His eyes darted to Feldman's tobacco sack and there was animal
appeal in them.
Feldman hesitated, then reluctantly rolled a smoke. He held the
cigarette while the spaceman took a long, gasping drag on it. He smoked
the remainder himself, letting the harsh tobacco burn against his lungs
and sicken his empty stomach. Then he shrugged and threaded his way
through the narrow aisles toward the attendant.
"Better get a doctor," he said bitterly, when the young punk looked up
at him. "You've got a man dying of space-stomach on 214."
The sneer on the kid's face deepened. "Yeah? We don't pay for doctors
every time some wino wants to throw up. Forget it and get back where you
belong, bo."
"You'll have a corpse on your hands in an hour," Feldman insisted. "I
know space-stomach, damn it."
The kid turned back to his lottery sheet. "Go treat yourself if you
wanta play doctor. Go on, scram--before I toss you out in the snow!"
One of Feldman's white-knuckled hands reached for the attendant. Then he
caught himself. He started to turn back, hesitated, and finally faced
the kid again. "I'm not fooling. And I _was_ a doctor," he stated. "My
name is Daniel Feldman."
The attendant nodded absently, until the words finally penetrated. He
looked up, studied Feldman with surprised curiosity and growing
contempt, and reached for the phone. "Gimme Medical Directory," he
muttered.
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