Why are we weighed upon with heaviness?
His mind revolved dully, waiting for an answer, waiting for the steward, waiting and turning and almost dozing.
To answer the gentle knock on the door was too hard. He could turn his head a little. After a sharper knock, the door opened and Steward Loomis looked in. "Everything all right, Captain?" No answer.
Loomis came over to the bunk quickly. "Tim, what's the matter?"
"Hello, Loo. Weak, I guess." Words came easier now. "Better get Doc Keighley."
"You bet I will," and the steward was already hurrying out the door. "You stay right there," he added firmly and unnecessarily.
Tim stayed right there. The bed stopped falling, but he didn't move. He knew how to relax from years of practice in the hospital and years of habit before that.
Keighley walked in, bag in hand, without knocking and came and sat on the edge of the bunk. "Tim?"
"Hello, Doc. I feel done in. Air supply all right?"
"Air's OK," Doc's hand felt Tim's forehead, reached for his wrist, his eye recording the sweep of the second hand on the desk chrono. A few moments later his stethoscope pressed against Tim's chest.