"You might also tell him that she can't possibly last out the night." Crane's dry objective voice went into quiet silence as he replaced the phone on its cradle. * * * * * Tom hadn't heard the phone ring. I had to shake him to get his attention. When I told him what Crane had said, he nodded as if this was exactly what he had been expecting. "Okay, Luke, we'll go to her." He picked up the breadboard on which his gadget was mounted. "What are you taking that with you for?" I demanded. "Ann worked hard helping me solve the secret of the painting," he answered. "She deserves to see its first performance. Get yourself into over-drive, Luke." At the hospital, a nurse took us directly to Ann's room. Lying on the bed, swathed in bandages, she was a mummy that did not move. Deep in sedation now, she did not know we were present. On the far side of her bed, whole blood was being dripped into her arm. Dr. Crane looked up from checking her pulse as we entered. "Everything we could do to give her strength has failed," he said. "What about infection?" Tom asked. The doctor gave him a sharp look as if to ask what he meant by hinting that infection could exist in a properly run hospital. "There is no serious infection. Her burns were so severe that she simply lacks the strength to rally." His voice was as grim as my thoughts. Tom set his breadboard on the foot of the bed and ran an extension cord to an electric outlet. "What do you have there?" Crane asked. "A way to give her strength," Tom answered. The doctor leaned back on his heels. He looked at the instrument, which certainly did not impress him, and started to shake his head. Then he looked at Tom. The headshake turned into tightly clenched lips. "I am familiar with your reputation, Mr. Calhoun, but this--" The headshake came back. "There was a first time for a hypodermic injection, a time when somebody first gave blood, a time when somebody took the first antibiotic," Tom said. Dr. Crane hesitated. A struggle was going on within his mind. He moved to the bed and felt Ann's pulse. A thin trace of perspiration appeared on his forehead. "She's dying," he whispered. "Under any other circumstances, I would say no. But--Oh, hell, Mr. Calhoun, if you know a way to give her strength, go ahead." Tom closed a switch. A soft hum came from the instrument. A cone that looked like a small transmitting antennae was mounted on the breadboard. Tom lined up the cone so that it pointed at Ann's body. He glanced at me. Sweat was visible on his face too. Without a word, I lit a cigarette and gave it to him. The sweat was very clear on his face now. Or was it tears? "You knew all the time that Ann had no chance to get well?" I asked. "That's why you worked so hard, on this?" "Yes," he answered. "It was a race against time. It still is." He turned his attention to his instruments.