Гарри Гаррисон - The Jupiter Plague

“Did you do this?”

“Yes. I told you I was near when it happened. We’re not supposed to touch a case except in an extreme emergency. I thought this was one — the way the blood was pumping out he was sure to be dead quick enough no matter what else was wrong with him. I pulled off his belt and put it around his leg, then he passed out.”

“You did the correct thing — he can thank you; for saving his life. Now get the crowd back and tell my driver to bring the stretcher.”

Sam’s hands never stopped while he talked, taking the powered tourniquet from the box and pushing the stiffened tongue of metal under the injured leg. As soon as it emerged a touch on the switch restored its flexibility; he wrapped it around the leg and inserted the end into the control box. When the sliding spheres were positioned over the major blood vessels he flicked on the power and it tightened automatically, applying the correct pressure to cut off all flow of blood.

“Take it down,” he said, giving the man an intravenous injection of 0.02 mg. of ephinephrine to counteract some of the effects of shock. The elevator shuddered and dropped. The man groaned and rolled his head from side to side. Sam looked at the injured leg: it was very bad. Caught between the two metal edges it had been chopped through and almost severed, the femur was sheared and the lower part of the leg dangled, connected only by some skin and the crushed remains of the rectus and sartorius muscles. He made a quick decision. Slipping a large, razor-sharp scalpum from the kit, he took a firm grip below the blood-stained knee with his free hand and severed the connecting flesh with a single stroke of the blade.

With the amputated limb wrapped in sterile sheeting and the injured man pulled away from the edge, he had the elevator brought back to ground level. Killer was waiting with the stretcher and, aided by the policeman, they lifted the wounded man onto it. With a professional flick of the blanket Killer covered him to the chin, then wheeled the stretcher toward the waiting door of the ambulance. They moved smoothly, an experienced team, and while Sam latched the stretcher lo the wall Killer closed the door.

“In a hurry, Doc?” he asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“As fast as you can without any sharp turns. I’m giving him plasma.”

As he spoke Sam pulled the tube down from the overhead container, broke the seal on the sterile needle and slipped it into the antecubital vein in the patient’s forearm through the swabbed skin.

“How’s he doing, Doc?” Killer asked, accelerating smoothly into the emptied street.

“Good as can be expected.” Sam strapped the recording telltale to the flaccid wrist which, in addition to displaying the vital information on its dials, made a continuous recording of everything on a solid state memory chip. “But you better get through on the radio so they can set up the operating room.”

While Killer made the call Sam turned the ultraviolet spotlight on the injured man’s chest to reveal the invisible tattooing there: blood type, blood groups, date of birth and drug allergies. He was copying these onto the form when the overhead speaker scratched to life.

“Perkins here, in emergency surgery, I’m washing up. What do you have?”

“I have an amputation for you, Eddie,” Sam said into his lapel microphone. “Right leg severed four inches above the patella. Patient is sixty-three years old, male, blood type O…”

“What happened to the leg, Sam? Are you bringing it in for me to sew back on or should I start warming up one from the locker?”

“I have the old one here and it will do fine after a little debridement.”

“I read you. Give me the rest of the report and I’ll start setting up for him.”

There were orderlies waiting on the receiving platform to throw open the door and wheel out the patient.

“You’ll need this too,” Sam said, passing over the sealed bundle with the leg. There was only a single space left on the report form now; he entered the time of arrival here and slipped the filled-out form into the holder on to the side of the stretcher as it passed. Only then did he notice the unusual bustle around him.

“Something big, Doc,” Killer said, joining him, his nose almost twitching as he sniffed excitement. “I’m going to find out what’s going on.” He headed quickly toward a group of orderlies who were piling up sealed boxes at the edge of the platform.

Something was definitely going on, that was obvious. At the far end a truck was being loaded with medical supplies, while next to it two interns were climbing into a waiting ambulance.

“Dr. Bertolli?” a woman’s voice asked from behind him.

“Yes, I am,” he said, turning to face her. She was a tall girl whose eyes were almost on a level with his, greenish-gray eyes with a steady gaze. Her hair was a natural red that bordered on russet, and even the shapeless white lab smock could not conceal the richness of her body. Sam had noticed her before in the hospital — was it in the staff cafeteria? — but had never spoken to her before.

“I’m Nita Mendel from pathology. There seems to be some sort of emergency going and Dr. Gaspard told me I would be going out with you.”

She was not wearing a pin, nor did she have a cap on, so Sam was sure she couldn’t be a nurse.

“Of course, Doctor, this is our ambulance here. Do you know what’s happening?”

“Nita, please. No, I have no idea at all. They just called me out of the lab and sent me down here.”

Killer hurried over, feverishly chomping on his wad of gum. “Here we go, Doc. Hello, Dr. Mendel, must be big if they dragged you down from the seventh floor.” Killer knew everyone in Bellevue and heard all the gossip. “There is something big brewing but no one knows what. Hop in. The Meatball Express leaves in six seconds.”

“Where are we going?” Sam asked, looking at the dozen boxes labeled MEDICAL EMERGENCY KIT that had been shoved in on the floor of the ambulance.

“Kennedy Airport,” Killer shouted over the whine of the turbine, making a tire-squealing turn around the corner and diving into the mouth of the Twenty-third Street Tunnel under the East River.

The two doctors rode in the back, sitting opposite each other, and there was no way that he could avoid noticing that her lab coat was very short and, when she was seated, rode well above her knees revealing a most attractive length of tanned leg. Much nicer than the last leg that he had brought under his arm. He would rather loot at this kind. The medical profession tended to stern, sterile and well ordered, so that whenever; hit of visible femininity managed to penetrate he went out of his way to make sure that he appreciated it.

“The airport,” she said, “… then it must be an accident. I hope it’s not one of the Mach-5’s — they carry seven hundred passengers…”

“We’ll find out soon enough, there should be something on the radio.” The sunlit mouth of the tunnel was visible ahead and he called through to the cab. “There might be a news broadcast. Killer, tune in WNYC.”

As they came out into the open Ravel’s Bolero swelled from the loudspeaker. Killer tried the other stations, but none of them were carrying a news broadcast so he switched back to the official city station as the one most likely to get the news first. They tore down the deserted expressway with the Bolero throbbing around them.

“I’ve never rode an ambulance before, it’s quite exciting.”

“Weren’t you ever on emergency duty while you were interning, Nita?”

“No, I stayed on at Columbia after I had my M.D. because cytology is really my field… have you noticed, the road is empty of traffic?”