Timeline - Michael Crichton [5]
Nothing happened.
He pushed it again. Again nothing.
Baker climbed out of the ravine and went back to the car. The old guy was sleeping, snoring loudly. Liz was looking at the maps. “Nearest big town is Gallup.”
Baker started the engine. “Gallup it is.”
:
Back on the main highway, they made better time, heading south to Gallup. The old guy was still sleeping. Liz looked at him and said, “Dan . . .”
“What?”
“You see his hands?”
“What about them?”
“The fingertips.”
Baker looked away from the road, glanced quickly into the back seat. The old guy’s fingertips were red to the second knuckle. “So? He’s sunburned.”
“Just on the tips? Why not the whole hand?”
Baker shrugged.
“His fingers weren’t like that before,” she said. “They weren’t red when we picked him up.”
“Honey, you probably just didn’t notice them.”
“I did notice, because he had a manicure. And I thought it was interesting that some old guy in the desert would have a manicure.”
“Uh-huh.” Baker glanced at his watch. He wondered how long they would have to stay at the hospital in Gallup. Hours, probably.
He sighed.
The road continued straight ahead.
Halfway to Gallup, the old guy woke up. He coughed and said, “Are we there? Are we where?”
“How are you feeling?” Liz said.
“Feeling? I’m reeling. Fine, just fine.”
“What’s your name?” Liz said.
The man blinked at her. “The quondam phone made me roam.”
“But what’s your name?”
The man said, “Name same, blame game.”
Baker said, “He’s rhyming everything.”
She said, “I noticed, Dan.”
“I saw a TV show on this,” Baker said. “Rhyming means he’s schizophrenic.”
“Rhyming is timing,” the old man said. And then he began to sing loudly, almost shouting to the tune of the old John Denver song:
“Quondam phone, makes me roam,
to the place I belong,
old Black Rocky, country byway,
quondam phone, it’s on roam.”
“Oh boy,” Baker said.
“Sir,” Liz said again, “can you tell me your name?”
“Niobium may cause opprobrium. Hairy singularities don’t permit parities.”
Baker sighed. “Honey, this guy is nuts.”
“A nut by any other name would smell like feet.”
But his wife wouldn’t give up. “Sir? Do you know your name?”
“Call Gordon,” the man said, shouting now. “Call Gordon, call Stanley. Keep in the family.”
“But, sir—”
“Liz,” Baker said, “leave him alone. Let him settle down, okay? We still have a long drive.”
Bellowing, the old man sang: “To the place I belong, old black magic, it’s so tragic, country foam, makes me groan.” And immediately, he started to sing it again.
“How much farther?” Liz said.
“Don’t ask.”
:
He telephoned ahead, so when he pulled the Mercedes under the red-and-cream-colored portico of the McKinley Hospital Trauma Unit, the orderlies were waiting there with a gurney. The old man remained passive as they eased him onto the gurney, but as soon as they began to strap him down, he became agitated, shouting, “Unhand me, unband me!”
“It’s for your own safety, sir,” one orderly said.
“So you say, out of my way! Safety is the last refuge of the scoundrel!”
Baker was impressed by the way the orderlies handled the guy, gently but still firmly, strapping him down. He was equally impressed by the petite dark-haired woman in a white coat who fell into step with them. “I’m Beverly Tsosie,” she said, shaking hands with them. “I’m the physician on call.” She was very calm, even though the man on the gurney continued to yell as they wheeled him into the trauma center. “Quondam phone, makes me roam. . ..”
Everybody in the waiting room was looking at him. Baker saw a young kid of ten or eleven, his arm in a sling, sitting in a chair with his mother, watching the old man curiously. The kid whispered something to his mother.
The old guy sang, “To the plaaaaace I belongggg. . ..”
Dr. Tsosie said, “How long has he been this way?”
“From the beginning. Ever since we picked him up.”
“Except when he was sleeping,” Liz said.
“Was he ever unconscious?”
“No.”
“Any nausea, vomiting?”
“No.”
“And you found him where? Out past Corazón Canyon?