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Acolyte, v. 1, issue 1, Fall 1942
Page 6
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all the more eager and excited. He was famous, good news-copy any day. He was; too, a bit unbalanced---the way talented men sometimes are. He wasn't old---thirty-five, perhaps. With graying hair, steel-cold eyes, and darkly handsome features. Tall and erect, well-liked by newspaper photographers, he was often hounded by love-lorn women claiming severe mental disorders. I went to work at the Kirkland Clinic April 2, 1940, and for months, almost a year, everything went in my favor. My wages were good, almost phenomenal for an intern, and was I permitted to watch and assist Everett Vincent in his precise, difficult work that few men in the world could have duplicated; watched him save the lives of those afflicted with hopeless brain tumors, skull fractures, and incurable brain diseases which no other specialist would tackle. I believe he knew more about the brain and complementary ganglia than any of his contemporaries---but he was not a diligent worker. He was temperamental, high-strung, and the most cold-blooded creature I ever saw. He seemed to enjoy hacking people apart, to find out what made them tick; seemed to take a fiendish delight in his work on the organ which controls the minute functions of the body. If ever a human being lacked a soul, Dr. Everett Vincent was that one; and even his private life was as devoid of warm emotions as his professional existence. The beautiful ladies who pestered him received only cold stares and words of abuse, so his bachelorhood was never the slightest threatened. Kirkland, gross and clever, charged enormous fees, and after two years, Dr. Vincent began to slacken, spending more and more time on private experiments which were always shrouded with the greatest secrecy. It was near this period in his career---this turning point---that I had been asked to join the staff. The high death rate among Vincent's patients made his reputation sinister indeed, yet the public clamored for him as much as ever. One day in October, when I was passing Kirkland's office, the door was ajar, and I heard Vincent talking. "The blasted fools, all of them! They wait till the patients are half dead before they bring them here. Then I catch hell on all sides because so many die!" "You've been working too hard, Vincent," Kirkland's thick voice interrupted. "Take it easy for a while---we've made our pile! Now you can go to work on that experiment you've been planning. I think this patient is healthy enough!" Both laughed, and the conversation turned to other channels. Their dark insinuations aroused within me a strange fear. Healthy patients in the Kirkland Clinic were unheard of, and I didn't like the cold, heartless tone of Vincent's laugh, so seldom heard but which always reminded me of a madman's cackle. I sneaked away from the partly-opened door and walked to the rear of the clinic, where I changed clothes for a dinner date with Elsa Rogers, that uneasy fear still gnawing at my thoughts, blurring my dreams of happiness with the girl who had -- 7 --
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all the more eager and excited. He was famous, good news-copy any day. He was; too, a bit unbalanced---the way talented men sometimes are. He wasn't old---thirty-five, perhaps. With graying hair, steel-cold eyes, and darkly handsome features. Tall and erect, well-liked by newspaper photographers, he was often hounded by love-lorn women claiming severe mental disorders. I went to work at the Kirkland Clinic April 2, 1940, and for months, almost a year, everything went in my favor. My wages were good, almost phenomenal for an intern, and was I permitted to watch and assist Everett Vincent in his precise, difficult work that few men in the world could have duplicated; watched him save the lives of those afflicted with hopeless brain tumors, skull fractures, and incurable brain diseases which no other specialist would tackle. I believe he knew more about the brain and complementary ganglia than any of his contemporaries---but he was not a diligent worker. He was temperamental, high-strung, and the most cold-blooded creature I ever saw. He seemed to enjoy hacking people apart, to find out what made them tick; seemed to take a fiendish delight in his work on the organ which controls the minute functions of the body. If ever a human being lacked a soul, Dr. Everett Vincent was that one; and even his private life was as devoid of warm emotions as his professional existence. The beautiful ladies who pestered him received only cold stares and words of abuse, so his bachelorhood was never the slightest threatened. Kirkland, gross and clever, charged enormous fees, and after two years, Dr. Vincent began to slacken, spending more and more time on private experiments which were always shrouded with the greatest secrecy. It was near this period in his career---this turning point---that I had been asked to join the staff. The high death rate among Vincent's patients made his reputation sinister indeed, yet the public clamored for him as much as ever. One day in October, when I was passing Kirkland's office, the door was ajar, and I heard Vincent talking. "The blasted fools, all of them! They wait till the patients are half dead before they bring them here. Then I catch hell on all sides because so many die!" "You've been working too hard, Vincent," Kirkland's thick voice interrupted. "Take it easy for a while---we've made our pile! Now you can go to work on that experiment you've been planning. I think this patient is healthy enough!" Both laughed, and the conversation turned to other channels. Their dark insinuations aroused within me a strange fear. Healthy patients in the Kirkland Clinic were unheard of, and I didn't like the cold, heartless tone of Vincent's laugh, so seldom heard but which always reminded me of a madman's cackle. I sneaked away from the partly-opened door and walked to the rear of the clinic, where I changed clothes for a dinner date with Elsa Rogers, that uneasy fear still gnawing at my thoughts, blurring my dreams of happiness with the girl who had -- 7 --
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