Free Bonds of Earth by G. N. Chevalier Page A

front steps as quickly as he could, Mary and Sarah trailing behind him.
    “I need help!” he shouted as he entered. Instead of bringing the hospital staff running, he managed only to startle the steel-haired woman behind the huge oak admitting desk. Her eyes widened, then rapidly narrowed in disapproval.
    “Young man, please lower your voice,” she said primly, rising to her feet.
    “Where’s your duty doctor?” he demanded. Shifting Abbott’s weight in his arms, he rested the old man’s head against his shoulder so that he could detect his breathing. The puff of air against Michael’s neck was faint but steady.
    “Making rounds on the second floor,” she answered. “But wait! You must—”
    “Sarah,” he called behind him as he started up the wide staircase, “please tell the woman your grandfather’s name and address.”
    The doctor came running at Michael’s shout, boot heels clicking on the linoleum. He looked hardly older than Michael himself, blond hair neatly razored over his ears. “Yes? How can I help you?” he asked.
    “Show me to an examining room,” Michael snapped.
    The doctor’s deep blue gaze took a swift inventory of Michael’s work shirt and dusty trousers. “Now wait a—”
    “When you actually get down to work,” Michael interrupted smoothly, “you’ll find his pulse elevated and thready, breathing weak. It’s possibly an embolism, but a mild myocardial infarction is more likely. That is,” he added as the doctor’s eyes widened, “if he’s still breathing by the time you get off your high horse.”
    The young man’s mouth worked for a moment, and then he nodded. “Follow me,” he said, turning on his heel.
     
     
    A FTER two hours that seemed interminable, Michael rose to go looking for the doctor when the doctor came to them, opening the door to the small waiting room and peering in. Mary looked up first, her face revealing nothing, only the tension in her knotted hands giving her away. When the young man did not speak right away, she put a protective arm around Sarah’s shoulders, then met his gaze.
    “We’ve done all we can,” the doctor said. “He’s, ah, resting comfortably, and it—it does appear he may have suffered a myocardial infarction. When he’s strong enough, we’ll have to perform tests on him to determine the extent of the—ah, damage….”
    Michael’s jaw twitched convulsively. Obviously, they weren’t teaching tact at Columbia medical school this year.
    “… and we do intend to monitor his progress throughout the night. Ah, I must also ask, forgive me, but how will you be paying for his care?”
    Michael stood. “I’ll be the one in his room monitoring his progress,” he said. “As for payment, you need to talk to Mister Seward, who came with us.”
    The young man blinked. “John Seward? Doctor Seward’s son?”
    “That’s right,” Mary answered.
    “Oh, well,” the doctor said, brightening, “that settles things easily. Doctor Seward was Chief Surgeon here for twenty years. None of his relatives will ever pay for services at this hospital.”
    Michael watched as Mary opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Thank you,” she said finally. “When may I see my husband?”
    “I don’t imagine he’ll be awake until the morning. There’s no point in your staying, really—”
    “We’ll stay,” Mary said, and there was that same steel in her tone that Michael had come to respect.
    “Ah, uh, well, of course, that’s your choice,” the doctor stammered, backing toward the door. “I’ll be going off shift at 6 a.m. I’ll introduce you to Doctor Peavey before I leave.” And with a final nod, he removed himself from the room.
    Mary snorted after the door closed behind him. “He has some growing to do yet.” She squeezed Sarah’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “How are you, my sweetling? Tired yet?” Sarah shook her head. “Well, when you get tired, lay yourself out on the chesterfield over