"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."