consciousness.”
Hobbes’s face brightened for the first time that morning. “Let’s go see!”
Earl followed along as they hurried back across the sand to the tree-lined walk that led up to the house. A breeze from the gulf was blowing across the beach, and Hobbes’s long white hair trailed after him. He still walked with the slight limp Earl had noticed the first day. That made him think of Emily Watson’s limp, and he wondered again what had happened to her. He especially wondered why Hobbes didn’t seem more upset about her disappearance and probable murder than he had been. True, he might be remembered in her will, which could lessen his sorrow at her death—but could he collect anything if her body was never found?
The others (except Hilda) were all assembled in the downstairs operating amphitheater. Although Frank still stretched, nearly naked, on the table, there was definite movement in his body now. One leg was bent, and his left arm was up over his face, as if shielding his eyes from the light.
“Can you give him an injection to bring him around?” Hobbes asked Armstrong. “Maybe a stimulant?”
“I’d rather not. This could be a crucial phase. If he can wake up on his own, unaided, it could be better for the brain. Until we know just how it’s functioning in its new body, any drug that affects the brain could cause damage.”
A slight groan escaped Frank’s lips and he shifted position on the table. The elapsed-time clock set in the wall showed that it had now been thirty-five hours since completion of the operation.
“He’s coming around,” Freddy O’Connor agreed. “But let’s not hurry him. Give him a few more hours.”
They went back upstairs, leaving Whalen on guard to report any new activity. “I’m very optimistic,” Armstrong announced. “I think he’s coming out of it.”
“About time,” Vera said. “Then maybe we can all leave.”
Freddy’s eyes twinkled, and he seemed about to make another of his ill-timed remarks. But he thought better of it and shut up.
“Another day or two,” Hobbes told her. “You’re being well paid for your time here.”
“I just don’t like some of the company,” Vera replied, casting a meaningful glance in Freddy’s direction.
Hilda served lunch promptly at noon, and the six of them ate heartily. She prepared a tray to take down to Whalen, together with the noon news on the TV printout. As she was about to go Hobbes glanced at his watch and said to her, “Tell Whalen we’ll send someone to relieve him after lunch.” She watched his lips and nodded, seeming to understand. Earl wondered if she would write him a note.
“She’s very good,” he said after she’d departed. “Been with me for years.”
“The food is certainly good,” Armstrong admitted. “I’m in no hurry to leave here.”
“How long do you think postoperative care will last?” Earl asked.
Armstrong shrugged. “Could well last for his lifetime. This isn’t an operation that’s performed every day, you know.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “But if you’re asking how long I’ll be staying, I’d guess about a month. Maybe less, if the press gets onto this thing and makes a circus of it. I’ve never been comfortable with a bunch of specialists pawing around my patient.”
“Yes,” Hobbes admitted. “There’s always the specter of the press.”
Earl pushed back his plate and reached for the coffee. “What about the press? Do they have wind of what you’re doing here?”
“Not unless they’ve stumbled upon the sudden unexplained absence of several key surgeons and traced them out here. Of course my big fear now is MacKenzie’s death. He’s a national figure—the moon walk and all that—and when the word gets out he’s been murdered we’ll have a swarm of people out here. That’s one reason I don’t want to notify the authorities till we’re ready to announce the operation.”
Listening to his words, Earl wondered if
Hobbes’s face brightened for the first time that morning. “Let’s go see!”
Earl followed along as they hurried back across the sand to the tree-lined walk that led up to the house. A breeze from the gulf was blowing across the beach, and Hobbes’s long white hair trailed after him. He still walked with the slight limp Earl had noticed the first day. That made him think of Emily Watson’s limp, and he wondered again what had happened to her. He especially wondered why Hobbes didn’t seem more upset about her disappearance and probable murder than he had been. True, he might be remembered in her will, which could lessen his sorrow at her death—but could he collect anything if her body was never found?
The others (except Hilda) were all assembled in the downstairs operating amphitheater. Although Frank still stretched, nearly naked, on the table, there was definite movement in his body now. One leg was bent, and his left arm was up over his face, as if shielding his eyes from the light.
“Can you give him an injection to bring him around?” Hobbes asked Armstrong. “Maybe a stimulant?”
“I’d rather not. This could be a crucial phase. If he can wake up on his own, unaided, it could be better for the brain. Until we know just how it’s functioning in its new body, any drug that affects the brain could cause damage.”
A slight groan escaped Frank’s lips and he shifted position on the table. The elapsed-time clock set in the wall showed that it had now been thirty-five hours since completion of the operation.
“He’s coming around,” Freddy O’Connor agreed. “But let’s not hurry him. Give him a few more hours.”
They went back upstairs, leaving Whalen on guard to report any new activity. “I’m very optimistic,” Armstrong announced. “I think he’s coming out of it.”
“About time,” Vera said. “Then maybe we can all leave.”
Freddy’s eyes twinkled, and he seemed about to make another of his ill-timed remarks. But he thought better of it and shut up.
“Another day or two,” Hobbes told her. “You’re being well paid for your time here.”
“I just don’t like some of the company,” Vera replied, casting a meaningful glance in Freddy’s direction.
Hilda served lunch promptly at noon, and the six of them ate heartily. She prepared a tray to take down to Whalen, together with the noon news on the TV printout. As she was about to go Hobbes glanced at his watch and said to her, “Tell Whalen we’ll send someone to relieve him after lunch.” She watched his lips and nodded, seeming to understand. Earl wondered if she would write him a note.
“She’s very good,” he said after she’d departed. “Been with me for years.”
“The food is certainly good,” Armstrong admitted. “I’m in no hurry to leave here.”
“How long do you think postoperative care will last?” Earl asked.
Armstrong shrugged. “Could well last for his lifetime. This isn’t an operation that’s performed every day, you know.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “But if you’re asking how long I’ll be staying, I’d guess about a month. Maybe less, if the press gets onto this thing and makes a circus of it. I’ve never been comfortable with a bunch of specialists pawing around my patient.”
“Yes,” Hobbes admitted. “There’s always the specter of the press.”
Earl pushed back his plate and reached for the coffee. “What about the press? Do they have wind of what you’re doing here?”
“Not unless they’ve stumbled upon the sudden unexplained absence of several key surgeons and traced them out here. Of course my big fear now is MacKenzie’s death. He’s a national figure—the moon walk and all that—and when the word gets out he’s been murdered we’ll have a swarm of people out here. That’s one reason I don’t want to notify the authorities till we’re ready to announce the operation.”
Listening to his words, Earl wondered if
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