The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

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СКАЧАТЬ the broad skylight—quiet except for the deep breathing of the patient, the clink of the instruments in their trays, or the cool words of the surgeon. The artery lay exposed.

      “Now the wire!” commanded Mil­ler; and Miss Schwenk, the second nurse, reached it to him with silver forceps.

      “Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

      Through the hospital thrilled and vi­brated a harsh electric gong, the gong that meant only one emergency—fire!

      Benedict started nervously; the nurses shifted positions a trifle. Miller knitted his broad brows, but otherwise paid no more heed to the strident alarm than if it had been a summons to dinner. He looped the first strand of silver, dexter­ously introduced the second, then said impersonally:

      “Lock the door, please, Miss Schwenk. Lock both doors!”

      The nurse hesitated. Through the reek of ether an acrid odor of smoke had filtered into the windowless room; and over the skylight there was drawing something like a bluish veil. Far down the street jangled a faint distant clangor of bells, mingled with a thin wail of fire-engine whistles.

      “Lock—the—doors!” repeated Mil­ler, and this time his eyes were on Miss Schwenk.

      She gave a nervous little giggle, quite unprofessionally feminine, and obeyed.

      “Now bring me the keys,” murmured the surgeon, bending to his work. “Lay them right here, please.”

      His glance indicated a little clear space on the operating-table. Miss Schwenk obeyed again.

      “Thank you,” said Miller cour­teously.

      The operation continued, Miller icy-cool, the others beginning to fidget a trifle. The engines were drawing near; cries, shouts, hoarse bawlings sounded outside; they heard the clang of the chief’s wagon hurtling down the street; the clattering hoofs, the thundering wheels, as the great machines whirled on. A crowd was gathering—the noise welled up as the tide wells against a cliff-shore.

      Someone rattled the handle of the operating room door, screeched “Out! Out! East wing’s goin’ fast!” and then rushed off down the corridor, where im­mense chaos reigned—whence came cries, groans, the sound of hurrying feet, screams of terror, as nurses and or­derlies rushed the patients unceremo­niously, in wheelchairs or in their arms, over into the west wing, to temporary safety.

      Then, over all that tumult from within and without, blared the hoarse whistle of the heating-plant—three long, bellowing blasts as from a brazen, tortured Minotaur—the signal of ­ex­treme-­emergency—“All out!” And at that sound the tumult waxed into a hur­ricane of rushing terror.

      “Quiet, Miss Chase!” commanded Miller. “Ten minutes, and this patient can be moved—not before! Please ster­ilize this clamp!”

      Calmly he made another loop with the silver wire. Thicker and thicker the smoke puffed in around the door which communicated with the corridor; across the skylight whirled a darkening veil. Miss Schwenk began to sob hysterically.

      “Quiet! Quiet!” repeated the sur­geon; but Benedict, pale to the lips, in­terrupted him:

      “Really, Miller, this is—”

      “Shh-h-h! Hold that hemostat!”

      “But—but—five of us—we’ll be cut off in—”

      “Remember you’re a surgeon!” was Miller’s only answer, yet it covered Benedict’s drawn face with a hot flush.

      Outside, the engines were whirring and puffing; the tumult was that of a great concourse. Inside, the operating room door was beginning to smoke; the air was thick and blue, difficult to breathe. The skylight was obscured; burning brands and cinders were whirl­ing down upon it, faster and faster. It was growing dark.

      “Miss Chase, the lights, please!” commanded Miller.

      The wires, he knew, came in from the front, and were as yet intact. As Miss Chase clicked the switch-button, a bright, warm radiance filled the white-walled room. A louder shouting rose outside. The crowd, mistaking the glow from the skylight for the glare of fire, believed the operating-pavilion itself in­vaded.

      Miller glanced up for an instant with contracted brows. “You can go now,” said he to the women. “Benedict and I can finish this alone. Get out as quick as you can, and shut the door after you, tight! Down the basement stairs and out through the laundry. Understand?”

      Two of the nurses, with scared but grateful glances, took unceremonious leave. The key grated; footsteps pat­tered out through the sterilizing-room—then came a gush of smoke as the corri­dor door opened and closed. The iron stairs into the basement faintly echoed their running steps—they were gone.

      “Well?” asked Miller, looking up and seeing Miss Willett still at the pa­tient’s head.

      “I’ll stay!” said she. “The pavilion won’t cave in for five minutes yet, I’m sure—maybe more. I won’t desert! Go on!”

      She spoke rapidly, with the fever of a gambling chance in her eyes—eyes with dilated pupils and dark, inscrutable depths, that rested upon Miller with a look which no son of Adam ever misun­derstands. Miller did not misunder­stand—he simply did not care.

      “Oh, very well, as you like,” he an­swered. “But go any time you please; nothing but the dressings to do now.”

      “In that case,” spoke up Benedict, “I’m going! You and she can finish all right—this place is afire now—it’ll cave in any minute! Look at that door—burning! I’m off!”

      He laid down the hemostat he was holding, stood up, and faced Miller de­fiantly, his face twitching, his eyes glit­tering in the electric, glare; all around him curled and eddied the thickening smoke.

      “Sit down!” said Miller. “Don’t be a coward!” His firm hands made the last loop. “Don’t let any one ever call you that. It hurts; I know! Hand me over those dressings now, and sit down!”

      Benedict, with an oath, started for the door. As he came around the end of the operating-table, Miller, holding his needle in his left hand, flung back his tunic with the right and whipped out his long-nosed revolver.

      “You sit down!” said he. “I’ve got some fire of my own, right here, and it’s quicker than what’s outside, too! Take your choice—but remember I can’t miss at such short range! There, that’s right, I knew you’d be reasonable. Hand that tray of bichloride over here—I’ve got to sterilize my fingers. That gun’s aseptic.”

      He dabbled his hand in the sublimate, carefully dried it on the sterile sheet, and started on the dressings. Benedict crouched in his chair beside the table, dazed, mechanical, obeying as a whipped dog obeys. Miss Willett, breathing hard, helped apply the collodion, the cotton, and the bandages.

      The task was nearly done—the blaz­ing corridor door was warping inward; thin little tongues of lire licked up along the panels. Outside reigned pandemo­nium as the fire spread—spread toward the west wing, unheeding the engines, which shook and sobbed and spat glow­ing cinders up into the smoky pall. The skylight, all drifted over with fire­brands, was sagging, fusing; the air in­side the operating room seemed glowing like a furnace, in the electric glare. Then something shook СКАЧАТЬ