctor no more?' He decided that this was absurd. He knew he was a doctor. So it must be the bag's fault for not being there. It was no good, and he would get another one tomorrow from that dummy Al, at the clinic. Al could find things good, but he was a dummy— never liked to talk sociable to you.
So the next day Dr. Hemingway remembered to get another little black bag from his keeper—another little black bag with which he could perform tonsillectomies, appendectomies and the most difficult confinements, and with which he could diagnose and cure his kind until the day when the supernormals could bring themselves to cross that bridge. Al was kinda nasty about the missing little black bag, but Dr. Hemingway didn't exactly remember what had happened, so no tracer was sent out, so—
Old Dr. Full awoke from the horrors of the night to the horrors of the day. His gummy eyelashes pulled apart convulsively. He was propped against a corner of his room, and something was making a little drumming noise. He felt very cold and cramped. As his eyes focused on his lower body, he croaked out a laugh. The drumming noise was being made by his left heel, agitated by fine tremors against the bare floor. It was going to be the D.T.'s again, he decided dispassionately. He wiped his mouth with his bloody knuckles, and the fine tremor coarsened; the snaredrum beat became louder and slower. He was getting a break this fine morning, he decided sardonically. You didn't get the horrors until you had been tightened like a violin string, just to the breaking point. He had a reprieve, if a reprieve into his old body with the blazing, endless headache just back of the eyes and the screaming stiffness in the joints were anything to be thankful for.
There was something or other about a kid, he thought vaguely. He was going to doctor some kid. His eyes rested on a little black bag in the center of the room, and he forgot about the kid. 'I could have sworn,' said Dr. Full, 'I hocked that two years ago!' He hitched over . reached the bag, and then realized it was some stranger's kit, arriv- In8 here he did not know how. He tentatively touched the lock and it napped open and lay flat, rows and rows of instruments and medica- 10ns tucked into loops in its four walls. It seemed vastly larger open than closed. He didn't see how it could possibly fold up into that compact size again, but decided it was some stunt of the instrument makers. Since his time—that made it worth more at the hock shop, he thought with satisfaction.
Just for old times' sake, he let his eyes and fingers rove over the instruments before he snapped the bag shut and headed for Uncle's. More than a few were a little hard to recognize—exactly that is. You could see the things with blades for cutting, the forceps for holding and pulling, the retractors for holding fast, the needles and gut for suturing, the hypos—a fleeting thought crossed his mind that he could peddle the hypos separately to drug addicts.
Let's go, he decided, and tried to fold up the case. It didn't fold until he happened to touch the lock, and then it folded all at once into a little black bag. Sure have forged ahead, he thought, almost able to forget that what he was primarily interested in was its pawn value.
With a definite objective, it was not too hard for him to get to his feet. He decided to go down the front steps, out the front door and down the sidewalk. But first—
He snapped the bag open again on his kitchen table, and pored through the medication tubes. 'Anything to sock the autonomic nervous system good and hard,'
he mumbled. The tubes were numbered, and there was a plastic card which seemed to list them. The left margin of the card was a run-down of the systems—vascular, muscular, nervous. He followed the last entry across to the right. There were columns for 'stimulant,' 'depressant,' and so on. Under 'nervous system' and 'depressant' he found the number 17, and shakily located the little glass tube which bore it. It was full of pretty blue pills and he took one.
It was like being struck by a thunderbolt.
Dr. Full had so long lacked any sense of well-being except the brief glow of alcohol that he had forgotten its very nature. He was panic- stricken for a long moment at the sensation that spread through him slowly, finally tingling in his fingertips. He straightened up, his pains gone and his leg tremor stilled.
That was great, he thought. He'd be able to run to the hock shop, pawn the little black bag and get some booze. He started down the stairs. Not even the street, bright with mid-morning sun, into which he emerged made him quail. The little black bag in his left hand had a satisfying, authoritative weight. He was walking erect, he noted, and not in the somewhat furtive crouch that had grown on him in recent years. A little self-respect, he told himself, that's what I need. Just because a man's down doesn't mean—
'Docta, please-a come wit'!' somebody yelled at him, tugging his arm. 'Da litt-la girl, she's-a burn' up!' It was one of the slum's innumerable flat-faced, stringy-haired women, in a slovenly wrapper.
'Ah, I happen to be retired from practice—' he began hoarsely, but she would not be put off.
'In by here, Docta!' she urged, tugging him to a doorway. 'You come look-a da litt-la girl. I got two dolla, you come look!' That put a different complexion on the matter. He allowed himself to be towed through the doorway into a mussy, cabbage-smelling flat. He knew the woman now, or rather knew who she must be—a new arrival who had moved in the other night. These people moved at night, in motorcades of battered cars supplied by friends and relations, with furniture lashed to the tops, swearing and drinking until the small hours. It explained why she had stopped him: she did not yet know he was old Dr. Full, a drunken reprobate whom nobody would trust. The little black bag had been his guarantee, outweighing his whiskey face and stained black suit.
He was looking down on a three-year-old girl who had, he rather suspected, just been placed in the mathematical center of a freshly changed double bed. God knew what sour and dirty mattress she usually slept on. He seemed to recognize her as he noted a crusted bandage on her right hand. Two dollars, he thought. An ugly flush had spread up her pipe-stem arm. He poked a finger into the socket of her elbow, and felt little spheres like marbles under the skin and ligaments roll apart. The child began to squall thinly; beside him, the woman gasped and began to weep herself.
'Out,' he gestured briskly at her, and she thudded away, still sobbing.
