Sheila answered with a deprecatory shake. “This time I don’t believe you. That would be a miracle, and you can do about everything but miracles. Honestly, it doesn’t seem as if I could touch it; looks about a thousand years old and just human enough to be horrible.”
The old doctor eyed her askance. “Not going back on me, are you?”
“Of course I’m not, but there’s no use in making believe it will be any joy-game. I’ll be hating it every minute I’m on the case.”
“Hate it as much as you like, only stick to it. Hello there, bub!” This to the brown atom, who was opening his eyes.
The eyes were large and brown and as soft and appealing as a baby seal’s. For a moment they looked with strange, wondering intensity at the two figures bending over it, then with sudden doubling and undoubling of fists, a frantic upheaval of brown legs, the atom opened volcanically and poured forth scream after scream. It writhed, it clawed the air, it looked every whit as horrible as Sheila had claimed.
“Going to run?” the old doctor asked, anxiously.
For answer Sheila bent down lower and picked up the writhing mass. With a firm hand she braced it against her shoulder, patting it gently and swaying her body rhythmically to the patting. “Some eyes and some temper!” laughed Sheila. “Where’s the mother?”
The screaming brought the corridor nurse to the door. “Where’s the mother?” Sheila repeated.
The corridor nurse pointed to the strewn luggage and gave a contemptuous shrug. “Gone down to dinner looking like a bird of paradise. She said if the baby cried I was to stir up some of that milk from that can, mix it with water from that faucet, put it in that bottle, and feed it to him.” Words failed to convey the outraged disgust in her voice.
The milk indicated was condensed milk in a half-emptied can; the bottle was the regulation kind for babies and as filthy as dirty glass could look. Sheila and Doctor Fuller exchanged glances.