"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 155 - Measures For a Coffin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

went back to thinking intently about the accident. He could not, he was forced to admit, lay his finger on
a thing that was off-color about the accident, but he still had the feeling that something wasn't right. He
knew from experience that such hunches usually sprang from a warning caught by his subconscious, but
not by him. That is, he had seen something, but had not yet been able to realize what it was.

Or was this ridiculous? It was possible that his profession had made him overly suspicious. He rarely
thought of his profession any longer as being surgery, or electrical research, or chemistry, or psychiatry,
or any of the other skills he had endeavored to master. His profession was the pursuit of excitement.
There was no need to kid around about that.

The investigating of the strange, the unusual, the fighting of crime which seemed to be beyond the fingers
of the law for one reason or another, occupied more of his time than anything else. That made it his
profession. It was not always a safe business, so he would naturally become sourly expectant of trouble
disguised as innocence, he reflected. Instead of beating his brains together now trying to find something
sinister in the accident, probably what he should do was go to sleep.

Drowsiness, brought by the hypo shot, was settling his nerves anyway. He felt drowsy, and presently he
sincerely endeavored to relax.

It would be a poor time for him to get into trouble. His five assistants, with whom he usually worked,
were, at the moment, scattered widely. Renny Renwick, the engineer, was in China, and Major Thomas
J. Roberts, known everywhere as Long Tom, the electrical wizard of the group, was in the Pacific
somewhere, on a radar project. The other three, chemist Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, lawyer Theodore
Marley тАЬHam" Brooks, archaeologist and geologist William Harper Littlejohn, were in Europe, helping
with the mess that had fallen into the American lap after the end of the war there.

He concluded he was going to be able to sleep after all. He felt quite drowsy indeed. They must have
given him a large shot of morphine. . . . larger than he needed. He wasn't in any danger, and he could
have rested. . . .

He slept . . . presently he was aware, vaguely, of movement. Of being moved. Stirring. The bed being
rolled. Voices. Saying: тАЬPush it over here. He's heavy. Better use the same bed. You can't tell what these
nurses might have noticed, a spot on the bed covers or something. . . . The nurse coming yet?тАЭ

Another voice: тАЬThere's no one in sight yet.тАЭ

тАЬGet a move on!тАЭ

Quite suddenly, he knew there was indeed something wrong, and alarm ran along his nerves like wild
horses. His conscious gave a great wrench at the restraining mud of morphine dullness.

A voice: тАЬHey, he's waking up!тАЭ

Another voice: тАЬBust him one.тАЭ

He was busted one. The blackness felt squishy, as if it was a semi-gelid substance which had squirted out
of a pipe or a hose. It filled everything, every cranny of the conscious world, completely.