E. E. SMITH Boxed Set. E. E. Smith
to burn up, each twenty-four hours, in intense effort. He was always hungry, and he was forever demanding food.
And food, to him, did not mean orange juice or grape juice or tomato juice or milk. Nor did it mean weak tea and hard, dry toast and an occasional anemic soft-boiled egg. If he ate eggs at all he wanted them fried; three or four of them, accompanied by two or three thick slices of ham.
He wanted—and demanded in no uncertain terms, argumentatively and persistently—a big, thick, rare beefsteak. He wanted baked beans, with plenty of fat pork. He wanted bread in thick slices, piled high with butter, and not this quadruply-and-unmentionably-qualified toast. He wanted roast beef, rare, in big, thick slabs. He wanted potatoes and thick brown gravy. He wanted corned beef and cabbage. He wanted pie—any kind of pie—in large, thick quarters. He wanted peas and corn and asparagus and cucumbers, and also various other-worldly staples of diet which he often and insistently mentioned by name.
But above all he wanted beefsteak. He thought about it days and dreamed about it nights. One night in particular he dreamed about it—an especially luscious porterhouse, fried in butter and smothered in mushrooms—only to wake up, mouth watering, literally starved, to face again the weak tea, dry toast, and, horror of horrors, this time a flabby, pallid, flaccid poached egg! It was the last straw.
“Take it away,” he said, weakly; then, when the nurse did not obey, he reached out and pushed the breakfast, tray and all, off the table. Then, as it crashed to the floor, he turned away, and, in spite of all his efforts, two hot tears forced themselves between his eyelids.
It was a particularly trying ordeal, and one requiring all of even Mac’s skill, diplomacy, and forbearance, to make the recalcitrant patient eat the breakfast prescribed for him. She was finally successful, however, and as she stepped out into the corridor she met the ubiquitous interne.
“How’s your Lensman?” he asked, in the privacy of the diet kitchen.
“Don’t call him my Lensman!” she stormed. She was about to explode with the pent-up feelings which she of course could not vent upon such a pitiful, helpless thing as her star patient. “Beefsteak! I almost wish they would give him a beefsteak, and that he’d choke on it—which of course he would. He’s worse than a baby. I never saw such a . such a brat in my life. I’d like to spank him—he needs it. I’d like to know how he ever got to be a Lensman, the big cantankerous clunker! I’m going to spank him, too, one of these days, see if I don’t!”
“Don’t take it so hard, Mac,” the interne urged. He was, however, very much relieved that relations between the handsome young Lensman and the gorgeous red-head were not upon a more cordial basis. “He won’t be here very long. But I never saw a patient clog your jets before.”
“You probably never saw a patient like him before, either. I certainly hope he never gets cracked up again.”
“Huh?”
“Do I have to draw you a chart?” she asked, sweetly. “Or, if he does get cracked up again, I hope they send him to some other hospital,” and she flounced out.
Nurse MacDougall thought that when the Lensman could eat the meat he craved her troubles would be over; but she was mistaken. Kinnison was nervous, moody, brooding; by turns irritable, sullen, and pugnacious. Nor is it to be wondered at. He was chained to that bed, and in his mind was the gnawing consciousness that he had failed. And not only failed—he had made a complete fool of himself. He had underestimated an enemy, and as a result of his own stupidity the whole Patrol had taken a setback. He was anguished and tormented. Therefore:
“Listen, Mac,” he pleaded one day. “Bring me some clothes and let me take a walk. I need exercise.”
“Uh uh, Kim, not yet,” she denied him gently, but with her entrancing smile in full evidence. “But pretty quick, when that leg looks a little less like a Chinese puzzle, you and nursie go bye-bye.”
“Beautiful, but dumb!” the Lensman growled. “Can’t you and those cockeyed croakers realize that I’ll never get any strength back if you keep me in bed all the rest of my life? And don’t talk baby-talk at me, either. I’m well enough at least so you can wipe that professional smile off your pan and cut that soothing bedside manner of yours.”
“Very well—I think so, too!” she snapped, patience at long last gone. “Somebody should tell you the truth. I always supposed that Lensmen had to have brains, but you’ve been a perfect brat ever since you’ve been here. First you wanted to eat yourself sick, and now you want to get up, with bones half-knit and burns half-healed, and undo everything that has been done for you. Why don’t you snap out of it and act your age for a change?”
“I never did think nurses had much sense, and now I know they haven’t.” Kinnison eyed her with intense disfavor, not at all convinced. “I’m not talking about going back to work. I mean a little gentle exercise, and I know what I need.”
“You’d be surprised at what you don’t know,” and the nurse walked out, chin in air. In five minutes, however, she was back, her radiant smile again flashing.
“Sorry, Kim, I shouldn’t have blasted off that way—I know that you’re bound to back-fire and to have brain-storms. I would, too, if I were .”
“Cancel it, Mac,” he began, awkwardly. “I don’t know why I have to be crabbing at you all the time.”
“QX, Lensman,” she replied, entirely serene now. “I do. You’re not the type to stay in bed without it griping you; but when a man has been ground up into such hamburger as you are, he has to stay in bed whether he likes it or not, and no matter how much he pops off about it. Roll over here, now, and I’ll give you an alcohol rub. But it won’t be long now, really—pretty soon we’ll have you out in a wheel-chair .”
Thus it went for weeks. Kinnison knew his behavior was atrocious, abominable; but he simply could not help it. Every so often the accumulated pressure of his bitterness and anxiety would blow off; and, like a jungle tiger with a toothache, he would bite and claw anything or anybody within reach.
Finally, however, the last picture was studied, the last bandage removed, and he was discharged as fit. And he was not discharged, bitterly although he resented his “captivity,” as he called it, until he really was fit. Haynes saw to that. And Haynes had allowed only the most sketchy interviews during that long convalescence. Discharged, however, Kinnison sought him out.
“Let me talk first,” Haynes instructed him at sight. “No self-reproaches, no destructive criticism. Everything constructive. Now, Kimball, I’m mighty glad to hear that you made a perfect recovery. You were in bad shape. Go ahead.”
“You have just about shut my mouth by your first order.” Kinnison smiled sourly as he spoke. “Two words—flat failure. No, let me add two more—as yet.”
“That’s the spirit!” Haynes exclaimed. “Nor do we agree with you that it was a failure. It was merely not a success—so far—which is an altogether different thing. Also, I may add that we had very fine reports indeed on you from the hospital.”
“Huh?” Kinnison was amazed to the point of being inarticulate.
“You just about tore it down, of course, but that was only to be expected.”
“But, sir, I made such a .”
“Exactly. As Lacy tells me quite frequently, he likes to have patients over there that they don’t like. Mull that one over for a bit—you may understand it better as you get older. The thought, however, may take some of the load off your mind.”
“Well, sir, I am feeling a trifle low, but if you and the rest of them still think .”
“We do so think. Cheer up and get on with the story.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and before I go around sticking out my neck again I’m going to .”
“You don’t need to tell me, you know.”
“No, sir, but I think