Two dollars, he thought. Give her some mumbo jumbo, take the money and tell her to go to a clinic. Strep, I guess, from that stinking alley. It's a wonder any of them grow up. He put down the little black bag and forgetfully fumbled for his key, then remembered and touched the lock. It flew open, and he selected a bandage shears, with a blunt wafer for the lower jaw. He fitted the lower jaw under the bandage, tying not to hurt the kid by its pressure on the infection, and began to cut. It was amazing how easily and swiftly the shining shears snipped through the crusty rag around the wound. He hardly seemed to be driv- In8 the shears with fingers at all. It almost seemed as though the shears were driving his fingers instead as they scissored a clean, light line through the bandage.
Certainly have forged ahead since my time, he thought—sharper than a microtome knife. He replaced the shears in their loop on the extraordinary big board that the little black bag turned into when it unfolded, and leaned over the wound. He whistled at the ugly gash, and the violent infection which had taken immediate root in the sickly child's thin body, Now what can you do with a thing like that? He pawed over the contents of the little black bag, nervously. If he lanced it and let some of the pus out, the old woman would think he'd done something for her and he'd get the two dollars. But at the clinic they'd want to know who did it and if they got sore enough they might send a cop around. Maybe there was something in the kit—
He ran down the left edge of the card to 'lymphatic' and read across to the column under 'infection.' It didn't sound right at all to him; he checked again, but it still said that. In the square to which the line and column led were the symbols: 'IV-g-3cc.' He couldn't find any bottles marked with Roman numerals, and then noticed that that was how the hypodermic needles were designated. He lifted number IV from its loop, noting that it was fitted with a needle already and even seemed to be charged.
What a way to carry those things around! So—three cc. of whatever was in hypo number IV ought to do something or other about infections settled in the lymphatic system—which, God knows, this one was. What did the lower-case 'g' mean, though? He studied the glass hypo and saw letters engraved on what looked like a rotating disk at the top of the barrel. They ran from 'a' to 'i,' and there was an index line engraved on the barrel on the opposite side from the calibrations.
Shrugging, old Dr. Full turned the disk until 'g' coincided with the index line, and lifted the hypo to eye level. As he pressed in the plunger he did not see the tiny thread of fluid squirt from the tip of the needle. There was a sort of dark mist for a moment about the tip. A closer inspection showed that the needle was not even pierced at the tip. It had the usual slanting cut across the bias of the shaft, but the cut did not expose an oval hole. Baffled, he tried pressing the plunger again. Again something appeared around the tip and vanished. 'We'll settle this,' said the doctor. He slipped the needle into the skin of his forearm. He thought at first that he had missed—that the point had glided over the top of his skin instead of catching and slipping under it. But he saw a tiny blood-spot and realized that somehow he just hadn't felt the puncture. Whatever was in the barrel, he decided, couldn't, do him any harm if it lived up to its billing—
and if it could come out through a needle that had no hole. He gave himself three cc.
and twitched the needle out. There was the swelling—painless, but otherwise typical.
Dr. Full decided it was his eyes or something, and gave three cc. of 'g' from hypodermic IV to the feverish child. There was no interruption to her wailing as the needle went in and the swelling rose. But long instant later, she gave a final gasp and was silent.
Well, he told himself, cold with horror, you did it that time. You lulled her with that stuff.
Then the child sat up and said: 'Where's my mommy?'
Incredulously, the doctor seized her arm and palpated the elbow. The eland infection was zero, and the temperature seemed normal. The blood-congested tissues surrounding the wound were subsiding as he watched. The child's pulse was stronger and no faster than a child's should be. In the sudden silence of the room he could hear the little girl's mother sobbing in her kitchen, outside. And he also heard a girl's insinuating voice:
'She gonna be OK, doc?'
He turned and saw a gaunt-faced, dirty-blond sloven of perhaps eighteen leaning in the doorway and eying him with amused contempt. She continued: 'I heard about you, Doc-tor Full. So don't go try and put the bite on the old lady. You couldn't doctor up a sick cat.'
'Indeed?' he rumbled. This young person was going to get a lesson she richly deserved. 'Perhaps you would care to look at my patient?'
'Where's my mommy?' insisted the little girl, and the blond's jaw fell. She went to the bed and cautiously asked: 'You OK now, Teresa? You all fixed up?'
'Where's my mommy?' demanded Teresa. Then, accusingly, she gestured with her wounded hand at the doctor. 'You poke me!' she complained, and giggled pointlessly.
'Well—' said the blond girl, 'I guess I got to hand it to you, doc. These loud-mouth women around here said you didn't know your... I mean, didn't know how to cure people. They said you ain't a real doctor.'
'I have retired from practice,' he said. 'But I happened to be taking this case to a colleague as a favor, your good mother noticed me, and—' a deprecating smile. He touched the lock of the case and it folded up into the little black bag again.
'You stole it,' the girl said flatly.
He sputtered.
'Nobody'd trust you with a thing like that. It must be worth plenty. You stole that case. I was going to stop you when I come in and saw you working over Teresa, but it looked like you wasn't doing her any harm. But when you give me that line about taking that case to a colleague I know you stole it. You gimme a cut or I go to the cops. A bag like that must be worth twenty-thirty dollars.'
Hie mother came timidly in, her eyes red. But she let out a whoop of joy when she saw the little girl sitting up and babbling to herself, embraced her madly, fell on her knees for a quick prayer, hopped up to kiss the doctor's hand, and then dragged him into the kitchen, all the while rattling in her native language while the blond girl let her eyes go cold with disgust. Dr. Full allowed himself to be towed into the kitchen, but flatly declined a cup of coffee and a plate of anise cakes and St.John's-bread.
'Try him on some wine, ma,' said the girl sardonically.
'Hyass! Hyass!' breathed the woman delightedly. 'You like-a wine docta?' She had a carafe of purplish liquid before him in an instant, and the blond girl snickered as the doctor's hand twitched out at it. He drew his hand back, while there grew in his head the old image of how it would smell and then taste and then warm his stomach and limbs. He made the kind of calculation at which he was practiced; the delighted woman would not notice as he downed two tumblers, and he could overawe her through two tumblers more with his tale of Teresa's narrow brush with the Destroying Angel, and then—why, then it would not matter. He would be drunk.
But for the first time in years, there was a sort of counter-image: a blend of the rage he felt at the blond girl to whom he was so transparent, and of pride at the cure he had just effected. Much to his own surprise, he drew back his hand from the carafe and said, luxuriating in the words: 'No, thank you. I don't believe I'd care for any so early in the day.' He covertly watched the blond girl's face, and was gratified at her surprise. Then the mother was shyly handing him two bills and saying: 'Is no much-a-money, docta—but you come again, see Teresa?'
'I shall be glad to follow the case through,' he said. 'But now excuse me—I really must be running along.' He grasped the little black bag firmly and got up; he wanted very much to get away from the wine and the older girl.
'Wait up, doc,' said she, 'I'm going your way.' She followed him out and down the street. He ignored her until he felt her hand on the black bag. Then old Dr. Full stopped and tried to reason with her:
'Look, my dear. Perhaps you're right. I might have stolen it. To be perfectly frank, I don't remember how I got it. But you're young and you can earn your own money—'
'Fifty-fifty,' she said, 'or I go to the cops. And if I get another word outta you, it's sixty-forty. And you know who gets the short end, don't you doc?'
Defeated, he marched to the pawnshop, her impudent hand still on the handle with his, and her heels beating out a tattoo against his stately tread.
In the pawnshop, they both got a shock.
'It ain't standard,' said Uncle, unimpressed by the ingenious lock.
'I ain't nevva seen one like it. Some cheap Jap stuff, maybe? Try down the street.
This I nevva could sell.'
Pown the street they got an offer of one dollar. The same complaint was made: 'I ain't a collecta, mista—I buy stuff that got resale value. Who could I sell this to, a Chinaman who don't know medical instruments? Every one
