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Matter, Space, and Time
Scalpel of Doom
A doctor is not supposed to use his knowledge to slay. Yet there came a time when this small-town medico had to operate with...
short story
excerpt
Lots of things, particularly unpleasant ones, can get crowded into an hour. I’ve had it happen to me often, but never quite like that hour which began at about midnight, one evening last summer. And I never thought I’d have occasion to kill a man. Every doctor worries that sometime he might make a little mistake, or even just an error of judgment; his patient would die—and the doctor would forever after blame himself. But this wasn’t anything like that. I wanted to kill this fellow, and I did. I can’t say I’m exactly sorry, but it gives you a queer feeling just the same.
I was alone in my office, that summer night. I live in a little stucco house near the edge of Pleasant Grove Village, with my office and reception room occupying about half its lower floor. My wife and young daughter were away for a week at the beach. I was alone on the premises, that night at midnight. I’d had quite a tough day at the hospital—two operations, one of which had turned out to be more serious than I had anticipated, and a long steady grind of routine calls that had kept me going until about eleven-thirty. I had just decided to go to bed when a car stopped outside. Hurried footsteps came up the walk; my night bell rang.
short story
excerpt
Lots of things, particularly unpleasant ones, can get crowded into an hour. I’ve had it happen to me often, but never quite like that hour which began at about midnight, one evening last summer. And I never thought I’d have occasion to kill a man. Every doctor worries that sometime he might make a little mistake, or even just an error of judgment; his patient would die—and the doctor would forever after blame himself. But this wasn’t anything like that. I wanted to kill this fellow, and I did. I can’t say I’m exactly sorry, but it gives you a queer feeling just the same.
I was alone in my office, that summer night. I live in a little stucco house near the edge of Pleasant Grove Village, with my office and reception room occupying about half its lower floor. My wife and young daughter were away for a week at the beach. I was alone on the premises, that night at midnight. I’d had quite a tough day at the hospital—two operations, one of which had turned out to be more serious than I had anticipated, and a long steady grind of routine calls that had kept me going until about eleven-thirty. I had just decided to go to bed when a car stopped outside. Hurried footsteps came up the walk; my night bell rang.
16 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 1, 2012
6 people want to read
About the author
Ray Cummings
318 books21 followersRaymond King Cummings. His career resulted in some 750 novels and short stories, using also the pen names Ray King, Gabrielle Cummings, and Gabriel Wilson.
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