“CHOCTAW, ALABAMA. DAMN LIAR.”

“WHY?”

“TELLS KIDS HE’S PART INDIAN.”

He nodded, grinning. He was beginning to like her. “WHERE DOES HE WORK?”

“UNEMPLOYEDEEE,” the shout turning into a scream of anguish. He glanced at his watch again. 9:44. Two minutes.

Two minutes?

I can’t deliver a baby, he thought dazedly.

His experience was limited to five days of obstetrical training during his third year in medical school, two years before.

Had he paid attention?

“YOU GOT A BEDPAN, DOC?”

“CAN’T YOU WAIT?”

“I DON’T THINK SO.”

That did it; he knew the child was almost there. He lurched toward the front of the ambulance and touched Meyerson’s shoulder. “PULL OVER AND STOP.”

“WHY?”

“I WANT TO BUY YOU ANOTHER GODDAMMED CORNED BEEF SANDWICH,” he screamed.

The ambulance slowed, halted, swallowed its siren-wail with a sound like a hiccough. It was suddenly very quiet except for the swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of cars passing very fast and very close.

He looked out and felt faint. They were on the bridge.

“You got those smoke signals, you know, traffic flares?” he asked Meyerson.

Maish nodded.

“Well, put them out so we won’t get killed.”

“You want me to do anything else?”

“Rub two sticks together and start a fire. Boil lots of water. Pray. Stay the hell away from me.”

“Aaaagh,” the woman said.

There was a small tank of nitrous oxide under the litter platform, and a face mask. And an obstetrical pack. He dragged them out. He began to think very hard. She certainly was not primipara, a first-time mother. But had there been five children, which would make her a multip? “How many kids do you have, mother?”

“Eight,” she said, grunting.

“How many boys?” he asked, although he didn’t give a damn. She was a grand-multip, which meant that there was a good chance she would drop the baby like a bomb.

“First two boys, all the rest girls,” she said as he took off her shoes. There were no stirrups, of course; he lifted her feet and propped them against the benches on either side of the litter so the blood would flow back into her trunk instead of pooling in the legs.

Meyerson opened the door, letting in traffic noises. “Doc, got some change? I’ll walk to a phone, call the hospital.”

He gave him a dime.

“I have to make some other calls.”

He gave him a handful of change, thrust him out of the ambulance, locked the door from the inside. The woman groaned. “I’m going to give you a little something for the pain, mother.”

“Go to sleep?”

“No. Just like a good drunk.”

She nodded and he gave her a whiff or two of nitrous oxide, guessing at the amount, being very conservative in case of error. It took effect quickly.

“Glad,” she murmured.

“Of what?”

“Colored doctor. Never had colored doctor.”