They had Tom Kivelson in a private room at the hospital; he was
sitting up in a chair, with a lot of pneumatic cushions around him,
and a lunch tray on his lap. He looked white and thin. He could move
one arm completely, but the bandages they had loaded him with seemed
to have left the other free only at the elbow. He was concentrating on
his lunch, and must have thought I was one of the nurses, or a doctor,
or something of the sort.
"Are you going to let me have a cigarette and a cup of coffee, when
I'm through with this?" he asked.
"Well, I don't have any coffee, but you can have one of my
cigarettes," I said.
Then he looked up and gave a whoop. "Walt! How'd you get in here? I
thought they weren't going to let anybody in to see me till this
afternoon."
"Power of the press," I told him. "Bluff, blarney, and blackmail. How
are they treating you?"
"Awful. Look what they gave me for lunch. I thought we were on short
rations down on Hermann Reuch's Land. How's Father?"
"He's all right. They took the splint off, but he still has to carry
his arm in a sling."
"Lucky guy; he can get around on his feet, and I'll bet he isn't
starving, either. You know, speaking about food, I'm going to feel
like a cannibal eating carniculture meat, now. My whole back's
carniculture." He filled his mouth with whatever it was they were
feeding him and asked, through it: "Did I miss Steve Ravick's
hanging?"