to that lady friend, George," the big man said. He rose. "Thanks. I needed that."
"I reckon," George agreed. "Too bad Lucy-Ann not here to see you tuck it in. Do her heart good to see a man eat."
"By God," Dr. Cripps said. "Will you look at that, George? You can scarcely see where the scars were. They're remitting completely."
George shook his head, accepting the evidence of his eyes philosophically.
"Nothing like a good feed to set a man up," he commented.
"Look here," Cripps said as the object of the discussion headed from the room. "Would you mind just letting me have a look at your back?"
"I'm sorry; I'm in a hurry."
"But damn it, this is medical history in the making—if you'd let me observe it! I have a camera in my apartment, a few blocks from here; I should photograph this, document it—"
"Sorry." The big man picked up his coat.
"At least let me examine the wound I dressed. You owe me that much."
"All right." The big man stripped off his shirt. The doctor's eyes goggled at the sight of the wide, unmarked back. He put out a hand, touched the smooth skin. There was no trace of any injury anywhere in the patient's skin.
"Sir," he said in a choked voice, "you must come along with me to St. John's Hospital. You must allow this to be studied by competent authorities—"
The big man shook his head. "Out of the question." He donned his shirt, tied his tie, pulled on his coat. He put another fifty-dollar bill on the table.
"Thanks, to both of you," he said. "I hope that will cover your fee, doctor."
"Never mind my fee—"
"It's late," the big man said gently. "Maybe you were imagining things."
"George, you saw it too," Cripps exclaimed, turning to the Negro.
"Doctor, seem like sometimes I got a powerful bad memory." George smiled dreamily, looking at the bill.
They watched in silence as the big man went up the steps.
"Where can I reach you?" Cripps called as he put a hand on the door. "I'll want to follow up on treatment, of course!"
The big man paused, turned his head slowly, as if listening for a distant sound. He pointed in a direction at an angle to the door.
"I'm going that way," he said. "I don't know how far." The shrill of the wind as he pushed open the door drowned the doctor's reply.
2
Four guards carrying choke guns and sidearmed with holstered 4-mm impact pistols escorted Grayle along the wide, brilliantly lit subterranean corridor, two in advance, two behind him. In the liftcar, they posted themselves in the four corners and sealed their helmet visors before closing the door. In silence, they dropped the hundred and fifty feet to the staging room that was the sole exit route from the prison proper. As they emerged from the shaft, Ted was waiting. He stepped forward hesitantly.
"Hey, Mr. Grayle," he said in strained greeting.
"Hello, Ted," Grayle said.
"Uh—you O.K. now?" Ted said, and blushed.
"Sure. Thanks for everything, Ted."
"Geez, Mr. Grayle . . ." Ted swallowed and turned away quickly.
"So long, Ted," Grayle said.
In the processing unit, Grayle moved stolidly through the chemical and radiation scanners, submitted to the cold caress of the medical unit, the icy touch of the hyposprays. His fingerprints and retinal and dental patterns were read and compared. A husky lieutenant flicked keys on the ID panel and recorded the response which certified the identity of prisoner 7654-K-3YN-003. He opened a steel drawer, withdrew a pair of inch-wide metal-link wrist irons linked by a ten-inch rod. He weighed them on his palm, looking at Grayle.
"I don't want any trouble out of you now, boy," he said. His voice was a casual drawl, but his eyes were sharp on Grayle's. He advanced briskly, snapped a steel ring in place on the prisoner's right wrist, reached for the left. He gripped it, then suddenly twisted Grayle's arm behind him, brought it to within an inch of the waiting cuff, then stopped. His face darkened; veins stood out on his forehead, but the
"I reckon," George agreed. "Too bad Lucy-Ann not here to see you tuck it in. Do her heart good to see a man eat."
"By God," Dr. Cripps said. "Will you look at that, George? You can scarcely see where the scars were. They're remitting completely."
George shook his head, accepting the evidence of his eyes philosophically.
"Nothing like a good feed to set a man up," he commented.
"Look here," Cripps said as the object of the discussion headed from the room. "Would you mind just letting me have a look at your back?"
"I'm sorry; I'm in a hurry."
"But damn it, this is medical history in the making—if you'd let me observe it! I have a camera in my apartment, a few blocks from here; I should photograph this, document it—"
"Sorry." The big man picked up his coat.
"At least let me examine the wound I dressed. You owe me that much."
"All right." The big man stripped off his shirt. The doctor's eyes goggled at the sight of the wide, unmarked back. He put out a hand, touched the smooth skin. There was no trace of any injury anywhere in the patient's skin.
"Sir," he said in a choked voice, "you must come along with me to St. John's Hospital. You must allow this to be studied by competent authorities—"
The big man shook his head. "Out of the question." He donned his shirt, tied his tie, pulled on his coat. He put another fifty-dollar bill on the table.
"Thanks, to both of you," he said. "I hope that will cover your fee, doctor."
"Never mind my fee—"
"It's late," the big man said gently. "Maybe you were imagining things."
"George, you saw it too," Cripps exclaimed, turning to the Negro.
"Doctor, seem like sometimes I got a powerful bad memory." George smiled dreamily, looking at the bill.
They watched in silence as the big man went up the steps.
"Where can I reach you?" Cripps called as he put a hand on the door. "I'll want to follow up on treatment, of course!"
The big man paused, turned his head slowly, as if listening for a distant sound. He pointed in a direction at an angle to the door.
"I'm going that way," he said. "I don't know how far." The shrill of the wind as he pushed open the door drowned the doctor's reply.
2
Four guards carrying choke guns and sidearmed with holstered 4-mm impact pistols escorted Grayle along the wide, brilliantly lit subterranean corridor, two in advance, two behind him. In the liftcar, they posted themselves in the four corners and sealed their helmet visors before closing the door. In silence, they dropped the hundred and fifty feet to the staging room that was the sole exit route from the prison proper. As they emerged from the shaft, Ted was waiting. He stepped forward hesitantly.
"Hey, Mr. Grayle," he said in strained greeting.
"Hello, Ted," Grayle said.
"Uh—you O.K. now?" Ted said, and blushed.
"Sure. Thanks for everything, Ted."
"Geez, Mr. Grayle . . ." Ted swallowed and turned away quickly.
"So long, Ted," Grayle said.
In the processing unit, Grayle moved stolidly through the chemical and radiation scanners, submitted to the cold caress of the medical unit, the icy touch of the hyposprays. His fingerprints and retinal and dental patterns were read and compared. A husky lieutenant flicked keys on the ID panel and recorded the response which certified the identity of prisoner 7654-K-3YN-003. He opened a steel drawer, withdrew a pair of inch-wide metal-link wrist irons linked by a ten-inch rod. He weighed them on his palm, looking at Grayle.
"I don't want any trouble out of you now, boy," he said. His voice was a casual drawl, but his eyes were sharp on Grayle's. He advanced briskly, snapped a steel ring in place on the prisoner's right wrist, reached for the left. He gripped it, then suddenly twisted Grayle's arm behind him, brought it to within an inch of the waiting cuff, then stopped. His face darkened; veins stood out on his forehead, but the
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