The door opened suddenly and silently, and a short, dark man came in. He had a pair of shoulders you would expect to find on a gorilla, and his round red face was freckled and creased in a fixed, humourless grin. He was dressed in a white lap-over short coat, white trousers and white, rubber-soled shoes. He carried a tray covered with a towel, and he moved as silently and as lightly as a feather settling on the floor.
“Hello, Hoppie,” he said, putting the tray on a table by the door. “Beddy-byes now. How are you? Did you get any dope out of that book?”
Hopper waved his hand towards my bed.
“Mr. Seabright is with us now,” he said.
Bland—for this must be Bland—came to the foot of my bed and stared at me. The smile was still there: a little wider if anything. The greenish eyes were as hard and as cold and as sharp as ice-chips.
“Hello, baby,” he said. He had a curious whispering voice; hoarse and secretive, as if something was wrong with his larynx. “I’m Bland. I’m going to look after you.”
I found myself starting to clutch hold of the sheet, but I stopped that. Take it easy, I told myself. Relax. Don’t rush things.
“Hello,” I said, and my voice sounded as tight as a piano wire. “You don’t have to look after me. Where’s Salzer? I want to talk to him.”
“Doctor Salzer, baby,” Bland said reprovingly. “Don’t be disrespectful.” He gave Hopper a long, slow wink. “You’ll see him tomorrow.”
“I want to see him now,” I said steadily.