“Memory case or something,” said the man at the table. “Anyhow, it’s Gifford Street.”
Sargon reflected. “What’s Gifford Street?” he asked.
“’Ospital. Where they’ll give you a bit of a rest and quiet.”
“But I want to meet a magistrate in open court. I have a message. I am in no need of rest or quiet.”
“They’ll tell you all about that at Gifford Street. Buxton, will you take ’im round?”
“But I am perfectly well! Why should I go to hospital?”
“Routine I suppose,” said the seated policeman and gave his mind to other things.
§ 2
Queer! Why should it be a hospital? The way the Power was treating him was a strange way. He had to submit to the Power; he had to maintain himself Sargon. Still he could have wished for more explicitness.
He was so turned inward now that he went along beside Constable Buxton, not noting the streets nor the traffic nor the passers-by. Presently they were at a door in a high wall, within which there were buildings. Then they were in a little office and a large, grey-faced porter looked at him and exchanged muttered explanations with the constable. Then they were going across a wide yard and through large doors into a corridor where there was an unoccupied stretcher and two or three nurses in uniform. They came to a little glazed-in office and Sargon was asked to sit down on a bench against a wall while there was telephoning. Constable Buxton hovered down the corridor as though the task was nearly done.