Sutton sat in an armchair, a cigarette between his fingers, but he
could not bring himself to light it.
Miss Cross was seated rather nearer the bed. Behind them a small
Chinese lamp burned, casting a topaz tinted light over the dead girl’s
folded hands.
“Poor baby,” repeated Miss Cross, leaning forward and stroking the
clasped fingers with a caressing touch. “Rigour has not yet set in,”
she added, “nor is there any discolouration of the skin.... Aren’t you
going to light your cigarette, Mr. Sutton?”
“I’d rather not, I think.”
Miss Cross bent lower and looked wistfully into the girl’s face. “You
pathetic little thing,” she murmured. “I wish you could open your eyes.”
She resumed her position in her chair presently, and sat silently
smoothing out her white clothing.
“Haven’t you any idea what it was that Dr. Pockman attempted to do?”
she asked.
He shook his head.
“Would you care to have me explain it as well as I am able? I’m not
very clear at explanations, but it will help pass away the time.”
She settled herself back for her narrative.
“First of all--I am not a graduate nurse, Mr. Sutton. I was merely a
probationer at St. Stephen’s. Dr. Pockman suggested that I assist in
his research work. Microscope mostly. That’s what I’ve been doing. Dr.
Pockman is a most remarkable man.”
Sutton’s acquiescent nod was a very slight one. He did not care for
Pockman personally.
The nurse continued.
“What Metchnikoff began, what Claude Bernard continued, what Martens,
Beyer, and Voronoff did, and are doing, Sidney Pockman is continuing.
But all this means very little to a layman, I suppose?” she added
amiably.
“I’ve heard of Metchnikoff,” he said.
“Let us go farther back than Metchnikoff--farther back than any man,
living or dead--farther back, even, than mankind itself--millions of
years back,” said Miss Cross, smiling.
“I’ll tell you nothing about the origin of life--the first glimmer of
life on this planet. Nobody can do more than speculate concerning the
birth of life.
“But the _living thing_ which most closely approaches that form of life
which first appeared on earth is a tiny, microscopic being composed of
a soft mass and a nucleus; and is in the shape of a cell.
“It is called an amœba; it divides itself--reproduces swarms of its
fellows by means of perpetual division. And it _never dies_.”
Sutton seemed dully astonished.
“It’s true,” she said. “The amœba never dies. Voronoff himself says
decisively: ‘The breath of life which for the first time gave animation
to matter, held _nothing but life_. Nature, at that time, knew nothing
of death.’”
Miss Cross leaned over toward Sutton, resting her elbows on her knees,
and laid one forefinger across the palm of the other hand.
“It’s this way,” she explained; “the human body is not an individual
entity; it is an ensemble composed of billions of cells of different
sorts, each cell alive, each cell invested with its own special but
limited functions and duties, and each cell busy night and day.
“The human body is a society, a state, a republic of living cells,
ruled by the delicate cells that compose the brain.
“The primitive type of cell is the protozoan. Our body’s various and
highly organized cells are all derived from the elements of the initial
cell.
“The initial cell is deathless. But its highly sensitive and more
complicated descendants which compose our tissues have been greatly
modified, and their life depends upon the assent and good will of all
of the cells of our body.... I wonder if I am making it clear to you,
Mr. Sutton?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, then, among all these billions of living and highly specialized
workers called cells, which compose that beehive, or anthill community
we call the human body, are many primitive cells without business or
profession, and they reproduce themselves continually. These are the
white blood corpuscles and the conjunctive cells; and they are always
at war with the more highly developed cells.
“When they win that war, as they always do in the end, _we die_.”
“What use are these conjunctive cells, then?” asked Sutton, mildly
interested.
“They are the regular army of the body-republic, and they fight and
slay foreign microbes which invade us. When they become unruly,
insurgent, and a powerful majority, they attack their own fellow
citizens. Then the body-republic falls. _That_ is death, Mr. Sutton.”
He said nothing, but the nurse saw he was more or less interested. She
said:
“What controls and keeps in order these billions of citizen-cells in
our body-republic are fluids from certain vital glands. If these glands
are removed, the cells go crazy and murder one another, and we die.”
“What are these vital glands?” he enquired.
“The thyroid in the throat; four small para-thyroid glands no bigger
than a needle’s eye near it; the two small supra-renal glands; the
little pituitary gland under the brain; the pineal gland in the middle
brain, which, a million years ago, was perhaps a third eye; and the
gland called the metathoracic or nymphalic gland, which lies deep
in the nape of the neck and which means instant death if injured or
removed.... And that, Mr. Sutton, was what caused this poor child’s
death.”
“What?”
“You were not watching closely, were you, when Dr. Pockman operated?”
“Not--closely, no.”
“You did not see him draw a long, gold-headed steel pin from where it
was imbedded in the back of her neck?”
“Good God! I didn’t see that!”
“It had been, probably, in her hair--to hold on her crown, perhaps,
and had become dislodged. If she threw back her head suddenly it might
have driven the pin deep into her neck.... Well, there it was, under
the soft, bright hair at the nape of her neck. Death must have been
instantaneous.”
“Did Pockman tell you I was dancing with her at the time--or about
to--I already had placed my arm around her. She was laughing at
something I said.... I remember, now, that she threw back her head and
laughed.... And crumpled up in my arms.... It is horrible--horrible
beyond words!----”
Miss Cross nodded. “Yes, Dr. Pockman told me. No wonder you are
upset.... I really wish you’d light your cigarette.” But he shook his
head.
After a moment he looked up at the nurse in pallid inquiry.
She nodded. “Now I’ll try to explain what Dr. Pockman did,” she said in
her cheerful voice. “He telephoned for Mr. Stent and me. You saw that
miniature refrigerator?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Mr. Sutton. Death stops the heart and produces functional
discord of the organs. The individual is dead then. Very well. But the
several tissues composing that individual’s body are not dead yet. Not
at all. Hair continues to grow; the skin is alive; the bones retain
vitality; the brain, the glands, almost all the organs still remain
alive as long as eighteen hours.
“And if these organs are removed from the body before their own
individual death, they may be kept alive for weeks if preserved in a
zero temperature. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Yes, they retain all their vital energy for weeks.”
There was a silence.
“Shall I tell you what Dr. Pockman accomplished?”
“Please.”
“Dr. Pockman’s original research is in the direction of gland grafting.
Today a girl died at St. Stephen’s, of a fractured skull. Dr. Pockman
is externe there. He operated but could not save her. However, finding
the nymphalic gland uninjured and alive, he removed it in a jar of
Ringer’s liquid maintained at a temperature of some forty degrees.
“I preserved this living gland in the refrigerator you saw. When he
telephoned, Mr. Stent and I brought it here. You saw us place it in
Ringer’s liquid again, didn’t you?”
“Yes--I suppose so.”
“You saw Dr. Pockman make the incision, remove the injured gland, and
graft this living gland in its place.”
“Was that what he did?”
“That was what he did, Mr. Sutton.”
After a tense silence: “Why did Pockman do it?” demanded Sutton
hoarsely. “Had he any hope--any idea that--that death is not finality?”
She replied frankly: “He desired to know what effect on the cells the
secretions of this living gland might produce under these conditions.
Nobody knows. It never has been tried before. Theoretically it ought to
restrain the conjunctive cells in their onslaught against the nobler
cells, and invigorate and stiffen the resistance of these latter in the
increasing anarchy now running riot.”
“How long before any conclusion can be reached?”
“By morning, perhaps. If there is anything to be noticed, four to five
hours will show it.... Meanwhile, I must get some sleep.” She rose. “If
you think--if you feel that somebody ought to watch here tonight,” she
added, “why, you may remain, of course. But really it is not necessary,
I assure you.”
“I think I’ll remain until Pockman arrives.”
“That is nice of you, Mr. Sutton.”
She left the room. After a while she returned wearing hat and street
costume and carrying her satchel.
For a few moments she bent silently over the bed, then, pausing to
offer a firm, cool hand to Sutton, went away with a nod and a slight
smile. The outer grille clanged. Sutton and the dead were alone.