"Phillips," the receptionist's voice was startling and cool, "will you tell Mr. Daneshaw, Room 563, that Dr. Farrar would like to see him at once in his office."
"It's my breakfast hour! I'm just going off duty." Receptionists thought they owned the hospital ordering people around all the time.
"I can't leave the desk and your relief hasn't come up. Dr. Farrar says it's urgent."
"Oh, all right." Ione turned on her heel and strode with something of the old swish up the hall to the left of the one she'd come from.
She knocked sharply at the door of room 563. "Mr. Daneshaw?"
"Come in."
She turned the knob and economically stuck only her head around the frame. "Dr. Farrar wants you in his office at once." She withdrew and closed the door in one motion. Don't give them a chance to argue or ask questions. They'd waste your whole day for you if you gave them a chance. She headed for the elevators once more.
Professor Emeritus Charles Timothy Daneshaw had lain in bed in the comfortable insulation of the bulky grey plastine autometab case which covered him to the waist. He really enjoyed this five minutes after waking when the world was entirely shut off and he could collect his thoughts for the day with no other business but regular inhale and exhale.
Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright, he quoted mentally. This was a comfortable poem for springtime in one's 186th year. The bridal of the earth and sky, The dews shall weep thy fall tonight, For thou must die. No one would have to weep for him. He wasn't going to die. He would walk on the lawns today and enjoy the burgeoning of spring without pain, without fear. He would read Wordsworth and plan a vacation walking trip.
The bell next to his ear pinged—the machine had finished his daily metabolic record—he pressed the button that raised the heavy case to the ceiling. He stretched and put his feet over the edge of the bed.