When the elevator halted, he quickly raised his head:
“By the way, how’s your cold?”
“What cold, Doctor?”
“Haven’t you a cold?” he growled.
“No, Dr. Sterling. Thank you. I haven’t.”
“You’re welcome. Other operator, I guess.”
He stepped from the elevator and began his rounds. A whole avalanche of nurses galloped down the hall and he realized it must be time for the shift. He squinted at his watch and saw that it was almost seven.
“Damn it to hell!” he muttered.
Hot hash was bad enough. By now it would be slime. Better finish the rounds and eat at Otto’s. Herbie’s hands had messed things up! Damned old spider! His memory was focusing upon the girl when the floor interne hurried forward and began to report.
One hour and a half later Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, tilted back in the swivel chair in his private office. His left heel held the edge of the seat, the telephone was balanced upon his left knee, the receiver wedged between his left shoulder and ear. His eyebrows were parted; he had just given his pants a comforting jerk. His mouth twitched occasionally; in his free hands he held a copy of “The Love Books of Ovid” and his eyes measured a familiar illustration. He decided that the legs weren’t up to hers. His father’s voice centered his attention, again.