Drug of Choice

He was all alone — he knew that now. Nobody could help him. He had to find a solution by himself, and he had to find it quickly.

To begin with, he needed materials. But where would he find them?

Only one place came to mind: the hospital.

He slipped in through the service entrance, and made his way along the underground tunnels to the elevators. No one saw him; he was alone with his echoing footsteps and the hissing pipes overhead.

At the elevator, he pressed the fourth floor button, and held it. The doors closed, and the elevator ascended smoothly, without stopping at any intermediate floors.

At the fourth floor, the doors opened. He went out. Directly ahead was a sign: TO OPERATING ROOMS.

This was where he wanted to be.

22. BACK IN THE U.S.S.R

Down the hallway was the utility closet. He ducked in and found a pair of coveralls and the blue shirt that maintenance men wore; there was also a transistor radio hanging on a peg. The night men often carried a transistor around with them for company. He put on the coveralls and shirt, hung the transistor from the strap around his shoulder, and turned it on.

It was a Beatles song; he paid little attention as he pushed the large utility cart forward. On the cart were several trays of supplies, and a large cloth sack at one end, open at the top, for garbage disposal.

He pushed the cart into the operating area, through the swinging doors, his transistor going full blast. There was a night nurse at the registration desk, next to the large blackboard where the day’s operations were scheduled and crossed off when completed; there were two recovery room nurses walking around, and a maintenance man waxing the floors in OR 2.

Nobody paid any attention to him, though the night nurse glanced up when she heard the music. He pushed his cart through to the supply room, and busied himself cleaning out the wastebaskets. A technician was there, hunting among the shelves of supplies that ran from floor to ceiling.

She turned to him. “We’re out of Kellys,” she said.

“What?”

“We’re out of Kellys. Order more from central supply, will you?”

“All right,” he said.

The technician left; he was alone in the room. Swiftly, he pushed the cart down to the anesthesia supplies. There were several cans of ether on the lowest shelf. Alongside was a sign: “Authorized Personnel Only.”

He scooped up six of the cans and set them onto the shelf of the cart. Then, looking further, he saw a timer used to record the anesthetic induction times; it was a mechanical, spring-wound affair, but quite accurate.

Lastly, he found an oxygen cylinder. It was a small one, just a few cubic feet, but quite heavy. He could carry it under one arm, but it weighed twenty pounds.

He looked around, found the stickers, and pasted one across the cylinder: EMPTY RETURN TO GAS LABORATORY FOR REFILLING.

A few minutes later, he was back in the utility closet, shucking off his overalls.

“Gee, I had a dreadful flight,” went the song on the radio.

He flicked it off, gathered up the equipment, wrapped the coveralls around it, and walked out to the elevator.

Once outside the hospital, he had a moment of elation. He had done it; he had pulled it off. He drove away into the early morning, and as he drove his elation disappeared.

The most difficult part was still ahead.

It took him twenty minutes, driving on back roads and through residential districts, to reach the Santa Monica Freeway. From there, it was twelve minutes to the Los Calos exit. The sun was beginning to appear above the mountains as he turned off the freeway, and onto the small road that led north, to Advance, Inc.

It was quite light when he reached the black sign by the road; he drove a quarter mile beyond, then pulled the car off the road and into the woods. He walked back to the road and tried to hide the tire tracks, but it was difficult, and he abandoned the attempt after a few minutes.

He returned to the car, got out his material, and crept through the woods toward Advance. It was fifteen minutes before he came to the rise in the hill, and was able to look down over the glass building and the parking lot. There were two police cars in the lot, next to the limousine. The cops were standing around, talking to a short man whom he recognized as Harvey Blood.

They seemed to be having an argument; Blood was waving his hands and speaking earnestly, while the cops stood around frowning.

He looked from the parking lot toward the building itself, his eyes going along the ground floor windows to those of his own lab. He usually left one window open, though he was not supposed to. He hated stuffy labs in the morning.

He saw the window: he was in luck. It was open.

Back at the parking lot, Blood seemed to be winning his argument. The cops shrugged and climbed into their cars, and drove off. One, however, remained behind, standing at the entrance to the building.