medicine.”
Dr. Mitchell looked vaguely annoyed with the captain, put his question to Harve again.
“Doc,” said Captain Luby, “what’s that disease called—where somebody thinks everybody’s against ’em?”
“Paranoia,” said Dr. Mitchell tautly.
“We saw Ed Luby murder a woman,” said Harve. “They blamed it on me. They said they’d kill us if we told.” He lay back. Consciousness was fading fast. “For the love of God,” he said thickly, “somebody help.”
Consciousness was gone.
Harve Elliot was taken to Ilium Hospital in an ambulance. The sun was coming up. He was aware of the trip—aware of the sun, too. He heard someone mention the sun’s coming up.
He opened his eyes. Two men rode on a bench that paralleled his cot in the ambulance. The two swayed as the ambulance swayed.
Harve made no great effort to identify the two. When hope died, so, too, had curiosity. Harve, moreover, had been somehow drugged. He remembered the young doctor’s having given him a shot—to ease his pain, the doctor said. It killed Harve’s worries along with his pain, gave him what comfort there was in the illusion that nothing mattered.
His two fellow passengers now identified themselves by speaking to each other.
“You new in town, Doc?” said one. “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around before.” That was Captain Luby.
“I started practice three months ago,” the doctor said. That was Dr. Mitchell.
“You ought to get to know my brother,” said the captain. “He could help you get started. He gets a lot of people started.”
“So I’ve heard,” said the doctor.
“A little boost from Ed never hurt anybody,” said the captain.
“I wouldn’t think so,” said the doctor. “This guy sure pulled a boner when he tried to pin the murder on Ed,” said the captain. “I can see that,” said the doctor.
“Practically everybody who’s anybody in town is a witness for Ed and against this jerk,” said the captain. “Uh-huh,” said the doctor.
“I’ll fix you up with an introduction to Ed sometime,” said the captain. “I think you two would hit it off just fine.”
“I’m very flattered,” said the doctor.
At the emergency door of Ilium Hospital, Harve Elliot was transferred from the ambulance to a rubber-wheeled cart.
There was a brief delay in the receiving room, for another case had arrived just ahead of Harve. The delay wasn’t long, because the other case was dead on arrival. The other case, on a cart exactly like Harve’s, was a man.
Harve knew him.
The dead man was the man who had brought his girl out to Ed Luby’s Key Club so long ago, who had seen his girl killed by Ed Luby.
He was Harve’s prize witness—dead.
“What happened to him?” Captain Luby asked a nurse.
“Nobody knows,” she said. “They found him shot in the back of the neck—in the alley behind the bus station.” She covered the dead man’s face.
“Too bad,” said Captain Luby. He turned to Harve. “You’re luckier than him, anyway, Elliot,” he said. “At least you’re not dead.”Harve Elliot was wheeled all over Ilium Hospital—had his skull X-rayed, had an electroencephalogram taken, let doctors peer gravely into his eyes, his nose, his ears, his throat.
Captain Luby and Dr. Mitchell went with him wherever he was rolled. And Harve was bound to agree with Captain Luby when the captain said, “It’s crazy, you know? We’re up all night, looking for a clean shot at this guy. Now here we are, all day long, getting the same guy the best treatment money can buy. Crazy.”
Harve’s time sense was addled by the shot Dr. Mitchell had given him, but he did realize that the examinations and tests were going awfully slowly—and that more and more doctors were being called in.
Dr. Mitchell seemed to grow a lot tenser about his patient, too.
Two more doctors arrived, looked briefly at Harve, then stepped aside with Dr. Mitchell for a whispered conference.
A janitor, mopping the
Dr. Mitchell looked vaguely annoyed with the captain, put his question to Harve again.
“Doc,” said Captain Luby, “what’s that disease called—where somebody thinks everybody’s against ’em?”
“Paranoia,” said Dr. Mitchell tautly.
“We saw Ed Luby murder a woman,” said Harve. “They blamed it on me. They said they’d kill us if we told.” He lay back. Consciousness was fading fast. “For the love of God,” he said thickly, “somebody help.”
Consciousness was gone.
Harve Elliot was taken to Ilium Hospital in an ambulance. The sun was coming up. He was aware of the trip—aware of the sun, too. He heard someone mention the sun’s coming up.
He opened his eyes. Two men rode on a bench that paralleled his cot in the ambulance. The two swayed as the ambulance swayed.
Harve made no great effort to identify the two. When hope died, so, too, had curiosity. Harve, moreover, had been somehow drugged. He remembered the young doctor’s having given him a shot—to ease his pain, the doctor said. It killed Harve’s worries along with his pain, gave him what comfort there was in the illusion that nothing mattered.
His two fellow passengers now identified themselves by speaking to each other.
“You new in town, Doc?” said one. “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around before.” That was Captain Luby.
“I started practice three months ago,” the doctor said. That was Dr. Mitchell.
“You ought to get to know my brother,” said the captain. “He could help you get started. He gets a lot of people started.”
“So I’ve heard,” said the doctor.
“A little boost from Ed never hurt anybody,” said the captain.
“I wouldn’t think so,” said the doctor. “This guy sure pulled a boner when he tried to pin the murder on Ed,” said the captain. “I can see that,” said the doctor.
“Practically everybody who’s anybody in town is a witness for Ed and against this jerk,” said the captain. “Uh-huh,” said the doctor.
“I’ll fix you up with an introduction to Ed sometime,” said the captain. “I think you two would hit it off just fine.”
“I’m very flattered,” said the doctor.
At the emergency door of Ilium Hospital, Harve Elliot was transferred from the ambulance to a rubber-wheeled cart.
There was a brief delay in the receiving room, for another case had arrived just ahead of Harve. The delay wasn’t long, because the other case was dead on arrival. The other case, on a cart exactly like Harve’s, was a man.
Harve knew him.
The dead man was the man who had brought his girl out to Ed Luby’s Key Club so long ago, who had seen his girl killed by Ed Luby.
He was Harve’s prize witness—dead.
“What happened to him?” Captain Luby asked a nurse.
“Nobody knows,” she said. “They found him shot in the back of the neck—in the alley behind the bus station.” She covered the dead man’s face.
“Too bad,” said Captain Luby. He turned to Harve. “You’re luckier than him, anyway, Elliot,” he said. “At least you’re not dead.”Harve Elliot was wheeled all over Ilium Hospital—had his skull X-rayed, had an electroencephalogram taken, let doctors peer gravely into his eyes, his nose, his ears, his throat.
Captain Luby and Dr. Mitchell went with him wherever he was rolled. And Harve was bound to agree with Captain Luby when the captain said, “It’s crazy, you know? We’re up all night, looking for a clean shot at this guy. Now here we are, all day long, getting the same guy the best treatment money can buy. Crazy.”
Harve’s time sense was addled by the shot Dr. Mitchell had given him, but he did realize that the examinations and tests were going awfully slowly—and that more and more doctors were being called in.
Dr. Mitchell seemed to grow a lot tenser about his patient, too.
Two more doctors arrived, looked briefly at Harve, then stepped aside with Dr. Mitchell for a whispered conference.
A janitor, mopping the
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