These two men were coming out of the X-ray ward. They lay naked under a sheet, and carried, pinned to their bandages, papers of different sizes and shapes, rough sketches, formulæ, and something like an algebraical statement of their wounds, the expression in numbers of their misery and disordered organs.
They spoke of this their first visit to the laboratory like clever children who realise that the modern world would not know how to live or die without the meticulous discipline of the sciences.
“What did he say, the X-rays major?”
“He said it was an antero-posterior axis.”
“Just what I feared.”
“It’s in my belly. I heard him say abdomen. But I am sure it’s in my belly. Ah, damn it! but I’m not going to be put to sleep. That I won’t stand!”
The door of the operating theatre opened at this point, and the waiting-room was flooded with light. A voice cried:
“The next lot! And the belly chap first!”
The black bearers adjusted their straps, and the two talkers were carried off. I followed the stretchers.
Imagine a shining rectangular block set in sheer night like a jewel in coal. The door closed again, and I found myself imprisoned in that light, which was reflected from the spotless canvas of the ceiling. The floor, level and springy, was strewn with red soaked linen which the orderlies picked up quickly with forceps. Between the floor and the ceiling, four strange forms that were men. They were dressed completely in white, their faces hidden behind masks which, like those of Touareg, only admit the eyes to view. Like Chinese dancers, they held in the air their hands covered with rubber, and the perspiration streamed from their brows.