I got one foot off the bed. “Sleep, hell.” My head was clear as a bell. No girl was going to keep me in bed. But I’d better take it easy at first. Rest a bit. Yair. Just half a minute.
When I woke, hot sunlight latticed through the Venetians. My wrist watch said 12:45. There was singing out in another room; it wasn’t good enough to be the radio. She was singing O Sole Mio. New style.
I got out of bed. My mouth tasted like burned insulation smells. But my eyes were all right. My legs weren’t shaky. And my voice sounded normal when I said, “Good morning.”
She was determined I should pile right back in bed. She wanted to call the doctor immediately. It wasn’t safe. I might collapse any minute.
I told her very likely I would unless I got something to eat. Did she have any suggestions?
When she saw I wasn’t going to nose-dive on the kitchenette linoleum, she thought she could make me a bacon omelette with broiled mushrooms and hot biscuits. Did I prefer tomato juice or orange juice? Coffee or milk? Would raspberry jam be all right or would I rather have wild honey?
I told her all of it sounded good, went back to the living-room, called the Brulard, asked for 416.
“That party does not an-swer,” the gal at the switchboard said presently. “Would you care to leave a message?”
I said I’d like to be connected with Mister Ashmore.
Pat came on. “Security. Ashmore speaking.”