A Treasury of Doctor Stories Read online

  He was passing other cars now and other cars were passing him, but he didn’t pay much attention, except when he happened to notice a license you didn’t often see in the state, like Rhode Island or Mississippi. He was too full of his own thoughts. There were foot passengers, too, plenty of them—and once he passed a man driving a load of hay. He wondered what the man would do with the hay when he got to the Gates. But probably there were arrangements for that.

  “Not that I believe a word of it,” he said, “but it’ll surprise Father Kelly. Or maybe it won’t. I used to have some handsome arguments with that man, but I always knew I could count on him, in spite of me being a heretic.”

  Then he saw the Wall and the Gates, right across the valley. He saw them, and they reached to the top of the sky. He rubbed his eyes for a while, but they kept on being there.

  “Quite a sight,” said Doc Mellhorn.

  No one told him just where to go or how to act, but it seemed to him that he knew. If he’d thought about it, he’d have said that you waited in line, but there wasn’t any waiting in line. He just went where he was expected to go and the reception clerk knew his name right away.

  “Yes, Doctor Mellhorn,” he said. “And now, what would you like to do first?”

  “I think I’d like to sit down,” said Doc Mellhorn. So he sat, and it was a comfortable chair. He even bounced the springs of it once or twice, till he caught the reception clerk’s eye on him.

  “Is there anything I can get you you?” said the reception clerk. He was young and brisk and neat as a pin, and you could see he aimed to give service and studied about it. Doc Mellhorn thought, “He’s the kind that wipse off your windshield no matter how clean it is.”

  “No,” said Doc Mellhorn. “You see, I don’t believe this. I don’t believe any of it. I’m sorry if that sounds cranky, but I don’t.”

  “That’s quite all right, sir,” said the reception clerk. “It often takes a while.” And he smiled as if Doc Mellhorn had done him a favor.

  “Young man, I’m a physician,” said Doc Mellhorn, “and do you mean to tell me—”

  Then he stopped, for he suddenly saw there was no use arguing. He was either there or he wasn’t. And it felt as if he were there.

  “Well,” said Doc Mellhorn, with a sigh, “how do I begin?”

  “That’s entirely at your own volition, sir,” said the reception clerk briskly. “Any meetings with relatives, of course. Or if you would prefer to get yourself settled first. Or take a tour, alone or conducted. Perhaps these will offer suggestions,” and he started to hand over a handful of leaflets. But Doc Mellhorn put them aside.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I want to think. Well, naturally, there’s Mother and Dad. But I couldn’t see them just yet. I wouldn’t believe it. And Grandma—well, now, if I saw Grandma—and me older than she is—was—used to be—well, I don’t know what it would do to me. You’ve got to let me get my breath. Well, of course, there’s Uncle Frank—he’d be easier.” He paused. “Is he here?” he said.

  The reception clerk looked in a file. “I’m happy to say that Mr. Francis V. Mellhorn arrived July 12, 1907,” he said. He smiled winningly.

  “Well!” said Doc Mellhorn. “Uncle Frank! Well, I’ll be—well! But it must have been a great consolation to Mother. We heard—well, never mind what we heard—I guess it wasn’t so. . . . No, don’t reach for that phone just yet, or whatever it is. I’m still thinking.”

  “We sometimes find,” said the reception clerk eagerly, “that a person not a relative may be the best introduction. Even a stranger sometimes—a distinguished stranger connected with one’s own profession—”

  “Well, now that’s an idea,” said Doc Mellhorn heartily to keep his mind off how much he disliked the reception clerk. He couldn’t just say why he disliked him, but he knew he did.

  It reminded him of the time he’d had to have his gall bladder out in the city hospital and the young, brisk interns had come to see him and called him “Doctor” every other word.

  “Yes, that’s an idea,” he said He reflected. “Well, of course, I’d like to see Koch,” he said. “And Semmelweiss. Not to speak of Walter Reed But, shucks, they’d be busy men. But there is one fellow—only he lived pretty far back—”

  “Hippocrates, please,” said the reception clerk into the telephone or whatever it was. “H for horse—”

  “No!” said Doc Mellhorn quite violently. “Excuse me, but you just wait a minute. I mean if you can wait. I mean, if Hippocrates wants to come, I’ve no objection. But I never took much of a fancy to him, in spite of his oath. It’s Aesculapius I’m thinking about. George W. Oh, glory!” he said. “But he won’t talk English. I forgot.”

  “I shall be happy to act as interpreter,” said the reception clerk, smiling brilliantly.

  “I haven’t a doubt,” said Doc Mellhorn. “But just wait a shake.” In a minute, by the way the clerk was acting, he was going to be talking to Aesculapius. “And what in time am I going to say to the man?” he thought. “It’s too much.” He gazed wildly around the neat reception room—distempered, as he noticed, in a warm shade of golden tan. Then his eyes fell on the worn black bag at his feet and a sudden warm wave of relief flooded over him.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, and his voice gathered force and authority. “Where’s my patient?”

  “Patient?” said the reception clerk, looking puzzled for the first time.

  “Patient,” said Doc Mellhorn. “P for phlebitis.” He tapped his bag.

  “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, sir,” said the reception clerk.

  “I understand this,” said Doc Mellhorn. “I was called here. And if I wasn’t called professionally, why have I got my bag?”

  “But, my dear Doctor Mellhorn—” said the reception clerk.

  “I’m not your dear doctor,” said Doc Mellhorn. “I was called here, I tell you. I’m sorry not to give you the patient’s name, but the call must have come in my absence and the girl doesn’t spell very well. But in any well-regulated hospital—”

  “But I tell you,” said the reception clerk, and his hair wasn’t slick any more, “nobody’s ill here. Nobody can be ill. If they could, it wouldn’t be He—”

  “Humph,” said Doc Mellhorn. He thought it over, and felt worse. “Then what does a fellow like Koch do?” he said. “Or Pasteur?” He raised a hand. “Oh, don’t tell me,” he said. “I can see they’d be busy. Yes, I guess it’d be all right for a research man. But I never was . . . Oh, well, shucks, I’ve published a few papers. And there’s that clamp of mine—always meant to do something about it. But they’ve got better ones now. Mean to say there isn’t so much as a case of mumps in the whole place?”

  “I assure you,” said the reception clerk, in a weary voice. “And now, once you see Doctor Aesculapius—”

  “Funny,” said Doc Mellhorn. “Lord knows there’s plenty of times you’d be glad to be quit of the whole thing. And don’t talk to me about the healer’s art or grateful patients. Well, I’ve known a few . . . a few. But I’ve known others. All the same, it’s different, being told there isn’t any need for what you can do.”

  “A for Ararat,” said the reception clerk into his instrument. “E for Eden.”

  “Should think you’d have a dial,” said Doc Mellhorn desperately. “We’ve got ’em down below.” He thought hard and frantically. “Wait a shake. It’s coming back to me,” he said. “Got anybody named Grew here? Paisley Grew?”

  “S for serpent . . .” said the reception clerk. “What was that?”

  “Fellow that called me,” said Doc Mellhorn. “G-r-e-w. First name, Paisley.”

  “I will consult the index,” said the reception clerk.

  He did so, and Doc Mellhorn waited, hoping against hope.

  “We have 94,183 Grews, including 83 Prescotts and one Penobscot,” the reception clerk said at last. “But I fail to find Paisley Grew. Are you quite sure of the name?”

  “Of course,” said
Doc Mellhorn briskly. “Paisley Grew. Chronic indigestion. Might be appendix—can’t say—have to see. But anyhow, he’s called.” He picked up his bag. “Well, thanks for the information,” he said, liking the reception clerk better than he had yet. “Not your fault, anyway.”

  “But—but where are you going?” said the reception clerk.

  “Well, there’s another establishment, isn’t there?” said Doc Mellhorn. “Always heard there was. Call probably came from there. Crossed wires, I expect.”

  “But you can’t go there!” said the reception clerk. “I mean—”

  “Can’t go?” said Doc Mellhorn. “I’m a physician. A patient’s called me.”

  “But if you’ll only wait and see Aesculapius!” said the reception clerk, running his hands wildly through his hair. “He’ll be here almost any moment.”

  “Please give him my apologies,” said Doc Mellhorn. “He’s a doctor. He’ll understand. And if any messages come for me, just stick them on the spike. Do I need a road map? Noticed the road I came was all one way.”

  “There is, I believe, a back road in rather bad repair,” said the reception clerk icily. “I can call Information if you wish.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” said Doc Mellhorn. “I’ll find it. And I never saw a road beat Lizzie yet.” He took a silver half dollar from the doorknob of the door. “See that?” he said. “Slick as a whistle. Well, good-by, young man.”

  But it wasn’t till he’d cranked up Lizzie and was on his way that Doc Mellhorn felt safe. He found the back road and it was all the reception clerk had said it was and more. But he didn’t mind—in fact, after one particularly bad rut, he grinned.

  “I suppose I ought to have seen the folks,” he said. “Yes, I know I ought. But—not so much as a case of mumps in the whole abiding dominion! Well, it’s lucky I took a chance on Paisley Grew.”

  After another mile or so, he grinned again.

  “And I’d like to see old Aesculapius’ face. Probably rang him in the middle of dinner—they always do. But shucks, it’s happened to all of us.”

  Well, the road got worse and worse and the sky above it darker and darker, and what with one thing and another, Doc Mellhorn was glad enough when he got to the other gates. They were pretty impressive gates, too, though of course in a different way, and reminded Doc Mellhorn a little of the furnaces outside Steeltown, where he’d practised for a year when he was young.

  This time Doc Mellhorn wasn’t going to take any advice from reception clerks and he had his story all ready. All the same, he wasn’t either registered or expected, so there was a little fuss. Finally they tried to scare him by saying he came at his own risk and that there were some pretty tough characters about. But Doc Mellhorn remarked that he’d practiced in Steeltown. So after he’d told them what seemed to him a million times that he was a physician on a case, they finally let him in and directed him to Paisley Grew. Paisley was on Level 346 in Pit 68,953, and Doc Mellhorn recognized him the minute he saw him. He even had the jew’s-harp, stuck in the back of his overalls.

  “Well, Doc,” said Paisley finally, when the first greetings were over, “you certainly are a sight for sore eyes! Though, of course, I’m sorry to see you here,” and he grinned.

  “Well, I can’t see that it’s so different from a lot of places,” said Doc Mellhorn, wiping his forehead. “Warmish, though.”

  “It’s the humidity, really,” said Paisley Grew. “That’s what it really is.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Doc Mellhorn. “And now tell me, Paisley; how’s that indigestion of yours?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Doc,” said Paisley. “When I first came here, I thought the climate was doing it good. I did for a fact. But now I’m not so sure. I’ve tried all sorts of things for it—I’ve even tried being transferred to the boiling asphalt lakes. But it just seems to hang on, and every now and then, when I least expect it, it catches me. Take last night. I didn’t have a thing to eat that I don’t generally eat—well, maybe I did have one little snort of hot sulphur, but it wasn’t the sulphur that did it. All the same, I woke up at four, and it was just like a knife. Now . . .”

  He went on from there and it took him some time. And Doc Mellhorn listened, happy as a clam. He never thought he’d be glad to listen to a hypochondriac, but he was. And when Paisley was all through, he examined him and prescribed for him. It was just a little soda bicarb and pepsin, but Paisley said it took hold something wonderful. And they had a fine time that evening, talking over the old days.

  Finally, of course, the talk got around to how Paisley liked it where he Was. And Paisley was honest enough about that.

  “Well, Doc,” he said, “of course this isn’t the place for you, and I can see you’re just visiting. But I haven’t many real complaints. It’s hot, to be sure, and they work you, and some of the boys here are rough. But they’ve had some pretty interesting experiences, too, when you get them talking—yes, sir. And anyhow, it isn’t Peabodyville, New Jersey,” he said with vehemence. “I spent five years in Peabodyville, trying to work up in the leather business. After that I bust out, and I guess that’s what landed me here. But it’s an improvement on Peabodyville.” He looked at Doc Mellhorn sidewise. “Say, Doc,” he said, “I know this is a vacation for you, but all the same there’s a couple of the boys—nothing really wrong with them of course—but—well, if you could just look them over—”

  “I was thinking the office hours would be nine to one,” said Doc Mellhorn.

  So Paisley took him around and they found a nice little place for an office in one of the abandoned mine galleries, and Doc Mellhorn hung out his shingle. And right away patients started coming around. They didn’t get many doctors there, in the first place, and the ones they did get weren’t exactly the cream of the profession, so Doc Mellhorn had it all to himself. It was mostly sprains, fractures, bruises and dislocations, of course, with occasional burns and scalds—and, on the whole, it reminded Doc Mellhorn a good deal of his practice in Steeltown, especially when it came to foreign bodies in the eye. Now and then Doc Mellhorn ran into a more unusual case—for instance, there was one of the guards that got part of himself pretty badly damaged in a rock slide. Well, Doc Mellhorn had never set a tail before, but he managed it all right, and got a beautiful primary union, too, in spite of the fact that he had no X-ray facilities. He thought of writing up the case for the State Medical Journal, but then he couldn’t figure out any way to send it to them, so he had to let it slide. And then there was an advanced carcinoma of the liver—a Greek named Papadoupolous or Prometheus or something. Doc Mellhorn couldn’t do much for him, considering the circumstances, but he did what he could, and he and the Greek used to have long conversations. The rest was just everyday practice—run of the mine—but he enjoyed it.

  Now and then it would cross his mind that he ought to get out Lizzie and run back to the other place for a visit with the folks. But that was just like going back East had been on earth—he’d think he had everything pretty well cleared up, and then a new flock of patients would come in. And it wasn’t that he didn’t miss his wife and children and grand-children—he did. But there wasn’t any way to get back to them, and he knew it. And there was the work in front of him and the office crowded every day. So he just went along, hardly noticing the time.

  Now and then, to be sure, he’d get a suspicion that he wasn’t too popular with the authorities of the place. But he was used to not being popular with authorities and he didn’t pay much attention. But finally they sent an inspector around. The minute Doc Mellhorn saw him, he knew there was going to be trouble.

  Not that the inspector was uncivil. In fact, he was a pretty high-up official—you could tell by his antlers. And Doc Mellhorn was just as polite, showing him around. He showed him the free dispensary and the clinic and the nurse—Scotch girl named Smith, she was—and the dental chair he’d rigged up with the help of a fellow named Ferguson, who used to be an engineer before he was sentenced. And the inspector looke
d them all over, and finally he came back to Doc Mellhorn’s office. The girl named Smith had put up curtains in the office, and with that and a couple of potted gas plants it looked more homelike than it had. The inspector looked around it and sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Mellhorn,” he said at last, “but you can see for yourself, it won’t do.”

  “What won’t do?” said Doc Mellhorn, stoutly. But, all the same, he felt afraid.

  “Any of it,” said the inspector. “We could overlook the alleviation of minor suffering—I’d be inclined to do so myself—though these people are here to suffer, and there’s no changing that. But you’re playing merry Hades with the whole system.”

  “I’m a physician in practice,” said Doc Mellhorn.

  “Yes,” said the inspector. “That’s just the trouble. Now, take these reports you’ve been sending,” and he took out a sheaf of papers. “What have you to say about that?”

  “Well, seeing as there’s no county health officer, or at least I couldn’t find one—” said Doc Mellhorn.

  “Precisely,” said the inspector. “And what have you done? You’ve condemned fourteen levels of this pit as unsanitary nuisances. You’ve recommended 2136 lost souls for special diet, remedial exercise, hospitalization—Well—I won’t go through the list.”

  “I’ll stand back of every one of those recommendations,” said Doc Mellhorn. “And now we’ve got the chair working, we can handle most of the dental work on the spot. Only Ferguson needs more amalgam.”

  “I know,” said the inspector patiently, “but the money has to come from somewhere—you must realize that. We’re not a rich community, in spite of what people think. And these unauthorized requests—oh, we fill them, of course, but—”

  “Ferguson needs more amalgam,” said Doc Mellhorn. “And that last batch wasn’t standard. I wouldn’t use it on a dog.”

  “He’s always needing more amalgam!” said the inspector bitterly, making a note. “Is he going to fill every tooth in Hades? By the way, my wife tells me I need a little work done myself—but we won’t go into that. We’ll take just one thing—your entirely unauthorized employment of Miss Smith. Miss Smith has no business working for you. She’s supposed to be gnawed by a never-dying worm every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.”