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. Or so
everyone said; I still was unsure about that two-thousand-year figure;
I was having trouble enough with Gretchen's having aged five years. Or six.
Or something.
I stared. "Dr. Hubert." "Howdy." Dr. Hubert put the kitten aside. "Over
here. Show me that foot."
"Um-" Damn his arrogance. "You must speak to my doctor first."
He looked at me abruptly. "Goodness. Aren't we regulation? Very well."
From behind me Galahad said quietly, "Please let him examine your
transplant, Richard. If you will."
"If you say so." I lifted my new foot and shoved it right into Hubert's
face, missing his big nose by a centimeter.
He failed to flinch, so my gesture was wasted. Unhurriedly he leaned his
head a little to the left. "Rest it on my knee, if you will. That will be more
convenient for both of us."
"Right. Go ahead." Braced with my cane, I was steady enough.
Galahad and Minerva kept quiet and out of the way while Dr. Hubert looked
over that foot, by sight and touch, but doing nothing that struck me as really
professional-I mean, he had no instruments; he used bare eyes and bare lingers,
pinching the skin, rubbing it, looking closely at the healed scar, and at last
scratching the sole of that foot hard and suddenly with a thumbnail. What is
that reflex? Are your toes supposed to curl or the reverse? I have always
suspected that doctors do that one out of spite
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