One of his hands was holding the tiny neck and head, the other held the small rump, warm velvet, soft as . . . a baby’s ass. Music-writer, music-maker, try and put this happening into sound, he told himself, and he knew it could not be done. The baby opened his mouth and made a prune of his face and gave a small cry, at the same time sending a stream of urine from the tiny penis—a well-hung boy.

“You have a fine son,” he told the woman. “What’s his name going to be?”

“What’s your name, Doctor?”

“Spurgeon Robinson. You’re going to name him after me?”

“Hell, no. Name him after his daddy. Just wanted to know your name.”

He was still laughing a moment later when Meyerson and the police officer knocked on the door of the ambulance.

“Anything to help, Doc?” the policeman asked.

“I have everything under control, thank you.” Behind them traffic was backed up for half a mile. The horns, he realized for the first time, were deafening.

“Wait a minute. Come in and hold Thomas Catlett for a moment, will you please?”

Delivery was just like any surgical procedure as far as the possibilities of shock were concerned. He started an intravenous dripping into her, dextrose and water.

He covered her with a blanket, deciding that he would wait for more aseptic conditions to deliver the placenta. Then he took the baby from the policeman.

“Mr. Meyerson,” Dr. Robinson said with great dignity, “will you please drive us off this damn bridge?”

When they reached the hospital yard the first flash bulb made him blink as soon as he opened the ambulance door.

“Hold up the baby, Doc. Get in close to the mother,” a cameraman ordered.

There were two photographers, three reporters. Two television crews.

What the hell, he asked himself, and then he remembered all the change Meyerson had needed to make telephone calls. He looked around wildly.

Maish was in the process of disappearing through the ambulance entrance. Like a leaf before the wind—no; like the March Hare—Meyerson scuttled.

Much later, he reached his room. He peeled off his whites, which smelled strongly of blood and amniotic fluid. The shower down the hall beckoned but for a long time he simply sat on the bed in his underwear, doing little thinking but feeling very fine.

Champagne, he thought finally. He would shower and change and get two splits of very fine champagne. One he would share with Adam Silverstone. The other he would share with Dorothy.

Dorothy.

He went out and dropped two dimes into the hall telephone and dialed Dorothy’s number.

Mrs. Williams answered.

“Do you know what time it is?” she said sharply when he asked for Dorothy.

“Yuh. That’s one of the things about a doctor’s life. You better get used to that, Momma.”

“Spurgeon?” Dorothy said in a moment. “What happened at the Conference?”