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and made way for him in the circle.
Ole Doc stumbled against the hydrant which studded this as well as every other
lot in Junction City. These people had no home, he observed, nor lumber with
which to build one. They were living instead on the bare ground using blanket
screens to protect their dressing. There were several children sprawled even
now outside the ring and one of them whimpered and a woman went to it.
    The
song was done and the young man, offering his tobacco to Ole Doc, said with a
smile of camaraderie, “Where’s your lot, stranger? Close by?”
    â€œPretty
close,” said Ole Doc.
    â€œHow
many in your party?” said the young man.
    â€œJust
myself and a slave.”
    A
woman nearby leaned over with a laugh, “Well, a young fellow like you,” she
said, “is going to need help when it comes to putting his house together. Why
don’t you come and help us and then when you get ready we’ll help you?”
    The
young man laughed, several of the others joining in. “That’s a fair bargain,”
he said. “There are fourteen of us and only two of you. That’s a pretty good
ratio.”
    The
woman looked smilingly on Ole Doc. “We got to remember this is a new country,”
she said, “and that we’re all neighbors. And that if we don’t all help each
other out then we’ll never make anything of it.”
    Ole
Doc looked around. “I don’t see any building materials here yet,” he said.
    The
young man shook his head, “Not yet. We’re looking around to find a job. It took
what money we had to buy our passage and get the lot you’re sitting on.”
    An
older man across the circle joined in. “Well, according to Captain Blanchard,
that atomic power plant should be going up any day now and then we’ll all have
work. If we don’t build a palace first off, why, I guess that can wait for a
while. A solid roof is all I ask. This one we got now leaks.” He looked up at
the stars.
    They
all laughed and the old man who had just spoken, finding the strain too much
for him, began to cough. He did so alarmingly, as though at any moment he would
spray his soul out on the ground before him. Ole Doc watched, eyes narrowed,
suddenly professional. He stood up.
    â€œYou
want to watch these cold nights, old man,” said Ole Doc. He fumbled through
his pockets but it was Hippocrates behind him who found what he sought. The
small black kit had been stowed in his boot pocket.
    Ole
Doc took it out now and selected from it a very small but extremely potent
pill. He skirted the fire and gave it to the old man.
    â€œTake
this and you’ll feel better.”
    There
was some question in the eyes about him and considerable reluctance on the part
of the old man. For all beware the unhappy human frailty of trying to
administer to everyone else’s diseases.
    â€œGo
ahead,” said Ole Doc, “I’m a physician.”
    The
old man took the pill then and swallowed it.
    â€œThat
ought to cure you in an hour or so,” said Ole Doc. “And if you keep yourself
dry and warm, your asthma shouldn’t be coming back on you very soon.”
    There
was renewed attention about the circle. “Well, by Saturn,” said the old man,
“I never heard of no pill that’d cure asthma in two or three hours. What kind
of a doctor do you be?”
    Unbidden,
phonograph-recordwise, Hippocrates was only too glad to answer this question.
“‘The Soldier of Light is no ordinary physician,”’ he announced in his shrill
voice. “‘He is part of an organization of seven hundred who have dedicated
themselves to the ultimate preservation of mankind no matter the wars or
explorations of space. There are one hundred and seventy-six trillion human
beings throughout this galaxy. There is roughly one physician for every hundred
and sixty of these. There are only seven hundred Soldiers of Light.