"My chest," Lexington panted. "I can feel it, like a knife on—I just wanted to—Wait a minute."
There was a confused scratching noise, interrupted by a few mumbles, in the phone.
"What's going on, Mr. Lexington?" Peter cried. But it was several seconds before he got an answer.
"That's better," said Lexington, his voice stronger. He apologized: "I'm sorry. Lex must have heard me. She sent in one of the materials handlers with a hypo. It helps."
The voice on the phone paused, then said matter-of-factly: "But I doubt that anything can help very much at this point. I'm glad I saw you today. I want you to come around in the morning. If I'm—not here, Lex will give you some papers to sign."
There was another pause, with sounds of harsh breathing. Then, strained again, the old man's voice said: "I guess I won't—be here. Lex will take care of it. Come early. Good-by."
The distant receiver clicked.
Peter Manners sat on the edge of his bed in momentary confusion, then made up his mind. In the short hours he had known him, he had come to have a definite fondness for the old man; and there were times when machines weren't enough, when Lexington should have another human being by his side. Clearly this was one such time.
Peter dressed in a hurry, miraculously found a cruising cab, sped through empty streets, leaped out in front of Lex Industries' plain concrete walls, ran to the door—
In the waiting room, the soft, distant voice of Lex said: "He wanted you to be here, Mr. Manners. Come."