"That's bad," Memphis said. "Old man Wheeler just called about his soft drink account. He's on his way over. If you're in bad shape now you'll be in ruins when he gets through with you. We'll have to get you in condition for the attack. Here, come over and stretch out on the lounge and close your eyes."
Marc did as he was told. No use arguing when Memphis was in a Nightingale mood. The secretary made retreating and returning noises and then, without warning, shocked Marc's brow with a damp cloth. She pressed a glass of water into one of his hands and two pills into the other.
"Swallow those down," she commanded. "I'll take the glass when you've finished."
Marc obeyed. "Thanks," he said.
"Glad you had some aspirin handy," Memphis said, starting to move away. "I was plum out."
"Yeah," Marc murmured. Then he sat up. "What!"
It struck him, all of a sudden, that he hadn't any aspirin either. A chill went through him. He opened his eyes and glanced at the desk, and his heart accepted an invitation to the rhumba. The little green bottle had moved to the edge of the desk and it was open!
"Memphis!"
Memphis was standing in the doorway. "Shut up," she said. "Lie down, take it easy. I'll stall Wheeler in the waiting room and feed him raw meat to dull his appetite."
She closed the door behind her.