"It's a matter of life and death. Your own life and death. We have to
get those things out of your stomach."
"No, sir, you're not cuttin' me open."
Dr. Manson gritted his teeth in frustration. "You don't feel so much
pain now because of the morphine I gave you. But it's going to wear off
in a few minutes and then you'll be in agony again. You'll have to let
us operate."
"No, sir," repeated Ollie stubbornly. "You're not cuttin' me open."
And then he almost leaped from his bed. His already distended stomach
seemed to swell outward, and before the astonished eyes of doctor and
nurse, a strange new bump appeared.
"Help!" yelled Ollie.
"That's exactly what we're trying to do," said Dr. Manson angrily.
"Only you won't let us. Now sign that paper, man, and stop your
nonsense."
Ollie groaned and signed. The next moment he was being rushed into the
operating room.
* * * * *
The morphine was wearing off rapidly, and he lay, still groaning, on
the table. From the ceiling, bright lights beat down upon him. Near his
head the anesthetist stood with his cone of sleep poised in readiness.
At one side a happy Dr. Manson was slipping rubber gloves on his
antiseptic hands, while the attentive nurses and assistants waited.
Two interns were standing near the doorway. One of them, Zolto, said
softly, "We may have to use violence after all. They must not find it."
"I should have given him a third tablet," said Pojim, the other intern,
regretfully. "Who would have suspected that the action would be so
slow?"
They fell silent. Zolto slipped a hand into his pocket and grasped the
weapon, the one he had hoped he wouldn't have to use.