“Doctor Ethridge Sterling, Junior, is answering from Ward D, Medicine Clinic.”

The dead voice of the operator responded:

“Doc-terr Ste-earling, Jun...?”

Cub’s patience and his ear were closely allied. He cocked his head and barked:

“Well, what is it?”

Her voice dropped several octaves. She cooed:

“Justa minnit, Docterr Sterrling. Docterr Barton’s calling....”

Barton’s voice intervened:

“Cub? Harold Barton. Will you go over to Weber’s and telephone me at my home, please? Right away.”

Five minutes later, Doctor Ethridge Sterling, Junior, turned from an elevator on the first floor of the Medicine Clinic of the Elijah Wilson Hospital, gave a vacant nod to two internes and shambled through the door, into the accident corridor and out into Beeker Street.