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. The two redheaded men (turned out there were only
four redheads, not a mob) got me and the wheelchair inside and Hazel went into
that odd refresher with me... and almost at once Laz (Lor?) followed us in and
announced, "Aunt Hazel, we're home."
"Home" turned out to be the flat roof of a large building- and it was late
evening, almost sundown. That spaceplane should be named the Cheshire Cat. (But
its name is Gay. Her name is Gay. Oh, never mind!)
The building was a hospital. In checking into a hospital you first wait an
hour and forty minutes while they process the paperwork. Then they undress you
and put you on a gumey under a thin blanket with your bare feet sticking out
into a cold draft and make you wait outside the X-ray lab. Then they demand a
urine sample in a plastic duck while a young lady waits for it, staring at the
ceiling and looking bored. Right?
These people didn't know page one about the regulation way to run a
hospital. Our able-bodied comrades (the ones suffering from nothing but high
acceleration) were already on their way, in glorified golf carts, when I was
again lifted out and placed in another golf cart (gurney, wheelchair, floating
couch). Rabbi Ezra was there in his wheelchair. Hazel was with us and carrying
Tree-San and a Sears-labeled package containing Naomi's costume. The spaceplane
had vanished; I had barely had time to tell Laz (Lor?) that Dr
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