Crander eyed him clinically. "We don't ordinarily do this—but it is evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure. And you look well enough to stand the physical strain."
He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties answered. "Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file."
Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous goldfish and she darted from the room.
They see me and flee as fast as they can caper, thought Merrol. It was not wholly true—Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one emotion at the moment—relief at the return of his patient.
Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. "You're our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of everything we did."
He turned to the woman. "You may leave, Miss Jerrems." She went, but the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have curdled in the last few moments.
Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. "Here are pictures of the wreckage in which you were found—notice that you were strapped in your seat—as you were received into the hospital—at various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the company for which you worked."
Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had been a handsome fellow.
"Here is other evidence you may not have heard of. It's a recent development, within the last ten years, in fact. It still isn't accepted by most courts—they're always lagging—but to medical men it's the last word."