The Jupiter Plague

“Take it down,” he said, giving the man an intravenous injection of 0.02 mg. of ephinephrine to counteract some of the effects of shock. The elevator shuddered and dropped. The man groaned and rolled his head from side to side. Sam looked at the injured leg: it was very bad. Caught between the two metal edges it had been chopped through and almost severed, the femur was sheared and the lower part of the leg dangled, connected only by some skin and the crushed remains of the rectus and sartorius muscles. He made a quick decision. Slipping a large, razor-sharp scalpum from the kit, he took a firm grip below the blood-stained knee with his free hand and severed the connecting flesh with a single stroke of the blade.

With the amputated limb wrapped in sterile sheeting and the injured man pulled away from the edge, he had the elevator brought back to ground level. Killer was waiting with the stretcher and, aided by the policeman, they lifted the wounded man onto it. With a professional flick of the blanket Killer covered him to the chin, then wheeled the stretcher toward the waiting door of the ambulance. They moved smoothly, an experienced team, and while Sam latched the stretcher lo the wall Killer closed the door.

“In a hurry, Doc?” he asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“As fast as you can without any sharp turns. I’m giving him plasma.”

As he spoke Sam pulled the tube down from the overhead container, broke the seal on the sterile needle and slipped it into the antecubital vein in the patient’s forearm through the swabbed skin.

“How’s he doing, Doc?” Killer asked, accelerating smoothly into the emptied street.

“Good as can be expected.” Sam strapped the recording telltale to the flaccid wrist which, in addition to displaying the vital information on its dials, made a continuous recording of everything on a solid state memory chip. “But you better get through on the radio so they can set up the operating room.”

While Killer made the call Sam turned the ultraviolet spotlight on the injured man’s chest to reveal the invisible tattooing there: blood type, blood groups, date of birth and drug allergies. He was copying these onto the form when the overhead speaker scratched to life.

“Perkins here, in emergency surgery, I’m washing up. What do you have?”

“I have an amputation for you, Eddie,” Sam said into his lapel microphone. “Right leg severed four inches above the patella. Patient is sixty-three years old, male, blood type O…”

“What happened to the leg, Sam? Are you bringing it in for me to sew back on or should I start warming up one from the locker?”

“I have the old one here and it will do fine after a little debridement.”

“I read you. Give me the rest of the report and I’ll start setting up for him.”

There were orderlies waiting on the receiving platform to throw open the door and wheel out the patient.

“You’ll need this too,” Sam said, passing over the sealed bundle with the leg. There was only a single space left on the report form now; he entered the time of arrival here and slipped the filled-out form into the holder on to the side of the stretcher as it passed. Only then did he notice the unusual bustle around him.

“Something big, Doc,” Killer said, joining him, his nose almost twitching as he sniffed excitement. “I’m going to find out what’s going on.” He headed quickly toward a group of orderlies who were piling up sealed boxes at the edge of the platform.

Something was definitely going on, that was obvious. At the far end a truck was being loaded with medical supplies, while next to it two interns were climbing into a waiting ambulance.

“Dr. Bertolli?” a woman’s voice asked from behind him.

“Yes, I am,” he said, turning to face her. She was a tall girl whose eyes were almost on a level with his, greenish-gray eyes with a steady gaze. Her hair was a natural red that bordered on russet, and even the shapeless white lab smock could not conceal the richness of her body. Sam had noticed her before in the hospital — was it in the staff cafeteria? — but had never spoken to her before.

“I’m Nita Mendel from pathology. There seems to be some sort of emergency going and Dr. Gaspard told me I would be going out with you.”

She was not wearing a pin, nor did she have a cap on, so Sam was sure she couldn’t be a nurse.

“Of course, Doctor, this is our ambulance here. Do you know what’s happening?”

“Nita, please. No, I have no idea at all. They just called me out of the lab and sent me down here.”

Killer hurried over, feverishly chomping on his wad of gum. “Here we go, Doc. Hello, Dr. Mendel, must be big if they dragged you down from the seventh floor.” Killer knew everyone in Bellevue and heard all the gossip. “There is something big brewing but no one knows what. Hop in. The Meatball Express leaves in six seconds.”

“Where are we going?” Sam asked, looking at the dozen boxes labeled MEDICAL EMERGENCY KIT that had been shoved in on the floor of the ambulance.