He charged the syringe and approached Hopper. I watched, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rising and my heart beginning to thump against my ribs.
He was a little shaky, but his serious, horse-like face was calm. Gently he pushed Hopper’s pyjama sleeve back and poised the syringe. It was like watching a man fiddling with the fuse of a delayed-action bomb. There was nothing I could do but watch and sweat for him, and I sweated all right, wanting to tell him to hurry up, and for the love of Mike not to stand there like a dummy, but get the thing over.
He was a little short-sighted in spite of his glasses, and he couldn’t see the right vein. His head kept getting closer and closer to Hopper while he peered at the white, sinewy arm. He seemed to have forgotten how dangerous Hopper was. All he seemed to be thinking about was to make a good job of the operation. His face was only about a foot away from Hopper’s when he nodded his head as if he had found the vein he was after. Very gently he laid the side of the needle down on the vein.
I wasn’t breathing now. My hands were clutching at the sheet. Then, just as he was going to plunge in the needle, he drew back with an impatient exclamation and walked over to the tray he had left on the chest of drawers.
My breath whistled in my dry mouth as I said unevenly, “What the hell’s the matter now?”
“I forgot the ether,” he said. “Stupid of me. One should always clean the skin before making a puncture.”
He was sweating almost as badly as I, but he had been taught to use ether before giving the syringe and that was the way he was going to give it: come hell, come sunshine.
Hopper stirred slightly as Quell dabbed on the ether. I was half out of bed with nervous anticipation, and Quell’s hand was unsteady as he began the ghastly hunt for the vein again.
Down went his head within a foot of Hopper’s, his eyes intent on Hopper’s skin.
Suddenly Hopper opened his eyes. Quell was too busy to notice.