To be sure, he felt a sickening surge and roll now and
then, but at other times the whole room made a complete
revolution, which was manifestly contrary to the law of
gravitation and therefore not to be trusted as evidence. There
were plenty of reasons, moreover, why this could not be a ship.
The mere supposition was absurd. No, this must be a room in some
up-town club, or perhaps a bachelor hotel. Kirk had many friends
with quarters decorated to suit their own peculiar fancies, and he
decided that in all probability one of these had met him on the
street and taken him home for safe-keeping. He had barely settled
this in his mind when the door opened for a second time and a man
in uniform entered.
"The steward said you wanted me," he began.
"No; I want a doctor."
"I am the doctor."
"I thought you were the elevator man. I'm sick--awful sick--"
"Can you vomit?"
"Certainly! Anybody can do that."
The stranger pulled up a stool, seated himself beside the bed,
then felt of Anthony's cheek.
"You have a fever."
"That explains everything." Kirk sighed thankfully and closed his
eyes once more, for the doctor had begun to revolve slowly, with
the bed as an axis. "How are the other boys coming on?"
"Everybody is laid out.
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