the doctor said. "You have some infection there, that's pretty plain. I have my kit with me. I think I'd better give you a hypo of PN-43—"
"No," the big man said. He was gritting his teeth, his back tensed. "I know what it is. But I'd forgotten how it feels. . ."
As the doctor and the masseur watched, the contusion grew, flushing dusky purple now, a three-inch splotch against the tan skin. A patch of paleness grew at its center, spread to the size of a steel dollar.
"Hey, doctor—" George said, and broke off as the swelling burst, the skin splitting to ooze dark blood and clear matter, exposing a grayish lump. The doctor uttered an exclamation, scuttled across to an open locker, jerked out a green-plastic instrument case, opened it on a bench, hurried back. With a shallow, spoon-shaped probe, he levered at the wound, lifted out a slightly misshapen lump of lead as big as the end of his thumb. The big man sighed harshly and relaxed.
"How long ago did you say it was you were shot?" the doctor asked in a strained voice, eyeing the big slug lying on his palm.
"Quite a while."
"I should say so." The old man barked a short laugh. "If it weren't so ridiculous, I'd swear that was a genuine minié ball."
"Minié ball? What that?" George asked; his eyes rolled like a horse smelling smoke.
"That's what they used in the Civil War," the doctor said.
The scarred man smiled slightly. "I need food," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "Is there a restaurant nearby that you can recommend, George?"
"Happen I got a nice slab of sirloin in my cooler right this minute," the big black man said. "And eggs, too. About half a dozen sound right?"
The scarred man took the fold of bills from his pocket and shucked off a fifty, laid it on the rubbing table.
"Rare. And over lightly."
"Say," the doctor said. "Funny thing. The scars on your face: they look different."
The scarred man turned to the full-length wall mirror. He went close, studying his features. The furrow across his cheeks that had pulled his mouth into a perpetual faint grin had faded to a shallow, pinkish line. The broad band of lumped scar tissue across his forehead was now no more than a faint discontinuity in the smooth tan of his skin.
"Never saw anything like it," the old man said in a tone of wonderment. "Those scars are fading right out. Just disappearing . . ." His hand moved, caught itself. "You'll pardon my curiosity," he said, edging around for a better view. "But as a man of science—"
"They weren't as bad as they looked," the formerly scarred man said shortly, turning away.
"Look here, my friend, I'm Dr. Henry Cripps. Hank, to my friends. Now, I've had some experience with contusions and the like during over forty years of practice. I know a third-degree scar when I see one. A thing like that doesn't just disappear in the space of a quarter of an hour—"
"Doctor, I'm not in need of medical attention, thank you anyway," the big man said. The oldster clamped his jaw, retired to the far side of the room, from where he stared at the object of his professional curiosity. An odor of cookery wafted into the room through the open doorway to a back room. The big man paced up and down, flexing his arms.
"Itches, doesn't it?" Cripps spoke up.
"A little."
"Damnedest thing I ever saw."
Five minutes of silence ensued. George appeared at the door.
"On the table," he said. The big man followed him back to the small, neatly arranged living quarters. He seated himself and attacked the thirty-two-ounce steak. George put a big glass of milk in front of him. He drained it, asked for a refill. He ate the eggs, mopped the juices from the plate with a scrap of toast. George brought in a foot-wide pie, lifted a quarter of it onto a plate, put a half-pint mug of coffee beside it.
"Can't get that kind in the store," he said. "I got a lady friend brings them around." He watched as his guest finished off the dessert, drained the cup.
"Better hang on
"No," the big man said. He was gritting his teeth, his back tensed. "I know what it is. But I'd forgotten how it feels. . ."
As the doctor and the masseur watched, the contusion grew, flushing dusky purple now, a three-inch splotch against the tan skin. A patch of paleness grew at its center, spread to the size of a steel dollar.
"Hey, doctor—" George said, and broke off as the swelling burst, the skin splitting to ooze dark blood and clear matter, exposing a grayish lump. The doctor uttered an exclamation, scuttled across to an open locker, jerked out a green-plastic instrument case, opened it on a bench, hurried back. With a shallow, spoon-shaped probe, he levered at the wound, lifted out a slightly misshapen lump of lead as big as the end of his thumb. The big man sighed harshly and relaxed.
"How long ago did you say it was you were shot?" the doctor asked in a strained voice, eyeing the big slug lying on his palm.
"Quite a while."
"I should say so." The old man barked a short laugh. "If it weren't so ridiculous, I'd swear that was a genuine minié ball."
"Minié ball? What that?" George asked; his eyes rolled like a horse smelling smoke.
"That's what they used in the Civil War," the doctor said.
The scarred man smiled slightly. "I need food," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "Is there a restaurant nearby that you can recommend, George?"
"Happen I got a nice slab of sirloin in my cooler right this minute," the big black man said. "And eggs, too. About half a dozen sound right?"
The scarred man took the fold of bills from his pocket and shucked off a fifty, laid it on the rubbing table.
"Rare. And over lightly."
"Say," the doctor said. "Funny thing. The scars on your face: they look different."
The scarred man turned to the full-length wall mirror. He went close, studying his features. The furrow across his cheeks that had pulled his mouth into a perpetual faint grin had faded to a shallow, pinkish line. The broad band of lumped scar tissue across his forehead was now no more than a faint discontinuity in the smooth tan of his skin.
"Never saw anything like it," the old man said in a tone of wonderment. "Those scars are fading right out. Just disappearing . . ." His hand moved, caught itself. "You'll pardon my curiosity," he said, edging around for a better view. "But as a man of science—"
"They weren't as bad as they looked," the formerly scarred man said shortly, turning away.
"Look here, my friend, I'm Dr. Henry Cripps. Hank, to my friends. Now, I've had some experience with contusions and the like during over forty years of practice. I know a third-degree scar when I see one. A thing like that doesn't just disappear in the space of a quarter of an hour—"
"Doctor, I'm not in need of medical attention, thank you anyway," the big man said. The oldster clamped his jaw, retired to the far side of the room, from where he stared at the object of his professional curiosity. An odor of cookery wafted into the room through the open doorway to a back room. The big man paced up and down, flexing his arms.
"Itches, doesn't it?" Cripps spoke up.
"A little."
"Damnedest thing I ever saw."
Five minutes of silence ensued. George appeared at the door.
"On the table," he said. The big man followed him back to the small, neatly arranged living quarters. He seated himself and attacked the thirty-two-ounce steak. George put a big glass of milk in front of him. He drained it, asked for a refill. He ate the eggs, mopped the juices from the plate with a scrap of toast. George brought in a foot-wide pie, lifted a quarter of it onto a plate, put a half-pint mug of coffee beside it.
"Can't get that kind in the store," he said. "I got a lady friend brings them around." He watched as his guest finished off the dessert, drained the cup.
"Better hang on
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